I’ve been trying to formulate some sort of thesis statement about my first experience at the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival. I’d heard a combination of opinions about it that varied as much as the snippets of jams Girl Talk included in his set in the Sahara tent. One opinion is that Coachella is a mythical, freeing experience where one can connect with other spirits in the universe. I’d also heard that it’s a corporate, over-priced, hot mess ““ and that it’s literally hot and messy. So I came into the weekend prepared for both, and I got both. I think?
In theory, I should have loved Coachella with all of my arts and entertainment-loving heart. A large portion of this anticipated love was probably due to acquiring a free 3-day pass and VIP press pass by using that good old-fashioned Daily Bruin clout. In all seriousness though, I love live music, I love ridiculous art and I really love sitting down and watching freaks be weird. With all of these aspects factored in, Coachella should have been a 100% blast. But I’m almost sure it wasn’t.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a hassle, and physically getting to the concert grounds on Friday evening was a total hassle. I was feeling kind of picky about the lineup but really wanted to see Leonard Cohen. Unfortunately the clogged traffic (Clogg-chella?) prevented this from happening, which made reading next-day rave reviews of his performance difficult (Resent-chella?).
I should have been more excited about seeing Sir Paul McCartney, but I just wasn’t that into it. His first few songs sounded like your dad’s friends’ classic rock cover band so we peaced out of there early … only to hear the most beautiful Beatles songs being played from the parking lot as we were leaving (Resent-chella part II).
I definitely learned a few things, though. Most importantly, that “VIP Lounge” is code for “Jerk Lounge.” With our press passes, we had access to the posh-tented VIP area with abundant shade, extra cash bars, couches, a fountain and much cleaner bathrooms. The bathroom thing was totally the best part. I even used the same stall as Dita Von Teese. But then I saw Mischa Barton’s sleazy ex-boyfriend Cisco Adler sleazin’ it up with some other sleazeballs and knew that it was time to get out of there and rejoin with the plebeian sleazes (Sleaze-chella?) on the open field.
Another thing I learned is that doctor-people are right about staying hydrated in 90-degree plus heat in the desert. I started to feel weird during Fleet Foxes’ set but attributed my nausea to some sort of staggering, cosmic profundity of “White Winter Hymnal” chiming through the air at sunset. But once I yakked up my IHOP omelette from brunch by some fence, I thought it was time for a professional feeding of electrolytes. I’d like to give mad props to the stranger potheads who were sitting by me rubbing my back and offering me water as I gathered up strength to go to the medical tent (Dehydraysh-chella?).
All I needed from the doctor-people was some water and soothing words, but the other people in there, who were in the middle of terrible mushroom/acid freakouts needed some major brain help (and soothing words). It was kind of frightening ““ especially the 17-year-old girl decked out in body paint and feathers who was laying on a cot paralyzed from some crazy drug, which did not help my impression of Coachella.
OK, I didn’t mean to sound so whiny. There were some truly special moments that happened over the course of the weekend. TV on the Radio’s set was staggering, as we reported in Monday’s Coachella wrap-up ““ I can’t remember the last time I got chills from a live show, and I’m hoping Kanye West felt the same but doesn’t jack any of their riffs for himself (he was backstage for their set). My Bloody Valentine blowing the ears off of anyone within five miles with a 20-minute noise jam was ridiculous and epic and something I’ll never forget.
So despite the hassle and freaks on hallucinogens, the beautiful moments I experienced at Coachella were still highly enjoyable and genuinely special. As the sun sets over the glowing pink hills with a metal dragon spewing fire in the background, surrounded by the sounds of glorious music on all sides, I’d say that’s an experience worth having. I’m going to need some more time to think about what Coachella really meant to me, but I can say now that the mystery of what happened in the desert is enough to keep me coming back for more. The churros weren’t bad either.
If you want to know what Chloe Sevigny was wearing on Sunday night at Coachella, then e-mail McReynolds at dmcreynolds@media.ucla.edu