This is now the seventh year I’ve been to the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival, and it just doesn’t get old. Sure, it gets tedious at times – the late late nights, the snarls of snail-paced traffic, the choking dust, the pungent body odors, the ample rolls and folds of flesh on display with regard for neither self-esteem nor gravity – but still somehow, as the warm winds blow across the night sky of ground-lit palm trees and shadowed mountains, it seems like a transformative place of joy and wonder each and every time I go. And the bands aren’t too shabby, either. This year was far more crowded (75,000 three-day tickets presold, which adds up to a record attendance), and at times one could feel the difference with the overabundance of fellow humans. But the coordination of those masses hummed as smoothly as it could under the circumstances, and given my height, there was never a shortage of good views. The heat wasn’t as intense (if you can call high 80’s and low 90’s “less i