"Is Coachella Still Cool?" is the log line that gets trotted out each April, a Groundhog Day feature for mass media everywhere. (See here, for example.) In most post-Coachella features, you see the same things -- young smiling faces on the metal front row fences actually soaking up the music, preening Instagram-ready poses from wannabe lithesome flower-flecked model types, and beefcake bros with tanned flesh and Heineken wristbands guaranteeing easy passage to and from the beer tents. However, this post will be concerned with neither domain of aforementioned examination, as I'm neither cool nor Instragram ready. Instead, what follows is a simple recap of one Coachella vet's experiences, from one of the best first days to one of the worst last days.
My friend Brian and I had attended eleven straight Coachella festivals, from 2004 (with Radiohead and a freshly reunited Pixies) to 2014 (which I actually took a second to look up to see that OutKast and Muse headlined, as I remembered Pet Shop Boys and Motorhead with equal fondness). During that decade plus, we went every which way but loose: econo style by ourselves, festival friends that came and went, keys locked in cars, searching parking lots in the midnight dust for what felt like hours, swallowed fistfuls of Motrin, bunking at a $400+ per night Hilton when I screwed up lodging one weekend, and eating a lot of pizza. We decided to take a break in 2015 and re-evaluate the whole thing, and when the '15 fest came and went and we felt like we missed something, we promised each other to hit 2016, do or die.
Of course, the "die" part became ironic when, the day before the second weekend of Coachella started, our gang got notice that Prince had unexpectedly died. Prince had memorably played the main stage at Coachella in 2008, and absolutely killed it. (On any given night, Prince could be the best performer you'd ever seen -- the best singer, the best guitarist, the best dancer, the best bandleader -- and in spots, the Coachella fans saw what I had seen a few times years earlier.) His loss cast a palpable pall on the proceedings from the start, because who at Coachella could compete with the Prince catalog on repeat from speakers far and wide?
But the show must go on, so we hit Friday with a plan to arrive early and stay late, and we did both with no problems. Our bags were stored in a big white locker, our warmer clothes were ready for the evening chill, and at 1:15pm, we were on the grounds and ready to be entertained. As always, you can measure a Coachella by what you didn't see, but instead of the negative, I focused on the positives -- full sets from Mavis Staples, Christine and the Queens, Underworld, Jack U, and LCD Soundsystem, with partial sets from HEALTH, Years & Years, Lord Huron, 2manydjs, and Savages. We left the grounds almost twelve hours later feeling great, still wide awake with aches and pains at a minimum. If only I knew what was to come.
Saturday's start time was a bit later, as the first waves of fatigue started to put some sand in the gears of the gang, along with the real sand constantly whipping around the polo fields and festival grounds. Still, I managed to hit full sets from Lush, Bat For Lashes, Disclosure, and Shamir, while seeing bits and pieces of SOPHIE, Courtney Barnett, The Damned, Zedd, and Guns N' Roses (who absolutely killed it for two and a half hours, y'all) without too much trouble. However, I did notice that the muscles and joints were turning a bit rusty as night fell, and breathing the polo dust non-stop started to make my breathing get a bit more labored. Nothing a good night's sleep couldn't cure, right?
Wrong-o, Mister Keebler. When Sunday came a-callin', I felt a deep entropy and weight overcome me, and for a brief moment, I considered not making the trip and focusing instead on getting my growing illness under some control. But instead, we committed the cardinal Coachella sin of getting a later start than before, which meant more time in traffic and farther out in the parking lot and longer entry lines and all that. Meanwhile, my sinuses were in full rebellion, rejecting things like oxygen and sunlight and festivals. In spite of all that, I managed to sneak in a few musical treats -- full sets from Major Lazer and Sia, partial sets from Autolux, Chris Stapleton, and Calvin Harris -- but by the beginning of Calvin Harris, it was clear that my nascent case of Coachella Biological Rejection Syndrome was on full blast, so I spent most of his set in the car in the parking lot, blowing my nose to the thumps of the bass drops. And only now, almost a week later, do I feel anything like myself again.
Were there highlights of the festival? Of course. Testing the integrity of my titanium left hip in the middle of the Sahara tent during Underworld's high energy set. Seeing one of my favorite bands reunite 22 years after I saw them last, when Weezer opened up for them at Saint Andrews Hall in Detroit. (Lush, natch.) Watching Bat For Lashes showcase ace new material to a relatively sparse and indifferent crowd. LCD Soundsystem spicing up their otherwise rote set with a version of "Controversy" from Prince, far and away the best tribute to the Purple One the entire weekend. (Their version of "Heroes" from David Bowie, however, was fairly inert and obvious.) Being endlessly impressed with the unflagging energy of Guns N' Roses from start to finish. The stage presence of both Shamir and Christine and the Queens, who took their moments and killed it.
But were these highlights enough? There was dust and waiting and pain and compromise and everything that comes along with Coachella, but they all seemed to grow in quality and quantity as the weekend progressed, so that the end came as a blessed relief instead of a sad eventuality. Coming back after a year off was a bit like getting back with an old significant other after you'd broken up -- any joy and familiarity was balanced out by the general feeling that you're not the same person you were then, and to pretend otherwise would be to ignore the reality in front of you, with every breath and blink. Does that mean I won't be there next year? I can't answer that yet. But right now, in this moment, it certainly feels like I'm ready to move forward and try something new, to leave Coachella in the rear view mirror, dust to Indio dust.
My friend Brian and I had attended eleven straight Coachella festivals, from 2004 (with Radiohead and a freshly reunited Pixies) to 2014 (which I actually took a second to look up to see that OutKast and Muse headlined, as I remembered Pet Shop Boys and Motorhead with equal fondness). During that decade plus, we went every which way but loose: econo style by ourselves, festival friends that came and went, keys locked in cars, searching parking lots in the midnight dust for what felt like hours, swallowed fistfuls of Motrin, bunking at a $400+ per night Hilton when I screwed up lodging one weekend, and eating a lot of pizza. We decided to take a break in 2015 and re-evaluate the whole thing, and when the '15 fest came and went and we felt like we missed something, we promised each other to hit 2016, do or die.
Of course, the "die" part became ironic when, the day before the second weekend of Coachella started, our gang got notice that Prince had unexpectedly died. Prince had memorably played the main stage at Coachella in 2008, and absolutely killed it. (On any given night, Prince could be the best performer you'd ever seen -- the best singer, the best guitarist, the best dancer, the best bandleader -- and in spots, the Coachella fans saw what I had seen a few times years earlier.) His loss cast a palpable pall on the proceedings from the start, because who at Coachella could compete with the Prince catalog on repeat from speakers far and wide?
But the show must go on, so we hit Friday with a plan to arrive early and stay late, and we did both with no problems. Our bags were stored in a big white locker, our warmer clothes were ready for the evening chill, and at 1:15pm, we were on the grounds and ready to be entertained. As always, you can measure a Coachella by what you didn't see, but instead of the negative, I focused on the positives -- full sets from Mavis Staples, Christine and the Queens, Underworld, Jack U, and LCD Soundsystem, with partial sets from HEALTH, Years & Years, Lord Huron, 2manydjs, and Savages. We left the grounds almost twelve hours later feeling great, still wide awake with aches and pains at a minimum. If only I knew what was to come.
Saturday's start time was a bit later, as the first waves of fatigue started to put some sand in the gears of the gang, along with the real sand constantly whipping around the polo fields and festival grounds. Still, I managed to hit full sets from Lush, Bat For Lashes, Disclosure, and Shamir, while seeing bits and pieces of SOPHIE, Courtney Barnett, The Damned, Zedd, and Guns N' Roses (who absolutely killed it for two and a half hours, y'all) without too much trouble. However, I did notice that the muscles and joints were turning a bit rusty as night fell, and breathing the polo dust non-stop started to make my breathing get a bit more labored. Nothing a good night's sleep couldn't cure, right?
Wrong-o, Mister Keebler. When Sunday came a-callin', I felt a deep entropy and weight overcome me, and for a brief moment, I considered not making the trip and focusing instead on getting my growing illness under some control. But instead, we committed the cardinal Coachella sin of getting a later start than before, which meant more time in traffic and farther out in the parking lot and longer entry lines and all that. Meanwhile, my sinuses were in full rebellion, rejecting things like oxygen and sunlight and festivals. In spite of all that, I managed to sneak in a few musical treats -- full sets from Major Lazer and Sia, partial sets from Autolux, Chris Stapleton, and Calvin Harris -- but by the beginning of Calvin Harris, it was clear that my nascent case of Coachella Biological Rejection Syndrome was on full blast, so I spent most of his set in the car in the parking lot, blowing my nose to the thumps of the bass drops. And only now, almost a week later, do I feel anything like myself again.
Were there highlights of the festival? Of course. Testing the integrity of my titanium left hip in the middle of the Sahara tent during Underworld's high energy set. Seeing one of my favorite bands reunite 22 years after I saw them last, when Weezer opened up for them at Saint Andrews Hall in Detroit. (Lush, natch.) Watching Bat For Lashes showcase ace new material to a relatively sparse and indifferent crowd. LCD Soundsystem spicing up their otherwise rote set with a version of "Controversy" from Prince, far and away the best tribute to the Purple One the entire weekend. (Their version of "Heroes" from David Bowie, however, was fairly inert and obvious.) Being endlessly impressed with the unflagging energy of Guns N' Roses from start to finish. The stage presence of both Shamir and Christine and the Queens, who took their moments and killed it.
But were these highlights enough? There was dust and waiting and pain and compromise and everything that comes along with Coachella, but they all seemed to grow in quality and quantity as the weekend progressed, so that the end came as a blessed relief instead of a sad eventuality. Coming back after a year off was a bit like getting back with an old significant other after you'd broken up -- any joy and familiarity was balanced out by the general feeling that you're not the same person you were then, and to pretend otherwise would be to ignore the reality in front of you, with every breath and blink. Does that mean I won't be there next year? I can't answer that yet. But right now, in this moment, it certainly feels like I'm ready to move forward and try something new, to leave Coachella in the rear view mirror, dust to Indio dust.
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