One of the dominant storylines of Coachella weekend was the unusual amount of technical fuck-ups afflicting multiple sets, on multiple stages, over the course of the entire weekend. From mics cutting out, to portions of video screens malfunctioning, to backing tracks just out of sync, the difficulties at Coachella were of the humdrum type that affect festivals all over the world, but given the reputation, size, and, most importantly, historical success of Coachella, it was disconcerting to hear and see so many audiovisual horror stories over the weekend. It seemed to add to the feeling that this 20th edition of the festival was a bit cursed, an idea exemplified by the tragic death of the lead rigger who had ben working the festival since its inception twenty years ago, 49-year-old Christopher Griffin, in the days leading up to the first weekend. It also puts things in perspective – Goldenvoice does its best to position Coachella as the escape of the year, a grass-covered paradise in the middle of the desert where anything can and does happen. Getting to see the imperfections and, more importantly, the very real cost of putting on such a significant festival helps you to realize that a metric shit ton of blood, sweat, and tears from literally hundreds of talented people is put into making the perfect backdrop for the latest influencer’s Instagram post. For maybe the first time in my ten years of going, I truly appreciated what a titanic effort…
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No need to bury the lede – I’m not sure if Aphex Twin was the “best” set I saw all weekend, but it was certainly the one that most thoroughly reduced my brain to a quivering, sizzling mass of pink goo by the time it was over. I imagine they had to close the Mojave at an unusually early time (off by 10:35 p.m.) so they had time to scrape the attendees off the grounds in time for the next day. Richard D. James’ records have always interested me as pieces of art and electronic music history, but to be honest, he’s never someone I’m going to just throw on for a casual listen. His live set, though, was something else: a hectic mix of razor-tipped breaks, high-BPM acid house, industrial machine-music, and tracks that sort of resembled music but really seemed more like chaos and noise engineered from the year 3000 specifically to disorient and disturb, with the titanic “Lisbon Acid” being an actually recognizable highlight. And the visuals, by anonymous artist Weirdcore, were likely the best I saw this weekend. At multiple points throughout the show, the video screens would pick up the faces of attendees in the crowd and at the rail, throw them up behind Aphex, and twist and distort them into shapes and visages that leaned towards the trippy and slightly into the demonic. Or maybe it was just the drugs—I showed my girlfriend the below video and she just laughed… It was many things, but it certainly wasn’t a landmark. Twenty years old this year, Coachella may be only one year away from legal drinking age, but as it continues to age into a Frankenstein of elite production values, Top 40-busting lineups, corporate greed, and increasingly bonkers art design and food options, it still can manage to shoot itself in the foot with sound issues, absurd catering to influencer culture, and artists that continue to make meaningless what Coachella stands for as a musical destination. And yet: this year marked my tenth year of attending, officially half of Coachella’s lifespan and a third of mine, and damnit, I’m still thinking about pushing it into the teens as I continue to age out of the surrounding college kids, Instagram models, and at this point, a solid majority of the artists. There’s a simple reason for it – I’ve been to festivals across the country and across the sea, and there’s still something to be said about Coachella as a unique experience. That dry desert air, baking you as you finally slip through another lackluster security line (2019 was the year to smuggle all the booze and drugs you wanted in, unless you had the misfortunate of using the yellow entrance Sunday), past the Ferris wheel and the swamped ID check, and finally cresting onto those impossibly manicured polo fields, the bizarre art installations of past and present floating around you or lighting up in the distance, and… Upon closer examination, the Saturday lineup proved to be the most stacked of the day, a result that proved a fortuitous coincidence with another smooth day of sailing through parking, security, and the festival lines to arrive at the fest just in time for Big Thief around 3 p.m. While I’ve always been a fan of their somewhat off-kilter live show, Big Thief’s confessional, contrasting components – their guitarist’s uh, unique style has to been seen to be believed – was always going to be a bit of an odd fit at Coachella. Singer and frontwoman Adrianne Lenker always performs like she’d rather be anywhere else rather than on stage, but the small crowd was thrilled nonetheless. As great as the lineup was, it presented a series of conundrums that have me seriously trying to finagle a wristband for weekend two just to go again Saturday (see that Missed Connections list *crying emoji*). I’d seen bands like First Aid Kit and Django Django before – in the interest of trying something new, I ventured to the Yuma tent for the first time all weekend to check out former Daft Punk manager and Ed Banger mascot Pedro Winter aka Busy P spin some old fashioned electro house to get out of the rapidly increasing temperatures. The Yuma tent remains the preeminent vibe for people younger than me to get fucked up in, and while I continued to enjoy the air conditioned environs and the relentless grooves, the… When I first started attending and writing Coachella (way back in 2010 and just a couple weeks before this lovely website took me on as a staff member :0), I camped with the degenerates in the camping grounds and bought my ticket at the door. There was something liberating about being able to simply pack up for the desert a few days before the weekend to watch some of the biggest acts in the alternative scenes play in one of the most beautiful yet inhospitable environments on the planet. Eight years later, Coachella is very much the same: a gorgeous piece of scenery full of beautiful people and artists looking to either make a name for themselves or secure stardom. It’s a one of a kind experience, the only festival in the United States that has such a distinct vibe, sound, and a carefully curated aesthetic – tied up in the art, music, design, interactive experiences, and even food – that I promised myself I would keep coming out so long as my body obeys. At 29, I’m nearing the outer edge of the average Coachella attendee. The last thing you want to be is the old, balding guy busting out the rave shuffle in the Sahara tent. Even still, it would take a lot for me to stop altogether, especially with the sweet, sweet media access Sputnik can deliver. With the addition of a second weekend in 2012, however, Coachella began to transform into the mainstream… The last day of the weekend, as is tradition, came in searing hot with temperatures hovering around mid-90s. Fairly balmy as far as the desert goes (I seriously do not know how Weekend 2 does it), in fact, but for a Coachella with some of the best weather I’ve ever experienced – no wind storms! – this must have been penance. Those who shook off the accumulated dust, depleted serotonin and residual hangovers of 2+ days were rewarded with the finest lineup of the weekend, all surging to King Kendrick’s closing set that you could feel as a palpable anticipation over the grounds. The rapper’s coming out party had some serious competition beforehand, though, thank to two shockingly lovely sets on the Outdoor Stage from an old favorite from Ed Banger and a fish-out-of-water composer better known from the red carpet. First, though, I made it a point to play through the pain and get to the festival earlier rather than later to catch the indoor set from under-appreciated Brooklyn indie band Caveman. The Fat Possum rockers remain firmly under the radar after last year’s War on Drugs-aping Otero War, but their live show showed a band ready to take the next step. The same goes for singer-songwriter Ezra Furman, whose rough-and-tumble set on the Outdoor Stage not only made dancing under the sun somewhat tolerable for a few minutes, but was also the only artist I saw all weekend who had the balls to call… The best day of the festival almost turned out to be a disaster. Those aforementioned clear paths from the parking lots and sweet, smooth walks through a security staff with light hands did not extend to actually getting to the festival. Indio and Riverside County police turn the warren of gated communities and golf courses and miles-long blocks that surround the polo fields into a frustrating maze of blocked-off streets and unintuitive one-way turns that had me doubling back and retracing my drive more than once. And by the time I finally found a way to a parking lot, the line to get in was absurd and poorly directed. Note to Goldenvoice: please put a GPS address on your parking directions that actually works, and preferably more than one, so that I don’t have to miss all of Shura, Mitski, and Local Natives. I did manage to see the tail end of Icelandic rock band Kaleo, a group that is appearing more and more to be the next Black Keys in terms of arena headlining potential. The group’s muscular delta blues rock is nigh indistinguishable from their American counterparts, and with a hit single that already went gold on the Billboard chart, likely only to get more and more omnipresent. A lot of the credit should go to frontman JJ Julius Son, whose deep vocals complemented the band’s deft, rootsy work with a showmanship that seems already a decade earned. Easy contender for band most… The American way can be described with any number of clichés, but Coachella has rapidly taken to heart one of the most obnoxious: bigger is better. Bigger artists; bigger stages; bigger crowds; bigger tolerance of alcohol, drugs, and generally seeing who looks the most fucked up; bigger vendors selling bigger fries with bigger amounts of curry mustard, sriracha, pickled onions, pork belly and other gastropub fetishes all over the festival. As the preeminent festival in North America and, Goldenvoice would argue, the world, Coachella should be applauded for taking the initiative in all aspects of its operations, but its seemingly relentless expansion has had its downsides. The addition of a new stage this year in the Sonora provided a blessedly air conditioned arena for a series of up-and-coming punk, garage and indie bands, as well as old fogies Guided by Voices and T.S.O.L., and the re-orientation of the various stages improved sound bleed problems and helped with traffic low. But it also extended travel times around the festival by significantly expanding the size of the size of the grounds (by 41 acres) as well as creating some impossible to navigate blockages for certain anticipated acts. With the festival at capacity with 125,000 fans attending Weekend 1 (an increase of 25,000 by most estimates) and only so much room and personnel to go around, it’s perhaps inevitable that Coachella may not always get to have it both ways. Then again, Goldenvoice likely doesn’t care too much: gross…
Friday, April 29, 2016Artist: White DenimTrack: “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)”
This will certainly be the last time I post a song that is usually associated with legendary saxophonist and noted punchline Kenny Rogers (who didn’t write it – that would be country-pop songwriter/trivia question Mickey Newbury), but “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)” is such a late ’60s anachronism – a sexy, dirty acid-rock ditty that failed miserably in its anti-drug warning by making it sound too damn cool – that I couldn’t ignore its most recent incarnation. Austin blues-rock group White Denim funk up the proceedings here considerably, lathering on a thick coat of sleaze to go with that irresistibly bouncy melody and swooning lyrics. Recorded for the season two soundtrack of FX’s superb Fargo, which was released just last month, it fits that show’s (and the scene it’s expertly placed in) aesthetic smoothly, capturing the cracking facade of a country hollowed out by the toll of the Vietnam War and painted over with a mindless groove and lyrics that convey control starting to slip inexorably away. It’s well within the wheelhouse for White Denim, who have graduated from their origins as a ramshackle garage rock group with a penchant for face melting live performances to psychedelic rock veterans with a penchant for face melting live performances. Stiff, their seventh, heavily soul-influenced LP, was released earlier this… About the time of the festival where you realize how much quality sleep you haven’t gotten over the past 48 hours, how much carb-loading you’ve done in the name of trudging to that next stage, how badly you calculated your water/hard alcohol balance and consequently will spend the first half of the work week with your office door closed. Reduced to watching the amazing Kamasi Washington and his sprawling backup group under the beer garden tent while grubbing down another order of crab fries – all that gourmet cuisine this year and go fuck right the hell off – was not ideal, but the peak temperatures of the weekend necessitated it. It also made Washington’s loose set even more impressive, crowding turntablists next to saxophonists and drummers and even Washington’s father on flute on the Outdoor Stage with a setlist that seemed like it could go anywhere, and usually did. I skipped between the Gobi and Mojave tents for the next hour, taking in sets from Tennessee tongue-lasher Meg Myers, who accurately conveyed her man-eating persona live but who’s voice fell a bit flat at times, and Joywave. That latter band, who played to a surprisingly full Mojave (likely on the strength of single “Tongues”’ placement in that cellular commercial), should be a hit, but frontman Daniel Armbruster’s vocals come and go, and his asshole-hipster shtick comes off as more manufactured than genuinely funny in a festival setting. “Destruction” is still a jam, though. …
Loaded with artists I wanted to see but cursed by conflicts, Saturday was a bit of a disappointment. The breeze that made Friday such a blessing in disguise (no dust storm!) fell away to a typically scorching April sun in the desert. My first stop was no stage but a hefty order of crab fries lathered in disgustingly pungent/delicious garlic aioli – my one true love and certainly the most consistent item at Coachella. After that came Canadian indie poppers Alvvays, who have somehow avoided the Coachella hype train and were making their festival debut. I had seen Molly Rankin and company multiple times in the past year, and their set was enjoyable but, at this point, sort of workmanlike. In hindsight, checking out a new face – SOPHIE in the Yuma or Strangers You Know at the Mojave was probably the move. As a respite from the heat and the uncomfortable roiling feeling the crab fries were bringing to my stomach, I headed to the Despacio tent, a new attraction that appeared to be a one-time-only event for Coachella. Despacio is a bit of an oddity at Coachella, although it fits right in with the festival’s aesthetic. Designed by James Murphy and the Dewaele brothers from Soulwax along with audio engineer John Klett, Despacio is billed as the world’s best listening experience, a cutting-edge speaker system specifically suited for spinning vinyl classics. It’s a small tent lit by a series of lights and a quintessentially… It was only appropriate that Axl Rose lasted all of one night of Guns N’ Roses’ ballyhooed reunion tour before breaking his foot, resulting in Rose taking a cue from a less fatter veteran in Dave Grohl and performing much of the band’s headlining Saturday set at Coachella in a throne. After all, a solid majority of Coachella 2016 attendees were likely barely able to walk themselves when Axl last performed with this lineup of a formerly great band. Instead, we were treated to Rose bringing out Angus Young (an appropriately shameless tie-in for Rose’s new role as frontman of AC/DC ) and a bloated (rimshot!) setlist that most of the crowd only joined in for the karaoke favorites. That Goldenvoice, the promoters behind Coachella, recently announced plans for a new festival of some of rock’s heaviest (and greyest) hitters was a happy bit of corporate synergy for a festival that has succeeded in mining nostalgia to its further extent. 2016 was a year of disappointing headliners – the joy of seeing LCD Soundsystem again was dampened a bit by them hitting literally every festival on the planet this year, while Guns N’ Roses and Calvin Harris symbolize Coachella’s ruthless pandering to its most profitable audiences at its worst. Lucky, then, that Coachella has improved in most every other facet since I started attending seven years ago. The food is downright gourmet; the security experience is more streamlined, save for the…
Friday, March 11, 2016Artist: School of Seven BellsTrack: “Ablaze”
When School of Seven Bells’ (and ex-Secret Machines guitarist) Benjamin Curtis died in late 2013 from T-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma, at the shake-your-fists-at-the-sky age of only 35, it seemed like 2012’s Ghostory would be that band’s swan song (not to mention the heartbreaking cover of Joey Ramone’s “I Got Knocked Down (But I’ll Get Up Again)” that the pair released prior to Curtis’ death). A triumphant summation of their sound at the time, it was a compelling enough ending to a story that seemed short far too many chapters. But then it wasn’t. Alejandra Deheza, the other half of the band, announced what would be the couple’s fourth and probably final LP only a few months ago, and it was released at the tail end of February. It’s not easy encapsulating all the feelings associated with the loss of someone so intimate, and SVIIB really never sets out to do that – recorded in a flurry of activity during the Ghostory tour, before Curtis was diagnosed, it’s a life-affirming and vibrant record. Perhaps even more so than Ghostory, it’s the perfect synthesis of their sound: a wave of sound that reaches to the sky, massive shoegazy riffs, Deheza’s crystalline vocals sliding effortlessly over the top. It’s Deheza’s lyrics that give the record its crushing, if optimistic, subtext. A memorial to Curtis, it’s a travelogue… Three weeks after braving a sixth year of the desert of Coachella, I was off across the country to Atlanta, Georgia, to take in the relatively fresh-faced Shaky Knees music festival. Only in its third iteration in as many venues, Shaky Knees has shot up fast in festivalgoers’ estimation: its penchant for widely disparate artists, with a noticeable lack of pandering to wide-eyed EDM fans, convenient location in the heart of Atlanta, and relatively cheap cost for a three-day festival (at $125 for early bird tickets, that’s $175 cheaper than Bonnaroo and a full $250 less than Coachella). DEALZ$$. The fact that my editor harassed the media until they granted my journalistic integrity a pass sealed the deal – another weekend in a mishmash of parks, side avenues, and parking lots to catch set after exhausting set. Hey, at least I now know what the weather at Bonnaroo feels like. After a debut in a historic Atlanta park and an artistically successful, location-challenged (at an outdoor mall??) second year, Shaky Knees’ move into downtown Atlanta’s Central Park was apparently a welcome one to many fans I talked to, although the location was more a chunk of park (actually two parks, as it connected a bit with Atlanta’s Renaissance Park – Atlanta has a lot of parks) winding its way through a few residential divisions and a massive parking lot for Atlanta’s Civic Center, all tied together by a heavily trafficked, closed-off street. This had pros –… |
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