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…
Posts Tagged ‘Coachella’
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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… Fourteen years ago, Refused played what, up until last month, was their last show in a grimy basement in Harrisonburg, Virginia. A crowd of only forty or so people saw what is arguably one of the most influential bands of the last twenty years implode in the haze of infighting and police lights. Ten years ago I was first shown their landmark album The Shape of Punk to Come in the back of a high school Spanish class, with the mystical allure that “you will never ever get to see this”. Viewing the too esoteric for its own good documentary Refused are Fucking Dead only seemed to drive this point home. For all intents and purposes “dead” was what they were going to stay. That is why earlier this year when it was announced that Refused were reuniting for a slew of festival dates it came as a shock, not only because of the years of still spiteful attitudes but because for just about everyone who has ever listened to The Shape of Punk To Come Refused’s absence was an obvious given, just like gravity or E=MC^2. With their Coachella appearance the day after, last night Refused sold out the Glass House in Pomona in seconds in what was by far one of the most talked about festival one offs in a week full of great word of mouth club shows. At 10 PM the lights at the Glass House began to dim and a low drone started to… 
No press please. One of the celeb-spotting highlights of my time at Coachella 2011 was seeing pop starlet Katy Perry, or should I say Katy Perry surrounded by a fat entourage of men allowing only the slightest glimpse of her pixie-sized body, walking across the field towards the VIP area. I found it mildly fascinating that, in a festival where numerous stars could be seen hobnobbing and generally enjoying themselves, Perry found it necessary to travel in a way that would paradoxically maximize not only her protection but also her visibility. There’s few things better suited to announcing to the world that HEY! PLATINUM POP STAR PASSING THROUGH! than traveling in a caravan. Luckily, one of those few things is tour riders, one of the best ways to determine whether a pop star’s desire for control is beginning to spiral a bit out of reach. The Smoking Gun recently got a hold of Perry’s 2011 rider, and it delivers. We’ve all heard the “only brown M&Ms” horror stories common in the industry, but Perry, who prefers organic snacks, takes things to a diva-tastic level. Demands run the gamut from precisely delineated types of chairs (cream-colored armchairs, God help you if they’re in eggshell white) to a somewhat disturbing repulsion towards carnations (underlined AND capitalized, indicating potential harm to Katy if she is indeed exposed to such flowery trifles) to a comprehensive list of things her driver is NOT allowed to do, including… For all the hype surrounding Coachella 2011 – the six day sellout, the mounting confusion and problems regarding the festival’s new wristband ticket method, the fear of scalpers selling fake tickets and wristbands not shipping out in time, once the festival was under way it was still the same old Coachella. Friendly people slapping hands and exchanging “happy Coachellas!;” temperatures routinely soaring above 100; enough drugs to make Noriega and Kesey blush; and music. Music that was at times brilliant, enthralling, obtusely weird, fist pumping, merely okay and atypically shocking and everything in between, but still the lifeblood of the festival no matter who came . . . and there were a lot. From shirtless fraternity boys to forty-year-old scene veterans, from stoned, bleary-eyed hipsters to day-glo-adorned rave kids, Coachella stuck them all in a boiling polo field of a pot and, for one weekend at least, helped them appreciate everything and everyone else. Coachella may be becoming more of a place to be seen than appreciated nowadays (over the course of the festival I saw Katy Perry, Tara Reid, Paul McCartney and even David Hasselhoff, all almost exclusively in the VIP lounges enjoying the drinks rather than the music), but few festivals can match its uniting experience. And it remains unforgettable. I didn’t know it at the time, but Friday was going to be the coolest day of the weekend – a “pleasant” 93 degrees, blinding sun interrupted by even the hint of clouds and ice water turned to… |
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