Coachella 2008: In the shade, in the shade (we wish!)
Day 1, April 25, 2008, in Indio, California
By Melissa Bobbitt
Published: April 26th, 2008 | 1:25pm
It’s that time of year again when hundreds of thousands of sun-worshipping revelers make a pilgrimage to the Southern California desert to give praise to alternative rock superheroes. For me, it instills a sense of pride for the ol’ Coachella Valley, where I grew up complaining, “There’s nothing to do here but golf or get pregnant.” Seeming that my taste for the sport of kings doesn’t extend beyond putt-putt greens, and I wasn’t intending on being a mother, oh, ever, 1999 brought to angsty teen Melissa the very first Coachella — and my first sense of belonging in this suburb of a suburb.
Of course, these days Coachella is less counterculture than it is a clusterfuck. For every offbeat upstart like Vampire Weekend (whose bite turned out to be much less potent than its blog-worthy bark,) there’s an unabashed superstar gracing the stage (Jack Johnson, but we’ll get to his snoozefest later.)
The consensus, though, was this: It was hot! Agonizingly hot. I arrived around 3 p.m. and already the bathrooms were festering and the shade was being depleted by people who had probably thrown a tailgate party in the parking lot and then realized, “Oh, wait, beer plus heat equals dehydration! Bogus!” (Yes, in my hypothetical world, everyone speaks like Keanu Reeves … which seems fitting, since one rap group early in the day urged their crowd to yell, “The Matrix 3 was actually a good movie!”)
You know what actually was a good movie? The Wizard of Oz. Knowing this, Black Kids, a ragtag group with an African-American vocalist who sounds like Robert Smith of the Cure, incorporated the flying monkeys’ chant into their set. Though their semi-hit “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You” delivered, the rest of the set felt a little rusty.
The troopers in Architecture in Helsinki sweated on the Outdoor Theatre stage during peak temperatures, but the band members kept their humor up. Their blend of Men at Work mayhem and modern dance beats kept the fried crowd moving. The Aussie collective also sang the praises of Saturday’s highly touted headliner, Prince (“How many of you were conceived to a Prince song?” lead vocalist Cameron Bird quipped.)
The Breeders brought a quaint sibling rivalry around midday (a travesty their set was so early. Come on, it’s Kim Deal! Show a little respect for one of the pioneering indie rock mistresses!) Their set felt like a wobbly rehearsal more than a big show, but the Deal twins’ rapport and sludgy take on the immortal “Cannonball” made up for any flaws.
With my ears already ringing, taking in Mum and the Verve allayed my soul. Like fellow Icelanders Sigur Rós, Mum kept things serene and sprawling … until they infused a cover of KISS’ “I Was Made for Loving You” into the act. Frosty irony — gotta love it. And as for Richard Ashcroft and Co.? Surprisingly warm and dapper. I didn’t stay long enough to hear “Bittersweet Symphony,” but the few songs I did ingest were ideal for the festival setting. Ashcroft looks ace at middle age, too.
But the women ruled the evening. Electro goddess Alison Goldfrapp commanded her Mojave tent audience while dressed in a bright pink swinging nightgown (tassels and all!) Santogold, who looked like a young Mary J. Blige, only hipper, emanated cool by association (she is totally BFF with M.I.A.!) And Sharon Jones evoked the spirit of Ike Turner’s better half.
“This is my struttin’ dress!” Jones proclaimed, as the fringes on her getup oscillated. “It makes me feel like Tina!” With that, she and her Dap-Kings busted out a bevy of soulful barnstormers for the predominately uncoordinated audience.
Next, a jaunt to the beer gardens ensued (as did immense disappointment that the only brand they served was Heineken. Can’t a girl get a Killian’s Red in this town?) I caught the tail-end of the Raconteurs’ boisterous set (not much to report there. It was Jack White being Jack White — you decide whether that’s a bad thing or not) and somehow stumbled into the Sahara dance tent. Even with only one light beer in my system, my brain was melting. Aphex Twin was pummeling the rave kids’ senses with a loose interpretation of “music” and an orgy of pandas and gorillas onstage. Yeah, not my scene.
I sought refuge in some easy listening — Serj Tankian of System of a Down. His carnival barker act won me over immediately. Hands down, the best performer of Day 1, if not the best performer in the entire metal genre. His baritone to too-high-for-dogs-to-hear falsetto was highly entertaining, as was his patter.
“How many of you have seen Borat?” (The crowd cheers.) “How many of you have seen the play Romeo and Juliet?” (An equal uproar.) “What a fucking cultured Palm Springs you are!” he exclaimed, as he segued into “Lie, Lie, Lie.” The set was ripe with political furor, and ignited the first mosh pit of the weekend.
What a buzz kill that the headliner of the evening sapped all that energy Tankian had instilled in me. Sure, Jack Johnson’s an all right fella (I even admit to owning his Curious George soundtrack), but it would’ve been much more appropriate for him to grace the stage around sunset, and let a more worthy rumored top-biller (Radiohead! Smashing Pumpkins! R.E.M.!) finish off the evening. It was nice to chill out in the grass with my overpriced garlic fries, but Coachella is not “nice.” It is blistering, buzzworthy, and bold. Jack Johnson is none of these things (unless you count the fact that his band mate Zach Gill’s harmonica looked like a makeshift bong.) I just hope his sleepy vibe didn’t dash any concertgoers’ ability to drive home safely.
Issue #35
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