Better Late than Never: Coachella 2006

Fri May 12, 04:22 AM by

In 1999, Goldenvoice Entertainment hosted the first of what would become a regular event in the California Desert. Featuring an impressive lineup of rock, hip-hop, electronic, and experimental acts; Coachella had become the musical event of the summer for Californians (and for many travelers as well). Not only does the festival host more than 100 musical acts over the two day festival, but also an independent film festival, large-scale art installations, and an extremely overpriced beer garden (sponsored by Heineken).
This was my third year visiting Coachella. The first year, 2004, was highlighted by Radiohead, !!!, Broken Social Scene, and what was my introduction to another performer this year, Mogwai. 2005 was tagged by memorable performances by Arcade Fire, Bright Eyes, and The Faint. This year would hopefully offer performances equally as awesome (in the classical sense – anyone who saw Radiohead 2004 would agree – awesome).
My fellow Coachella-ers and myself all agreed that to leave Friday afternoon would be the most effective way to get out there. Besides, it would allow us the opportunity to enjoy some of the wonderful ‘scenery.’ So, after we gathered the necessary supplies: sandwiches, Vitamin Water, Tec ate, chips, and Clif Bars, we were ready to depart. The drive out to the desert, apart from being dreadfully dull, is strange in that is represents a distinct change: the movement from civilization (San Diego) to the proverbial ‘wild’ (the desert). In the city we have great Mexican food and hipster dive bars and, um, paved roads. However, in the desert, there are overpriced condos, bizarre emptiness, and old people (Palm Springs is THE travel destination of choice for septuagenarians).
Along the seemingly endless 15-215-10 expanse, we saw a strange assortment of establishments, from the impossibly dreary (like Wicker World), to the incredibly peculiar (a roadside vendor of gigantic aluminum sculptures of mythical creatures). Somewhere in Riverside we stopped off for restroom breaks and visited a 97-cent store. Bladders emptied and stocked up on Virgin of Guadalupe bandannas, we were ready to finish the first part of our journey.
The next day, we loaded up with snacks, beer, and plenty of sunscreen and began the slow and arduous journey to reach the Polo Fields where the festival is held. During the two-hour drive where we were surrounded by either yuppie-scum in their Beemer’s or the token Bro in the body-lift raised Ford F150 or Chevy truck. When we got to the venue we all stretched our legs and began the sandwich-making and beer-drinking. In the 100-degree sun, the sandwiches sparked nostalgic, summertime feelings and the beers fuzzed the feeling of sweating out of every pore almost endurable. We finished up, pissed in the bushes, and began our walk to the gates.
Once inside, we spent the next few minutes becoming acclimated to both the increasing heat/humidity and the disgusting hipness/grossness of our fellow attendees. Our disgust aside, it was time to enjoy some jams. By the early afternoon, we had watched sets by both Lady Sovereign (UK club-hop) and Wolfmother (rock & roll a la Led Zeppelin).
The highlight of the afternoon was the as ridiculously-named-as-they-are-hyped Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Nearly a year and a half ago, when I first heard Clap Your Hands, I knew that they would be just as huge as they are quickly becoming and was promptly bummed out when I heard that their first U.S tour (w/ The National) was completely and utterly sold out. Needless to say, I was excited. And the New York natives did not fail to impress. Their unique Talking Heads-meets-Bob Dylan jangle pop was even more powerful live. The greasy, bluesy guitar thumped the tent and got everyone there, even the dirty hippies, dancing. The only thing that was left to do next was to get us a 7-dollar beer from the beer garden.
While chilling out max and relaxing all cool, we overheard Mr. College Dropout himself: Kanye West. Kanye’s performance was generally a greatest hits set, pulling the strongest tracks from his two albums and including some of Kanye’s own favorites. I recall, although it may have been exhaustion or heat stroke, the hip-hop violinist, Miri Ben-Ari making an appearance. During Kanye’s set, My Morning Jacket’s set was echoing through the polo fields to us in the beer garden. Completely judging by the sound of my tired ass listening to them as reflected through at least three tents, My Morning Jacket sounds like the Flaming Lips covering Crosby, Stills, and Nash, (no Young).
Sigur Rós, and their insanely glorious music, was up next. They were given the sunset slot that The Arcade Fire had last year and Bright Eyes the year before that. I find it to be a time reserved for artists of a particular power. I can say that all of us were completely blown away. I still look back fondly to that all too brief time where we got to enjoy Sigur Rós’ set, which contained many of their newer tracks, in the desert at sunset. The only downer was the occasional bombastic bumping emanating from Damien “Jr. Gong” Marley’s set on the other main stage.
After the sonic enlightenment that was Sigur Rós, it was time for some tasty vittles. Instead of the gigantic sausages, baby back ribs, or steak burgers we decided on tofu wraps. But you don’t care about that. What you do care about though is Devendra Banhart. He and his band played quite possibly one of the most impressive sets of the weekend. Covering the upbeat tracks from “Cripple Crow” as well as reinventing many of his older tracks, Devendra and his motley crew, with their freaky dance-folk, had the tired and smelly crowd dancing and shimmying. Also, as a testament to his weirdness, Devendra brought someone (really, he just asked for “someone”) up from the crowd to sing one of their own songs. Although I think he used it as an excuse to catch up on his beers.
We showed up half way through Cat Powers’ set to a sight of amazment. She was…comfortable. She was dancing and laughing and having fun. I imagine that she was blinded by the lights or else a “bit tarted up.” Either way, her performance, backed by a full band, was explosive. Her music, strikingly somber and intimate on record, was fun and passionate and wonderful. After Cat Power, the collective masses began the exodus toward Depeche Mode. I will not say much about their performance other than this: they were a letdown. Dave Gahan is not god, and although some would disagree with this, legends still have to try. They visibly didn’t.
On our way to the area reserved for Daft Punk we stopped by to check out some atonal organ emanating from one of the smaller tents. The schedule said Tosca but I found out later it was only 1/2 of the duo. He played a short introduction using an organ and a sampler. This arty, avant-ambient electronic composer made music that contrasted the noisy, raucous day. After fifteen minutes, though, Tosca (and their distinctly European club-techno) began and it was time for us to escape. Shortly thereafter it was time for the French robots. Before this, I hadn’t ever (well, not never) been surrounded by 15,000 dancing hipsters, drunks, and exhausted partygoers. But I never felt more at home than with the insanity offered by the electronic duo. It was amazing to see them perched upon a digital pyramid surrounded by walls of LED’s and strobes. French robots in the desert, there’s something distinctly Westworld about that.
The next morning offered little by the way of excitement. We stopped off at a friends rented condo to visit (they ended up spending the day not watching music, but hanging out at Frank Sinatra’s old house) and enjoy some wonderful breakfast. After that we began the now familiar trek to the venue. However, this time the two-hour drive ballooned to a 3 1/2 hour one. After the journey, we were hot, frustrated, and running late. We had missed Murs, Mates of State, and the Magic Numbers. We would be lucky if we caught any of Metric. On the way to the entrance, I had the most sobering sight of the weekend. Next to the campsite there was a bay of dumpsters. Behind the dumpsters on the group was a guy who looked like he was either passed out or dead. There were a few officers around prodding his lifeless body, covered in his own feces and vomit and it made me sad. How disgusting that this, a music festival, may have cost someone their life. Someone who was alive yesterday. I checked the crime reports and police logs from the weekend, but I could never find out what exactly happened to that guy, but I still wonder.
Still in heat-induced doldrums and reflecting on what we had passed, we wandered over to see Metric, who, judging from the crowd, was definitely giving a hell of a performance. As we found a place near the edge of the tent, I found myself wondering why they were opening for the Rolling Stones. I mean: the Rolling Stones, despite being British, are really representative of American culture. They pull in suburbanites by the thousands charging often-exorbitant prices for tickets. What was Metric, a kick-ass, politically charged Canadian rock band doing with them? Regardless, Emily Haines and company provided no doubt to both their talent and the way people identify with their music. We used the break after Metric to squeeze past the hordes to get as close as we could for Wolf Parade. When they came on (nearly 1/2 hour late) we were bombarded by their jangly, guitar-driven fury. On their album, their cleverly crafted songs play like hodge-podge indie rock. Conversely, their live show is much more punk rock than anything else. Running at 1 1/2 speed, the jangle was still there, but it was much more urgent and rushed than their usual casual lope.
We spent the remainder of Sunday running from stage to stage to try and catch parts of sets that we had waited for. First, a few songs by Gnarls Barkley. Sir Gnarls had much to offer, still riding the laurels of the seriously-downloaded single of the year, “Crazy.” Suffice it to say that their soul-meets-sampling disco-fest caused the absolutely stoned out of their minds crowd to sing along to nearly every song (which is strange because at this time, the album release date was still 2 days off). We said goodbye to Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse to welcome the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and her New York art-skronk. The Yeahs exhibited the maturity (read: immaturity) that their recent release hints at. We were especially pleased when their set offered more than ‘greatest hits.’ In addition to “Maps” and “Y Control,” their set included “Rich” and (my personal favorite:) “Art Star.” I left the Yeahs early in order to catch a little bit of the Digable Planets. Doodlebug, Ladybug Mecca, and Butterfly were joined on stage by what must have been nearly 12 additional musicians from a DJ to a percussionist. The live musicians gave the Planets’ performance a vastness hinted at on their albums.
The last set of the night we caught was Mogwai. As I have mentioned before, two years ago, Mogwai caught my ear in the Sunday night 11-o-clock slot. Two years ago, their performance was triumphant in it’s post-rock, dueling-guitar glory. This year, they conquered all with wide fuzz and much more of a doom-metal sound (think Earth or Sunn)))). Their sound lends itself easily to the black sludge of doom-metal. Instead of the guitar squeals and crescendos from their earlier albums like Young Team or Happy Music, the Mr. Beast material delved into the lower registers and recesses to present a much darker, sinister Mogwai.
We left after this, hoping to dodge the Madonna fans (since she went on much later than was planned) and the Tool fan(-atic)s. Besides, we were much too sweaty, hungry, and tired to enjoy the remaining artists and Mogwai had left me sonically drained. We spent a good half hour escaping from the angry throngs. Eventually, we made it to the road and began the long road home. In Riverside, we stopped at a Denny’s and ordered a Mushroom-Swiss Burger, which I promptly threw up. As I thought at the time: “sounds about right.” Sounds about right.

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