Splendor in the Grass - V30 July/August 2004

Coachella
DAY ONE

As our car crawled down a narrow blacktop highway towards the polo fields still shimmering in the distant heat, my friend and I decided to have mercy and share our air conditioning with a group of teenagers who'd been walking alongside our car for nearly an hour. After watching them collectively turn from a light pink to a lobster red and not once apply suncreen or drink any water, it seemed criminial not to give them a lift to the festival, which was still nearly a mile away. As is the case with most events of its size, the worst thing about attending the Coachella Valley Music and Art's Fesival is simply getting there. After sitting in creeping traffic in 105 degree heat, navigating the behemoth parking lots and making the trek to the main gates, there was still a very hot line to stand in and a very rigorous security check to go through. After two pat-downs, I actually had my ink pens taken away and nearby an already wheezing teenage girl had her asthma medication confiscated. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and I hadn't even made it inside yet.

Since its birth in 1999, Coachella, which strives to be America's answer to huge UK events like Glastonbury and Reading, has grown steadily. This year, the festival boasts two huge stages and three massive tents of continuous live music, a film festival, and assorted large-scale art installations, all spread across beautifully manicured polo fields just outside Palm Springs. It also boasts a mind-boggling line up of bands that span from supergroups like Radiohead and The Cure, to a who's who of indie and emo rock, and, this year's biggest draw, a newly reunited Pixes.

I start the day by catching California popsters dios on the second largest of the outdoor stages, who manage to replicate the swooning dream pop of their debut album perfectly, even in the harshest of the midday sun. The band, led by brothers Joel and Kevin Morales, are fresh off a stint opening for Morrissey, and admittedly nervous about playing for such a huge festival crowd. "This is great, kinda scary, but great, " says Joel. "I'd been living in our practice space for the past year, so now that things are finally taking off for us, it's pretty cool. We get to travel a lot...and there's all that free beer." Given the wide array of competing acts on the bill, are there any other bands on the bill whose ass they could kick? "Well, we're shit talkers and we're not afraid to fight, but I don't know. . . maybe Beck. He's scientologist now, right?"

A little later, Beck's show in one of the tents causes overcrowding of the most severe kind. Nearby, the dance tent, despite being something like a pulsating, football field-sized sauna, is already packed to the gills by mid-afternoon. I duck out to see And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead obliterate on the big outdoor stage, proving themselves to be one of the most ferocious live bands in the world, even in the oppressive heat. The Texas band, known for trading instruments throughout their set and then destroying them by the time they leave the stage, didn't disappoint. En route to the VIP snack area, I notice an alarming number of people on stilts prancing about the venue, and always the requisite number of hippies playing hacky sack directly in front of wherever I'm trying to walk.

I sit down with the members of Ash, who've come a day early to hang out. The band, who are no strangers to playing festivals, have come to "see the Pixies, of course, just like everyone else," as well as give fans a taste of their forthcoming record, Meltdown. While the band couldn't be any nicer or funnier (or a better live band), I'm distracted by a long-haired Jared Leto, who lounges on the grass nearby, seemingly posing for invisible cameras. According to Tim Wheeler, the band's front man, "We recorded our new album in LA, in the same studio where Nirvana made Nevermind, so it's nice to be back in California." As a one of many big UK bands on the bill, I ask the Irish natives if making it big in America is a priority for them. "Well, we love it here and a lot of the music we love comes from here, so we're always happy to tour over here," says Wheeler. Guitarist Charlotte Hatherley agrees, "It's a different musical climate and we understand that. We're up for the challenge." Before leaving, the band concur that if forced to rumble with another band at the festival, they could easily beat up Mogwai. "It wouldn't be hard, they're Scottish, and mostly always drunk."

After finally leaving the comforts of the VIP area to see sets by Death Cab for Cutie (who are sweating visibly through their matching white jumpsuits, even from 100 feet away), and The Rapture (whose singer sounds so much like John Lydon to me that I don't know whether to love or hate them), it's finally time for the band that everyone has come to see-the Pixies.

As the sun finally begins its descent, the band comes onstage to the biggest uproar of the festival, and the sight of over 50,000 people surging forward for a glimpse of one of the most seminal bands in all of alternative rock. The band, looking a little bigger and a lot balder, proceeds to tear through a 90 minute set of their most beloved songs, sounding better, possibly, than they did over 10 years ago when they split up. While there will be many amazing moments from the festival, none will top the moment when Kim Deal rumbles into the bassline for "Gigantic" and an ocean of people completely lose it. The band exits, all smiles, and Deal makes her lone comment from the stage, which is "See you at the Kraftwerk tent."

It had been rumored that Radiohead might pull out of the festival due to Thom Yorke's chronic throat problems, but they do indeed show up and deliver a stunning close to day one. While they still can't quite match the excitement generated by the Pixies, they give it their best shot, managing to mesmerize a mostly heat-exhausted crowd by diving into their back catalog and even playing "Creep". Thom Yorke dances like a psychotic monkey onstage and the band, never known for having a sense of humor, seem happy and, dare I say it, even jovial. That could be due to the fact that Coachella is the last stop on an endless world tour for them.

Having long since lost my friends, and given the fact that Coachella itself has rendered my cell phone completely useless, I take Kim Deal's advice and make my way over to see the last half of Kraftwerk's amazing set, which manages to be totally compelling despite the fact that it's simply some old guys standing like robots behind computers on little pedestals with weird projections all over the place.

Feeling dizzy and exhausted, it seems sensible to go to the Spin Magazine after party and drink as much free liquor as humanly possible. Thankfully, I run into the rest of my friends. Aside from splashing part of my G&T on Neve Cambell and seeing the skinny girl from the O.C. making out with her boyfriend next to a tree, the party is relatively sedate and I leave feeling dirty and only feebly drunk.

After a long search for the car, our day ends with my friend standing on the roof of our rental minivan and surveying the carnage that is the Coachella parking lot. Hours after the last band has played, traffic is still at a standstill. "Do you see a silver corolla?" someone yells at us, just as my friend slides down off the roof our van, catches her tube top, and for a brief moment flashes a small group of onlookers. We sleep in our car for an hour before we can actually get out of the parking lot.

Coachella
DAY TWO

Sitting in the mostly empty restaurant of our hotel the next morning having had scarcely four hours of sleep, I think I might be hallucinating when I look over and notice that Thom Yorke is has sat down just a few feet away from me. A few minutes later, he is joined by the rest of Radiohead and I can't help but stare as he happily eats a plate of huevos rancheros and reads a paper. I finally muster the courage to approach the band, who actually lounge by the pool (imagine!) for a few minutes before heading out. When I ask Yorke what he thinks of the desert he says simply, "Well. . .it is a bit hot."

The mood of the festival is a bit more subdued on day two, with a lot of severely sunburned and heavily hung-over music journalists loitering around the mist fans in the VIP zone. I run over to the tents and catch a short set by New York City's Elefant, whose brand of new new wave was nearly overshadowed by the extreme tightness of lead singer Diego Garcia's pants, and eventually make it back to the big stage in time to see Muse. Already a chart-topping band in the UK, Muse is just getting their due in the states, touring in support Absolution, a record that has been almost universally praised. The band's unusual brand of anthemic rock, which occasionally incorporates snippets of classical music into a barrage of soaring guitar solos and stadium-ready choruses, is not only pitch-perfect and huge sounding, but all the more amazing considering the group only has three members.

I sit down with the still sweaty band after their set. "It was so hot on that stage," says singer Matt Bellamy, "I thought I was going to pass out." He doesn't appear particularly stressed about winning over American audiences, saying, "We perform well under pressure and coming over here to promote the record, which has been out for a while already in the rest of the world, kind of re-energizes us. We love it." When asked if the he feels the need to get all political on stage, as many of the bands so far have, Bellamy shrugs it off. "So much of our attitude and feelings about the state of the world are expressed already in the music, I like to keep it in that realm." As we head for beer garden, I notice that, once again, Jared Leto is striking a photo-ready pose nearby. This time, with a movie script tossed nonchalantly beside him.

The crowd in front of the main stage grows increasingly rowdy as the day goes on, which seems funny since the band they are waiting to see is the decidedly un-rowdy Belle and Sebastian. Their sunny brand of orchestral pop is a nice complement to the fading afternoon, and the band is characteristically sweet, having spent a large chunk of the day in the Virgin Megastore Tent (yes, there is no escape from the Megastore) signing autographs and talking to fans.

As a purple sunset illuminates the bands of palm trees surrounding the main stage, the world's most beloved French band, Air, come out and play a beautiful and surpisingly rocking set. Bolstered by the inclusion of a full backing band, Air's dreamy atmospherics are given a much-needed kick in the ass, but still provide the perfect chill out music for thousands of people ready to finally stop sweating. Meanwhile, I run over to talk to The Flaming Lips, who are frantically trying to work out the technical details for their own performance later that night. "We have a surprise prop," lead singer Wayne Coyne tells me, "and we have to make sure that it isn't going to smother me." Later that night, the band will play perhaps the shortest but also the most memorable show of the day, as Coyne is pushed out on top of the crowd in a giant plastic bubble while dozens of people in animal costume dance on stage and wave spotlights over the crowd. The good natured vibe of the Flaming Lips' set-including a sing along about robots, an anti-Bush chant, and a rendition of 'happy bithday' for Beck­that really captures the essence of the festival, which is, despite the heat and crowds, remarkably friendly and free of attitude. "What could be better than this?" asks Coyne, "being out in the beautiful desert with your friends listening to great music under the stars? It's perfect." There is something about Wayne Coyne that is impossible not to like, particularly his attitude about music and art. "People make things too hard, take things too seriously, worry too much about making everything perfect, and forget to just have fun. We get to go on stage and dance around and sing these lovely songs about love and death and have a great time. It's all I ever wanted to do, really. We're just so lucky."

With an hour or so before The Cure close the festival, I have time to run over to the big tent and have my mind (and ears) blown by Mogwai, who played louder than pretty much anyone else I saw. After spacing out during their set and noticing that basically everyone in the tent seemed stoned out of their gourd, I stepped over to watch Black Rebel Motorcycle Club play some straight up rawk at the outdoor theater and then eventually roam over to see Basement Jaxx, (and special guest Dizzee Rascal) making thousands of people collectively shake their asses.

Finally, at nearly 11pm, all the sunburned goth kids finally got their wish as the Cure emerged from darkness and took to the main stage. Robert Smith, looking more and more like Elizabeth Taylor, was characteristically shy for the first half of the bands lengthy set, but finally came out of his shell to dance a bit for hits like "Lovecats" and "Why Can't I Be You." It was here that I finally had what would be my personal moment of festival transcendence. As The Cure played "Pictures of You", I stood swaying and singling along with 50,000 other people under a starry desert sky and found myself transported back in time to my own junior high bedroom. Had I not been so dehydrated by that point, there surely would have been a tear in my eye.

T. Cole Rachel