Desert Tripping

Trying to grasp the who, what and—more importantly—the why of Coachella.
by Michael Mannheimer

I’ve never understood the festival culture. Maybe it stems from my general hatred of crowds, or from my lack of experience, which until last weekend mainly consisted of blurry summer memories of watching Lollapalooza highlights on MTV. Why would anyone go see their favorite band at a huge festival when you could catch them for $10 at the Echo? Feeling the need to live out my fears, I decided to attend this year’s installment of the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival in Indio to see why so many people would want to flock to the desert for this one weekend.

Once there, I looked all around for a sign, and then it hit me. As the sun was setting Saturday night and Sigur Ros took the stage, I felt an odd sensation on the back of my leg. I turned around looking for the source of the water and instead found a young man, fly unzipped, urinating on the soiled ground. When asked what the fuck he was doing, his response was simple: “I’m just letting it flow man, just letting it flow.”

Grossness aside, what may seem like an odd statement from a drugged-out hippy served as the perfect slogan for the weekend. Coachella is the ultimate outlet for the inner hippy in all of us, a place of relaxation, where taking your shirt off and passing around a joint is not only accepted but expected. The facts are the facts; despite the lineup, there has to be something else to draw so many people to come and spend 12 hours baking in the 95 degree heat. The day is hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. Nighttime isn’t any better, as layer after layer of sweat stains your shirt. Unless you get close, the sound isn’t great, and it can be hard to see from the back. It was so damn hot that I only went to the bathroom once despite drinking 12 bottles of water, and I began to worry about my kidney function. A greasy slice of pizza costs $7. The main draw, then, must be more than the music: Coachella is a place where you can go and let it all—and I mean all—hang out for a weekend of music, sun, and booze.

For one weekend, Indio, CA is the epicenter of the music world. 100,000 people pack the desert for a festival that not only features nearly 100 acts from many genres—this years line-up included Depeche Mode, Madonna, Franz Ferdinand, Sleater-Kinney, Sigur Ros and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs—but also dance tents, numerous rides, churros and a Tesla Coil. In a way, it’s almost more of a carnival than a festival, an invitation for freaks one and all to come bask in the almighty glow of Goldenvoice.

And no one is left out. Coachella is the place to be for weirdoes of all sorts and sizes, kind of like a Star Trek convention on hallucinogenics. In the pizza line I saw a woman carrying around a doll in a baby walker, asking her fictional daughter if she needed more water. Three macho-looking men wore suits covered from head to toe in glow sticks. I took a picture of the group, only to be told I was “got.” Closer inspection showed one of the men dropping the shocker symbol in the lower corner. Jokes on me, I guess? Coachella might be the only place on earth where meat-head jocks and mohawked punks and cute indie girls all want to see Madonna sing “Hung Up” in the dance tent. Meeting people, you get that sense that one and all belong, united by the common bonds of sweaty hair, a few good tunes and overpriced beer.

Even the non-human element gets to join in the fun. One of my first Coachella interactions wasn’t fleshy, or a biped or even really alive. Upon entering the stage grounds, I walked into a swarm gathered around a walking, talking robot, which went by the name “Hot Shot Few Thousand.” Hot Shot wasn’t as much of a robot, per se, as a collection of junk—a few spare tires, an oxygen tank, a water bottle, a racing helmet—but he embodied the spirit of the day. Anything goes. We engaged in pleasantries before Hot Shot hit on my female friend and commented on how excited he was to see Daft Punk. Weren’t we all.

With all the distractions, it’s easy to forget what Coachella is really supposed to be about. Though a number of bands stood out, the best performance of the whole weekend was clearly Daft Punk, who were making their first U.S. appearance since James Murphy made them the #1 staple of every indie dance party. Pushing the Sahara dance tent to its limits, Daft Punk emerged inside a huge, glowing pyramid. They played an hour and a half set that covered all the hits, while decked out in full-on robot gear (silver helmets, metallic fingers, and artificial hearts). Lights of every color shot down from the rafters and even the pyramid itself, which started to glow like some long forgotten spaceship. The lights and 808 kicks and vocoder chants were so incessant that everyone—even the dude in the tutu—hit the floor.

Many of the floors were hit, walked, and trampled on over the course of two days. With five stages and so many damn bands playing at all times, it’s inevitable that some groups got screwed over. One of the main problems with huge festivals like Coachella is the overlap between acts—I had to miss Deerhoof, My Morning Jacket and Kanye West just to see TV on the Radio. It’s impossible to see everything, but I decided to try to see entire sets rather than catch a few songs from everyone. Because all the set times are so meticulously planned out, any problems with sound or overlap from the previous act cuts into the next bands time. Buzz band Wolf Parade, who played a blistering set of songs from their 2005 album Apologies to the Queen Mary, were limited to 30 minutes after a long technical problem. Even Madonna, the undisputed queen of pop, was booed after she came out 20 minutes late.

I returned early Monday morning to the city with a sense of fulfillment. I saw all the bands I wanted to see, my wallet escaped relatively unharmed ($2 water, be damned!), and I finally got my white ass tan. Maybe it was crowded and hot, but branching out from the stoic L.A. scene every once in awhile really ain’t so bad. And who knows? Maybe next year I’ll be the guy peeing on the grass. You never know when you have to let it flow. LAA