The coltish lead singer here emerges like rare exotic who only occasionally shows you her eyes, and when you see them, she grows even more mysterious. Herewith, a slow-motion Beach House memory, plus a random Coachella conversation about running into an old high school nemesis, in this case, the girl most likely to…
The slow-spinning disco-balled oversized Q-tips were cool, at times enshrouding her and bestowing the gargantuan proportions of a thick mane, a la Where the Wild Things Are, and towards the end of the clip she’s framed by the glitter, which makes for an elaborate snowqueen’s headdress during a winter carnival, in the middle of the desert. Things go from zero to trippy in about forty seconds by way of a languorous verse leading into high flight which offers a dizzying, spiraling glimpse before plunging squarely down in a straight-up churchy affirmation, a baptismal stomp really, during which she pantomimes sporting her Sunday best and holds her hand to her breast as her hair speaks for itself, in this case, in slow-motion. I don’t usually splice in footage from diff performances but the swimming pool light reflected on her jacket gave it all a watery feel and the slo-mo hair kinda matches this underwater feel at times.
The churning out of this melody strangely had my DJ sensibilities conjuring up Shelleyan Orphan’s “Amanita Muscara” mixed into this (odd, the thoughts that come to one during shows, like, please DON’T SMOKE cigarettes in this tent, as it’s just 50 minutes, man — or — can you PLEASE quiet down, man you’re just jabbering away, and it’s a relatively short set). The clumsy intro comes by way of a happenstance floor-pill that I opted not to take after picking it up, looking around nervously, then reading the container it came in, which read “Jack The Ripper”, which didn’t sound like a proper name for E. Despite opting not to mess with it, it was now in my possession…I ultimately, nervously thew it away in a porta-potty.
It had been forever since I’d eaten a pill and I eventually managed to find the perfect one, after acquiring and ultimately deciding not to take a lesser entity. My lovely miracle came in the form of co-camper, one of a posse of three lovely ladies, the fourth of which remained back in SF, making for an extra pill with my name on it. She also shared a Magnesium pill with me which was a truly good deed, sparing me morning-after spinal and joint agony. I didn’t actually take the pill during Beach House — in fact, this song and this set came to me in a happenstance manner, as I’d totally taken Beach House for granted, ’til an accurately self-described Charlotte Gainsbourg doppleganger I canvassed mentioned them.
Curious, I wandered by their tent and I was re-hooked and had to step inside and hope the mellow afternoon grooves would continue, and they certainly did. Apparently Jay-Z and Beyoncee were there but I didn’t notice. And in cases like that, it’s really good to just give the celebs some distance and respect and let them enjoy themselves. I missed Jay-Z’s show because Johnny Lydon was in rare form (more on that show in a few) but I’ll be crying my eyes out as Jay and his crew hit the chorus for that NY song at Bonnaroo. That damn chorus simply devastates me every time I hear it. Coming back from Cali weary of heart, and with a broken camera — my best friend lent me the worthwhile movie “What Just Happened” to help me get some perspective on the wild west — my old streets really did once again make me feel brand new.
“We’re here to mellow you out. To chill you out.” they announced, and so they did, during this set, which for me was an unexpected highlight amidst several others; some expected, some not.
One of the coincidences of this trip found the very cool dude who drove the super shuttle from LAX telling me about once driving the daughter of a producer from Armenia who did the “Rush Hour” films as he mentioned his pride in being Armenian. He also mentioned the legendary French Armenian singer Charles Aznavour, but he didn’t mention Michel Legrand, uncle to Beach House’s lead singer, Victoria Legrand. Michel Legrand is quite simply a legendary film composer winning three of thirteen Oscar noms, five Emmys and having been amongst the very first European musos to work with Gillespie, Coltrane, Getz, Davis, et., al., during a critical time in Jazz’s modern evolution.
Beach House is about as perfect a post-New Romantic name as you can find. Like the title of a Haircut 100 B-Side, but I digress. By way of digressing further, a fictitiously actual conversation overheard by someone within earshot of me and an anonymous stranger, speaking about someone she happened to know — and detested — during a meaner time, namely high school:
Me: “She looks like a 40’s movie star; she looks like she could be really nice, but also — I hate to use a woman’s body part disparagingly — “
Stranger: “No, say it, you’re right”
Me: ” A, well, cunt”
Stranger: “Yes”
Me: “What, you know her?”
Stranger: “We went to high school she slept with my best friend’s boyfriend and it really messed her — my best friend — up. She did that to a lot of girls.”
Me: “Wow. I’m told I have something of a Jesus Complex wherein I need to create backstory by which can pre-forgive the bastards I’ve known in my life, but I wonder if in her case what’s playing out is the simple story of a — and I don’t mean to speak so heavily, so quickly, after just meeting you – “
Stranger: “No, go on “
Me: “Well, the classic case of paternal abuse wherein the first physical affirmation of her beauty comes from the ultimate forbidden male source, her father, and so she then needs this constant validation as a negation of her pain, so she goes after another type of forbidden male, namely the boyfriends of others, thus both owning the act and spreading pain amidst other girls, some of whom would or might otherwise be bitchy to her anyway?”
Stranger: “No, she’s not like that”
Me: “Well, technically, you don’t know for sure; in any case, she’s here, you’re here; maybe you should say Hi?”
Stranger: “No, I’m definitely not saying Hi to her”
Me: “You really should, just try it. Sowhoyougonnaseenext”
Stranger: “I think I’ll go check out Beach House”
Me: “Yeeeah, well…”
Stranger: “What? everybody says that!”
Me: “No they’re definitely cool, I just kinda take them for granted. Hey, what are you doing?!
Stranger: “Now you’re gonna try and talk me into quitting cigarettes?
I doubt she quit cigarettes or spoke to that old high school enemy, despite the fact that they’d both earned their unique identities after escaping the conform-or-be-cast-out life within the high school halls of yet another detached and subdivided drab SoCal town, and found their respective ways to the promised, male-dominated land backstage, but I’m glad she reminded me about Beach House.
Extra-credit viewing: Odd Sh*t at Coachella
[...] Extra-credit viewing: Beach House, Coachella 2010 + some actual-overheard-festival dialogue-based-fiction [...]