Mid-Tale Coachella

Posted Wednesday, April 30, 2008 @ 10:30 in Music by Daiana Feuer

Gravy and cheese smothered hashbrowns boiling in my stomach after Denny's, driving up and down the 111 looking for Cree Street. We listened to my Ghostland Observatory CD three times (I refused anything else) and drove from Rancho Mirage to Twin Palms, Desert Palms, and at least two other palm tree derived oases before finding Cree Street, two blocks from where we had breakfast a full digestion ago.

Destination: Anthem party. Three spiked Fizzee drinks, one free LeSportsac and two pictures with a live donkey on a fake beach set later, I got to stick a toe in a pool full of inflatable wonders before having to jet to a Sasha and Digweed interview. This whole day can be organized in a series of dipping my face, my hand, maybe half my body into one place after another. Jumping channels like television floating in a lulling void.

We only stayed at the Anthem party for a second, but that was long enough to enjoy a few things. Like the tan bodies draped on towels and trees. Or when Calvin Harris walked in and I turned to my friend Lindy to point it out and she had vomited all over herself. Figuratively. She showed me 6 pictures of him on her cellphone en route to Coachella so I would recognize him. Both Lindy and Calvin wore yellow. We grabbed fresh drinks from the bar and I offered her an introduction or to stalk him at close range but she responded, her eyes washed over with dizzy stars, "Are you ready for another drink?"

Traffic was the pits and I had to record Sasha and Digweed half with a video camera facing the couch on their tour bus, half with my phone. It was McGyver hectic. But the trance legends seemed amused as we discussed sushi, futbol, and the bizarro wonder of snoring. Its many layers and multi-tonal pig slop harmonies. The duo later alternated their own sets of dark and light cavernous bellows, gripping the sheets of mind-snared attendees, massaging then shaking them into delirium.

I've wanted to see Bonde Do Role since the summer and not getting to see the original cast, the songs still got me grooving in my skivies. They put 200 tons of energy into what they told me is only the second live show they've played together. The flow of beats and scratchy nonsense rhymes framed their backyard appearance...like a bunch of kids yelling into their My First Sony about sex and sea creatures to the horror of their mothers and the delight of the neighborhood ruffians.

Here's where I run across the festival (again) to the URB booth for a chit chat with Shunda K of Yo Majesty. The cheerful street poetess happily reports ending her gay celibacy incubation by finding a "wife," who watched us in a colorful floral bikini top as we caught up on Shunda's never-ending quest to spread goodness and spirituality in the world through party rap. We needed a little bit more Shunda and a little less crazy hostility this year. Perhaps the fact that Yo Majesty's tent was not full during their performance indicates where the hearts and minds of folks was at this weekend, in the porta-potty gutter, if you ask me...more on this later.

Slightly soggy with lemonade, I skipped back across the park to Hot Chip. As I flashed my wristband to get backstage, they tried telling me they were at capacity. Fortunately for me and Michael, the photographer for Ronny's Photo Booth trying to scoot back there with me, a fist flinging fight erupted directly behind the security guard. I tapped the guard's shoulder. "Um, there's a fight right there." Bug-eyed he lunged on the back of one goliath of a man but it took three more guys to tame the beast. Michael grabbed me by my dropped jaw and we stepped over fallen bodies and behind the stage. Hot chip was a great soundtrack to my getting to know you's with Michael. I'm told they were dressed in white. I didn't see a thing but the sounds went down well with the last drops of my drink.

Confession: it involves Busdriver and a certain unrelinquished infatuation. Much to my surprise, or because I willed him to appear, Busdriver came on stage halfway through the Islands set. From that moment to when I practically pounced on him ala security guard backstage belly-flopping on a rabid victim (though in this case I was the pouncer and the rabid animal), my mind was all butterflies, playdough and lemonade. I'm sure there was a logical reason I mustered up to leap into his arms, ever briefly, twice, with some sort of grace. I took a few pictures of him with my fisheye camera as an excuse. Someone came up to me and asked me about this fantastic toy of mine flashing red light up Busdriver's nose...I told him it was a fisheye and shared with him the devilish secrets of my lustful heart before asking him who he was: the owner of Spaceland and the Echo in LA...Oops, I thought. That was awkward a little maybe, but I hugged him too, before walking off. Twenty feet away my brain kicked back into gear and I had no idea what the heck just happened.

I was a little lost at this point. MIA was packed solid, erupting with fights and ruckus, flying microphones, cursing, fainting, bleeding from the head, trampled over by people so determined to have fun, they punch each other in the face. Violence is everywhere this weekend. I don't understand. Who put the hate in celebration? We're all there to be free and enjoy merry-making on a level accessed by 3 days of dehydration among strangers and thousands of decibals of music and blinky lights. The whole point of a festival is the negation of war and aggression. Dancing is the opposite of fighting. What went wrong? Is the Jack Johnson crowd to blame? Were the right bands on the wrong stages? Does it go deeper? Was it the heat, the hormones, the pretenses?

As I was saying, I was a little lost at this point. Where are lost ships pulled bobbing with dreamy eyes? To Portishead's front lawn of course. I had acquired a balloon with an Explorsion sticker on its face. I bounced it in my hands then sank back into the clipped grass and transformed into a soggy black and red flannel shirt that reeks of make-out sweat and drool, covered with sun salt and foot marks. Portishead rolled around on me, rubbing me into wet spots on the ground with etheric fingers. Then I snapped to, remembered my boy troubles, passed the balloon to someone nearby and thought, I need some nachos. But what I meant was I need something greasy, possibly tinged with mango and sex, the only antidote to the lustful vampire swoon induced by my current surroundings. I need Calvin Harris. The boy is indeed cute, very tall, very yellow, and he does three different bird-like dance moves which emphasize these main attributes. I'd like to go on a cruise with him.

Imagine the sound of your foot. You take a step and a wellspring of electricity springs forward. Imagine you're Prince's foot, and you've got the look. You've got a little red corvette, you party up, you sing Chaka Khan songs and Sarah McLachlan covers (yes, for real...) and you bring it on home with purple rain. "Co-cheee-A-la!" you proclaim at thrusting intervals ("A" is a hard A, it's got a Prince accent). "Think about it!" "I wrote this song while lookin' in the mirror," you say as you smooth back the side of your hair and pop your collar in one lemony swoop before creaming all over everybody.

With this, day 2 ends dragging my limbs to an afterhours at Desert Inn or some such place that was rented entirely for late to dawn festivities. Here I learned that not all parties are created equal. At some, there's too many men with short hair and too many women with plastic lycra. You have a glass of water, scorn another pool for once again slipping out of enjoyment's reach, and kick it to the condo.

for Part 1 of Tale Coachella, go here

for Part 3 of Tale Coachella, go there 

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