Bottom-Tale Coachella

Posted Friday, May 02, 2008 @ 02:45 in Music by Daiana Feuer

How did Steve Aoki forget his bathing suit? His wet briefs must have felt weird bunched up inside his jeans. If I were him, I would have DJ'd in my underwear. You can do that at a pool party.

The BPM mansion: we weren't allowed inside to pee. "Someone" might let it go in the pool before climbing out to a porta-potty set up in the driveway. On the subject, I don't think I've ever peed less than I did this weekend. I was a cactus!

So Master Aoki did some Caligular water-lingering while we explored all the possible Hypnotiq concoctions on the menu, out of respect for our benefactors, and politely accepted Rocket Dog flip-flops. The sun licked our sugar-lips and par-boiled our shoulders. I turned from the marvel of strangers' wandering gaze to face my long-sought object of affection. No, it wasn't Busdriver (see Part 2). I sauntered over, leaned down to whisper in its ear...

Hello, pool, mind if I join you for a drink?

Social etiquette requires one to bring cocktails into the pool and balance drinking and tossing inflatable balls with gentle outbursts of dancing and leaning on the ledge. The Anthem pool one-upped BPM's pool toys, with a diving board, an inflatable castle with a slide, among more air-filled marvels, and a donkey (near the pool, not in it). But the BPM party was cool, too, more of a gondola ride than a 6-foot plastic school bus with a paddle.

We rode into the festival chlorine-logged in time for Gogol Bordello on the main stage. I took the bird's eye of the action. The people did the dancing but the show should have been in a tent, intimacy is key to this band, and after dark, so the band spends more time drinking around a picnic table with Elijah Wood in front of their trailer, behind a nice white picket fence. Upon inspection, Wood has a very long torso and not as large a head as you think. He used to date one of the Bordello dancers. Perhaps they're just friends now? But really that phrase is a joke, you simply don't, poof, forget the naked image of your "friend," especially when it's good-looking or belongs to the lord of the rings.

Beyond the orange glow of the VIP area (where girls could spray themselves with deoderant or imitation perfume in an exclusive Powder Room), I noticed a secluded entrance to a fortified other-world, the realm of the picket fences. Back in Part 1, I could smell the trace of bands set up somewhere in Disney walking tour arrangement. Passing through the wind in the wardrobe, I was like, "Oh..." A village of trailers in cookie-cutteresque rows. On their doors hung names glittered on construction paper signs. Inside each trailer, chili pepper glow lights, shiny streamers or any number of party theme decorations distinguished the Chromeo from the Cool Kids, courtesy of Coachella. In this strange camp, Gogol Bordello shared a yard with Kid Sister, Murs neighbored Sean Penn, the festival's featured motivational speaker. --Suffice it to say that late into Day 3, people were headed away from "awareness" and more towards zone-out psychedelia in prep for Roger Waters and Justice. Allegedly, Murs kept sneaking into Penn's trailer when he wasn't there to frolic and poke at the sophisticated gift-wrap Coachella chose for Mr Penn's walls.

The little world of cubbies was the playland I've always wanted shrunk to paper-doll size. If only someone had told me it was within my reach 60 hours ago, I'd have certainly given it the full Daiana acid test. Alas, nothing can ever be everything your eager little fisheye wants. After beating myself up about it post-return home, I've come out on the other side of unfulfilled expectations, expanding the Coachella lesson to romantic lolly-gagging. Sometimes your light is too bright or too dim when it should be a CFL bulb. Or it's not about you at all, and you can blame chance, nature, or playing with Barbies, which made you think that if you and someone else's outfits look good together, you should be making out. I am OK with it now......"OK." Where did this word come from? I'll tell you. In 1839 the term entered national vernacular. It was derived from the educated youth's tendency to misspell and then abbreviate popular phrases. In this case, "All Correct."

The trailer park doesn't have that great of an effect on people anyway. Last Coachella when I met Kid Sister, her down-home charm consisted of 3-inch fake nails and Yiddish slang in casual conversation. This year, her nails were shorter, her hair and dress tighter, and her long, press-on eyelashes curled up like Cobras. She's hot, don't get me wrong, fun-fun, vivacious, exciting, but a little too much glue leaked onto the Candyland copy of Kid Sister. While an interview centered on umbrellas and carrots usually makes me proud, that enjoyment comes from layers of subtext. This gave me a paper-cut. I blame the picket fence, not the bubbaleh.

As stars distorted the sky, Roger Waters and his pig balloon kindled werewolf vibe. Bodies blew to the ground, eyes dropped out of sockets into a melting bowl of jell-o. The Dark Side of the Moon, played in its entirety, burned any fly within a 200 ft radius. But then there's those giant mosquito eaters. They have long spider legs and huge wings. They don't glide or flutter, they tumble maniacally through the air as if Pop Rocks are exploding in their throats. These bugs don't seek honey in the clouds, they worship the greasy palm of the DJ.

I climbed one of the beams holding up the Sahara tent to observe the Chromeo to Justice maraud at telephone wire level. The entanglement of bodies below was so thick, thorns grew out of its sides. Before Chromeo played two notes, people were already being carried out of the tent, sucked dry blue. Maybe it was the sight of P-Thugg's gut flapping out of his open shirt (same outfit two days in a row, by the way)? Or Chromeo's handsome skidding across the stage? People weren't dancing so much as shoving and churning, somewhere between smiling and suffering, taken to suffocation's boiling point and held there. That's sort of a pleasurable spot, if you've ever been choked 'til you fainted or had a nitrous overdose at the dentist's office.

Justice's large glowing cross drove the poltergeist into the crowd. People literally ripped open the sides of the tent to get in, reaching for the burning symbol, screaming for more. In a curious "Don't drink the kool-aid" moment, I got thinkin' about duality. What is God-ness? What does it mean to pair a holy symbol, carrying the weight of centuries, with "Do the D.A.N.C.E./1 2 3 4 fight/Stick to the B.E.A.T./Get ready to ignite." Sounds like an invitation to writhe from within...or burn to a crisp. Is it subversive or innocent? Playful or wicked? Music's power to make puddy of its listener is a source of release and enlightenment. To see everyone falling, bleeding, fainting, crawling away in the grass, eyes flipped back, shaking, delirious, and sort of scary...either emphasizes something beautiful about us and the sweetness of our flesh, or it takes meaning out of the equation and replaces it with immediate visceral experience and nothing beyond that. So you can get into it, or you can go home.

Just listen to the Hokey Pokey. That's what it's all about.

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