Coachella diary: Arcade Fire, Jesus style and tripped-out fashion
I have this not-so-secret mental bucket list. This list, which I started in my early 20s, has become shorter (having accomplished some) and longer (adding more to-do’s) through the years.
Some of them include the following: Visit the Egyptian pyramids and the Sphinx. (Check.) Go skydiving. (Check.) Get a tattoo. (Unfortunately for my mother, check.)
Recently, I have ticked another box off my list: Attend the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival. (A big check!) Sure, being a concert whore, I’ve seen many of my favorite artists in my travels. But Coachella… Coachella! To me, this was the ultimate music festival to go to.
Go for gold. And spandex. It is set in the deserts of Indio, California where music lovers everywhere from Utah to Ireland come to bake in close to 100-plus-degree Fahrenheit temperatures for three days. Each year’s lineup has become the stuff of legend since its inception in 1999, including Radiohead, Bjork, Prince, The Cure, Daft Punk, Morrissey, Paul McCartney, LCD Soundsystem, The Strokes and Arcade Fire. (I guess Kanye West is notable, but to include him in my subjective list of “legendary”? I simply refuse. But, I would still raise a toast to that douchebag. Ha!) This genre-mashing shindig has drawn in a motley crowd, a list of cohorts including, but not limited to, emos, punks, scenesters, hipsters, hippies, rockers, ravers, and well, celebrities.
As I enter the fields of the Empire Polo Club on Day One, I see Ms. Lauryn Hill on the main grandstand called Coachella Stage, grooving to her classic hip-hop and R&B sounds like it was 1998. To my right is the Outdoor Theatre where, from a distance, I can see the Australian psychedelic rock band Tame Impala wrapping up their set, one that I wanted to see so badly but missed because the traffic and security getting into the premises had been so prolonged. I am distracted by the cacophony of music, laughter and buzz; the flock of nearly half-naked youngsters and not-so-young (also half-naked) trudging the grass fields; the stench of body odor and weed; installations of tents that resemble alien spacecrafts; buntings of balloons, streamers and giant psychedelic lamps. And yet, amidst the wonderfully shambolic frenzy, I soak it all in. The first night closes with the Chemical Brothers, whose electronica trip-hop beats make me break into superfluous gyration.
Awoo-woo-woo-woo-woo. No cowboys, just Indians. By Day Two, I am already sick of overpriced and unpalatable festival food. But it doesn’t matter, because this is the day I am going to see one of my all-time favorite bands perform live. In fact, out of a 150-artist lineup, Arcade Fire was the main reason that coerced me to snag a Coachella pass online before they had sold out in exactly one week, jump on a plane to California, and sweat it out in a crowd of approximately 90,000. As they open with Month of May, I immediately convulse into rapid head bopping, feet stomping and bursts of high-pitched shrieking. As my good friend and festival partner Rachelle Molina put it, “Watching you was like witnessing Beatlemania!” Win Butler and the gang give explosive performances with Regine Chassagne pounding on her keyboards, William Butler pummeling the glockenspiel backed up by a quirky orchestra of French horn, mandolin, accordion and hurdy-gurdy. The evening ends with their notable anthem from “Funeral,” and the entire crowd “ahhhs” to the opening notes of Wake Up. Mid-song, a tarpaulin above the stage releases a downpour of giant white glowing beach balls into the audience that continue to bounce around as if on perpetual splatter. So glorious, it brings me nearly to tears.
Must-have accessory: An umbrella for Coachella-ella-ella On Day Three, the ever-cool Julian Casablancas and the rest of The Strokes unfailingly took me to a musical high, even if I have already seen them perform live once before. But as the garage rock tunes blare, I sometimes find myself standing still in the swarm with my eyes closed, savoring the intensity. I then glance around and see euphoric faces emitting the power of youth and the young at heart, each one living in the moment, not having a single care in the world, singing to lyrics they know by heart. And as if on cue, The Strokes start to play You Live Only Once.
