OK, Los Angeles. Sorry that this is so late, but there was sleeping to be done, highway races to the airports, and long flights to be caught. Now that Virgin America’s new route has delivered me home safely, I’ll drop in a few last notes as Coachella fades away, Brigadoon-like, into the mists of improbable polo fields for another year.

(after the jump: the Shout Out Louds, My Morning Jacket, Roger Waters, Black Mountain, and more)

Usually it strikes early and often, but it really took until Sunday for me to find my first bandcrush of the festival. There they were, playing the mainstage as we shuffled through security at three in the afternoon. Adorned in flowers, with the girl on synths looking like a modern greek goddess and the rest of the band boasting the impossibly great bone structure of a Scandinavian country with a long history of good socialist healthcare. The Shout Out Louds were one of those groups that I’d always meant to listen to and occasionally confused with Shout Out Out Out. They’re a little like the Smiths mixed with a field of dandelions. Toward the end of their set, James Fearnley from the Pogues joins them to provide athletic accordion accompaniment to one of their old songs. By the time they’ve closed out, with the lead singer joyfully rocking a tambourine and double cowbell I’m writing their names all over my notebook. Or at least I’ll be adding them to my iTunes queue.

Elsewhere, Manchester Orchestra seem to be using the healing power of angst rock to release some of their pent up anxieties and the unknown pains of being a teenage band from a Southern metropolis. It’s emo, but in a fairly good and catchy way.

I’d been looking forward to seeing the Field if only because whenever I listen to their (his?) latest album, I sort of feel like I’m losing my mind about halfway through. This tour was supposed to be a “full band” version, but the heroes of border control put a stop to any of that. The show ended up being cancelled because the band couldn’t get into the USA at the last minute. Would it have been too much to just drop one of their CDs into the soundsystem to appease a Gobi Tent full of disappointed fans?

Back at the Mainstage, Stars seem to have read my mind. Unlike too many others, they are playing all the hits all the time. Their songs are ever so romantic and well produced. As they ring out across the still sparsely attended festival grounds, I wish that more people had shown up to catch their set, but they seem just happy to be occupying a stage formerly graced by Prince.

It’s hard to complain about the early lack of crowding on Sunday. Getting around and staying more relaxed is a whole lot easier when you’re not jostling, dodging, and queuing for food and drink in competition with too many other people. Crossing the grounds, I think that I make out Does it Offend You, Yeah? dedicating a song called “Make Out” to Elliott Spitzer. That, however, was far from the oddest imagery of the day. First, because we were on our way to see Gogol Bordello. The lawn was rollicking, but I suspect that none of them were having more fun than the boisterous gypsy-punks on the big stage. This is not to say that the menagerie of scantily clad, fuzzy booted, and otherwise costumed sextet on a picnic table near the edge of the VIP garden weren’t giving it their best effort to upstage the band.

The air was relatively still, but luckily Emily Haines brought a pair of wind machines to give her hair the perfect windblown look to complement her shiny spandex microdress throughout the Metric show. Like the last time they were at Coachella, a large crowd had gathered to watch as their instruments struggled against the climate. It was the last sunny set of the festival, and once again her classic synthesizer was acting up and there was a weird bit with a guitar appearing out of nowhere. These technical difficulties didn’t dampen their enthusiasm, and her riff about how she was proud to be a woman and proud to play an instrument that acted like a woman was more than enough to keep fans enthralled.

Next up was the question on everyone’s mind: what the fuck is Sean Penn doing on the Mainstage at Coachella? (really, even his mom wanted to know). It turns out that he was there to let the youth know that his generation had failed so now it was their (our?) turn to bring volunteerism revolution to the country. He invited everyone to ditch their day jobs and pile into a caravan of biofueled buses bound for New Orleans. Promising food, campfires with Ben Harper and Everlast, hard work, and a return trip a week later. Also: voting is cool. And: a Spicoli catchphrase for your attention.

Thankfully, his speech was concise. My Morning Jacket were, for me, among the biggest draws of the day. I’d seen them before but was completely blown away from the moment they started with insistent It Still Moves announcement “One Big Holiday” (again, the simple way to win my heart at a festival: play the goddamn hits early. We all win.) Can we call them golden guitar gods in spaceboots, or has Almost Famous made it impossible to say that unironically? Either way, Jim James and company are the real deal. Seeing them move from their old rootsier material, through reverb and synth-enhanced newer material, to a closing song that may have employed some sort of alien technology, I kept thinking that theirs is the exact kind of music that’s made to be played outdoors. Having it coincide with the sunset (which, as far as I’m concerned is the most magical Coachella set time of all) made it all the more perfect.

Um. Then there was Roger Waters playing for a thousand years. Apparently Coachella wizard organizer Paul Tollett is a huge Pink Floyd fan. The set times had been arranged such that nothing else was playing at the beginning of Waters’s epic set. So if you were at the festival at 8:35, it’s almost certain that you’d be drawn into at least a little bit of this as part of some mission to convert the youth to the greatness of decades old rock. In some ways, it must of worked. The field that had seem relatively abandoned during the afternoon had quickly filled with fans who spread far and wide before the trippy video montage awaiting them.

I’d hold this kind of coercious against him, but Tollett did also bring us things like a reunited Pixies opening for Radiohead and Daft Punk’s miraculous pyramid; so I’ll give him this one. While I wouldn’t classify his show as a circle of hell, I found it only tolerable background music while drinking a few beers on a table with a view of the gigantic movie screen. I assumed that this might all be TOTALLY AWESOME if you already loved Pink Floyd, but other devotees described it in terms of the disappointment of hearing beloved songs played by an uninspired cover band. Although I perked up a bit when he started projecting images of dictators, an embarrassingly bad Comic Life accompanied new song inspired by his teenage years in Beirut, and that liberated pig, I was not eager to stick around for the encore performance of Dark Side of the Moon.

Instead, a friend and I escaped to hear a different kind of stoner rock from Black Mountain. Their throbbing organ, psych-fueled guitar, and ragged vibrato at least provided an end to the festival that was a new take on something old rather than a replay of a classic.

I’d really intended to stick around for Justice, but once again the big Sahara tent was packed by the time Chromeo started late. Even though I’d missed seeing them a couple times in the last year, I didn’t think that I could face the crush bound to result from the mass migration to once Waters ended his set, let alone persuade my ride to stick it out through the second half of Dark Side just for the chance to not see the French duo sending attendees into one last late night dance party. I’ll catch them next time around. From the looks of the spotlights and low rumbling bass lines audible from our house, I think that they left the festival with some curfew violations.

And that’s all for my Coachella experience for another year. It provided a great kick off to the summer concert season and gave this Seattleite a much-need infusion of warmth and sunlight.

photo by joshc

A graffitied pig is now floating above the Roger Waters crowd (“fear builds walls”). A circling airplane just sprayed something above the grounds. I’ll bet this could be AWESOME if you love Pink Floyd. I’m just kind of afraid.

update: the substance being dropped from those airplanes? tens of thousands of tiny Obama flyers. [ew]

Friday at Coachella was, if not a relative ghost town then at least a very well attended garden party. Dashing about the grounds and sliding up to the front of a stage remained easy through most of the day and patches of shade were easy to find. Saturday, then, came as a shock to the relaxed sensibilities engendered by the previous day. Arriving at the Mojave tent at about half past three, we found that MGMT had already fired up their hipster electromagnet. Getting within eyesight of the band was more of a challenge than I was up to first thing in the afternoon.

(after the jump, veggie corn dogs, Malkmus, Death Cab, Islands, Hot Chip, M.I.A., Animal Collective, Prince, and more)

So, after circling a bit, we elected to take in some punishing sun and listen to them play most of Oracular Spectacular. Of course, it would have been easier if they’d gone through it in album order. That way we could have heard “Time to Pretend” and thinned out the crowd. But patience was the name of the game. We waited through all of the psych-tinged journeys, learned that “Electric Feel” is maybe about an electric eel, and then got our dessert of summer-jam contenders “Time to Pretend” and “Kids”.

After fortifying myself with a veggie corn dog (oh, the fair food!), we made our way over to the Outdoor Theater (a.k.a., “the adult stage”) where a few hundred die-hard Pavement fans and their kids had been encamped for Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks. Arriving in a safari hat with his all star lineup, he blows out eardrums with meandering guitar journeys. There are jokes about not rolling, interludes about California weather math, how this is how Portland will feel in 2021, and saying hi to M.I.A. Now for my horrible confession: I was never a Pavement fan. It’s nearly a hundred degrees outside and this freeform stuff is doing nothing for me. I concede to feeling like a huge failure as a thirty-year-old man and give up and head for the VIP area to suffer through Cafe Tecuba while guzzling an energy drink.

All of a sudden, the early evening hours are clustered with too many bands to see and not enough time machines. I skim past St. Vincent. For some reason she is ringing bells and later, like a haunted radio transmission, inviting us all to marry her. Whenever I hear this, I think about how much I love her for naming her album after an Arrested Development catchphrase.

In what becomes a recurring trend, the Sahara tent is packed wall-to-wall for Hot Chip. Kids spill out onto the lawn and scale the girders for a better look. The mercury hasn’t yet started to fall, and the strobes incite all sorts of dancing for “Over and Over”, but I saw the band a few days ago and decide to see what Death Cab for Cutie are up to. Because I’m from Seattle, I feel that it’s within my rights to snob about how I really never need to see DCFC playing to thousands and thousands of people from a festival mainstage. They’re fairly good at it, and they still sound just like Death Cab is supposed to sound and look like Death Cab is supposed to look, but there’s some sense of incongruity about seeing them huge on monitors from hundreds of yards away (especially when they’re dipping into the back catalog, which I love them for doing). But then I hear them playing “Your Heart is an Empty Room”, my favorite overlooked track from Plans, as I’m striding across the lawn I stop and have a little moment and feel my faith in northwest indie mope pop fully restored.

For some reason, I make the mistake of deciding to miss Rilo Kiley in favor of waiting for Islands to tune their bass clarinet, hook up wires, and start a half an hour behind schedule (Islands really ARE forever). When they finally start, Nick Diamonds is wearing ghostly face paint and a bloody shirt. It’s an appropriate costume for the spooky theatrical tone of their new album, which they are bold enough to use as the basis for almost all of their set. (So much for my “play the goddamn hits” aesthetic). Squeezed between material that almost no one has yet heard is the triumphant entry of Busdriver for the rap section on “Where There’s a Will There’s a Whalebone”. And at the end, they bust out their epic “Swans” from Return to the Sea and the big melodic guitar figure sends a kid in front of me into spasms of joyful hippie-ska interpretvie dancing.

The overcrowding witnessed in tents earlier in the day was nothing compared to the scene at M.I.A. Spilling out for twenty or so dense yards outside were people desperate for a chance to get beyond the white gates. For a moment, I ride a forceful current of people and catch a glimpse as she kicks off her set with “Paper Planes”. Then, as quickly as the tide brought me in, another current of dazed kids fleeing crushing hazards swept me far far away.

After all of this close-quartered heated overcrowding, I was feeling a case of the grumpchellas setting in. But then I went across the way to the Mojave tent for Animal Collective and it made me incredibly happy. Did I secretly hope that they’d play something from the Panda Bear album? Yes, I did. But did I think that they would? Not a chance. So, you can imagine my joy upon hearing them “cover” “Comfy in Nautica”. The flashing lights and modern primitivism built to a sensory overload that felt like neural reprogramming and suddenly I was in a good mood again. Anything is possible at Coachella: a big bag of balloons appears and spreads through the tent, and they round out their set with a huge, thoroughly inspired “Fireworks” medley.

The rest of the evening involves squeezing through a mob scene to get into the swamped VIP area. Did Goldenvoice pass around wristbands like crazy this year when sales looked slow? It’s packed and more than a few of them are in costumes. Or maybe it’s just the promise of Prince that caused Saturday attendance to skyrocket. Either way, lines are thick at the bar while Portishead wow with ethereal and haunting pseudo-tribal set. Eventually, it’s time for Prince, a.k.a. the guy who saved Coachella’s attendance numbers. Magically, he almost looks tall on the LCD monitors. His set is sort of a variety show, with hype men, guest vocalists, and Sheila E. Interspersing the hits with long jams (and even a Radiohead cover of sorts!), he leads the festivities like an old-time band leader in silver sparkles. Surprisingly, the set is very quiet and I can hardly understand a word that he says between songs. “Little Red Corvette” morphs into a slow jazz love song, someone sings a Sarah McLaughlin cover while Prince changes costumes, and there’s a long version of “Come Together” against the war. It goes on for an hour past the midnight curfew, incurring what I can only imagine to be huge fines that probably seem like nothing in the context of his massive retainer. He comes back out for an encore, serenading us with “Purple Rain” and sending us off with “Let’s Go Crazy”.

Today, I will take that advice to the extent of finding some weird foods before Coachella fades away for another year.

When last we left, you found me still acclimating to the warm dry air and the welcome respite from Seattle’s Narnia-like winter. Sun, warmth, the absence of rain, and mountains just outside my backdoor looking like a staged backdrop? What is this magical world? Also, there was a bit about shuffling across a grassy festival grounds trying to take in some music and art. Shuffling is actually a good term for what goes on here. Although a genreist could make a good weekend for herself, sticking to the dance tents, techno village, or mainstage rock stages exclusively and have a perfectly good time, the breadth of the music on display is really well suited to the overstimulation-seekers.

The other thing that Coachella is made for is people who don’t mind taking in a high-energy show in the middle of the afternoon. The Black Kids, for instance, are thrilled to be back in the states after a long, damp, tour in England. They’re sweating “like someone’s drunk stepfather” and couldn’t be happier. Live, they nearly live up to the ridiculously catchy sloppy funk standards of their short EP from last year. Even in the face of technical difficulties, they happily improvise a singalong while broken strings are repaired. Like everyone else, they hold off on the big hit until the end of the set, keeping those who want to be told that they won’t be teaching our girlfriends how to dance with us hostage for set. I hate to be one of those people, but goddamn it bands. How about you play the songs that we love up front once in a while?

Next door, Dan Deacon is killing in the next tent. He’s down off the stage, in the midst of a crowd who can’t imagine giving him an inch of breathing room. Kids are packed up against the overwhelming speakers with ears plugged, goofy smiles on their faces, and sweaty limbs flailing. The overwhelming bleep bloopery dancing goes on for a while and then Dan convinces everyone to form a tent-sized circle, for a whirlpool of jubilant high fives. I dash out of the set when he’s orchestrating the next series of team building games — something about a wave of joined hands sending a gauntlet of dancing through the crowd.

And back across the lawn, there’s indie rock troubadour Jens Lekman spinning ultra-charming yarns about dangerous cabs, indifferent Spanish girls, and the way that the ocean can make you feel stupid. Backed by his usual a harem of young women (Jens:Sufjan::__?__:Illinoisemakers) on strings

(one does suspect that their violin was not made for temperatures in the upper nineties) and drums, Victor on an array of samples, and a backup horn section, he plants the seeds of revolution with a suggestion that we spend the evening breaking into gated communities. Only if you bring the trombone, Jens.

Speeding back to the mainstage, I catch a bit of Architecture in Helsinki closing their set with “Heart it Races”. As usual, I wonder how they went from the twee-ist band in all of Australia to some sort of trailer park methlab funk machine in the span of one album. As the weird jam comes to an end, they gather the crowd to snap a picture for mom.

For the next couple hours, it’s double twin super rock power time on the Coachella stage. The Deal sisters seem beatifically happy to be playing and we’re all thrilled to see them back together again. Next are Tegan and Sara. From their bio, I’d always foolishly assumed that Canadian twin sisters = quiet strummy folk, but in fact they and the rest of their band were all sorts of poprocky goodness.

I also worried a bit about Vampire Weekend and their ability to survive in the sun. But they ditched the oversized sweaters, rolled up pink shorts, and encouraged the audience to dance to afro-infused pop so long as it didn’t cause them to overheat. It’s their first festival, and they’re very gracious. It turns out that WASP pop is made for the sunshine. On a day without oversold attendance, their set was among the most crowded.

Later, as night is falling it’s time for the Raconteurs. The only trace of irony in this supergroup is found (possibly) in Jack White’s curly sideburns, but beyond that they’re just an earnestly huge rock band. Usually, when bands throw in traces of the seventies, it’s with a smirk or a nod, but these guys really mean it. Under a tent of white spotlights, they slice through the night with big guitar heroics.

The only act that I saw from top to bottom was the Swell Season, who you probably remember from Once. As Glen Hansard opens with a couple solo songs, I can’t help but wonder whether he can afford to pay someone to make a fleet of pre-destroyed acoustic guitars now that he’s got an Oscar. Even when bandmates from the Frames, and co-star Markéta Irglová join him, they are all faced with the unhappy challenge of being louder than the Raconteurs. They take up the task with good humor, admitting that they are probably too quiet for the festival. It doesn’t dissuade the true believers who stay long enough to wipe tears away from their eyes while committing “Falling Slowly” to digital video for the ages. They round it out with Pixies cover and guest drumming from the National. They have to be among the most appreciative and compelling people I’ve seen all day.

Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings bring a touch of much needed soul to the proceedings. Their old-school late-career breakthrough success seems entirely improbably, yet there they are with a thrilled crowd eating up every note. She pulls a guy onto the stage with her for a seduction number, and the only possible conclusion for his lack of enthusiasm is a very jealous girlfriend waiting in the wings. She shakes her tassled dress, feeling like Tina Turner. Miraculously, she manages to turn her closing number — one about her ancestry of enslaved West Africans and mistreated Native Americans — into a celebration of dancing for a breathtaking finale.

Oh, and then Jack Johnson played. It’s nice enough, but felt a lot more suited to a warm lazy humid day, than a cool end of the night. We cut out early, hoping to beat the traffic, aiming to dodge the army of flyer-ers (one enraged girl screams at them to just think about the oceans), and eager for a few minutes in a hot tub to rejuvenate for two more days of all of this.

photo by joshc

Hello there, Los Angeles. Coachella 2008 is upon us and crowds are already starting to fill the polo grounds of Indio for the ninth annual eclectoc mega festival.

I’m still feeling fresh and unbeaten by the elements having just seen Rogue Wave play to a few thousand if their biggest fans (it was, after all, the first show of the day in the hot afternoon sun). It was an entirely lovely performance,complete with makeshift celebratory drum circles at the peak of “Bird On a Wire”. An excellent start to a weekend of great music.

Now its off to BATTLES, Black Kids, and Jens Lekman. Let me know if there’s anything you’re desperate to hear about. I’ll be around all weekend.