from the drop-off point at 50th street and monroe, the spot from which our friends drove onwards to the artists’ parking lot, we still had a 2.5 mile trek along the perimeter of the compound before making our way in through the main entrance.
standing in line, waiting to be frisked, one could hear the reverb of the guitars playing on the main stage. the raconteurs, it sounds like the raconteurs.
perhaps i regretted not arriving at the venue sooner, so that i could catch several acts that performed earlier in the day, but the experience of walking onto the grass of the polo field as the sun sets brings out the majestic qualities of the environment. the nearby san jacinto mountains are reduced to serrated violet-hued silhouettes, the air cools, the fan palms sway, objects are incandescent in the twilight, even the skin glows.
there are thousands upon thousands of people milling about, moving from one stage to another. we are not at burning man. nor are we witnessing a stadium concert. it’s somewhere in between. white marquees tents with jutting peaks form villages along the sides of the field, and there are smaller tents in the middle of the grounds. there are massive towers of speakers and amplifiers, and placed throughout the venue are large works of installation art.
it’s a carnival, like the millions of carnivals that precede us, the carnivals that go back a thousand years, further back. it brings us together. we trade our wares, we swap stories, eyes meet as we sit by the campfire, by the burning light, we beat our drums and listen to the songs of others. this is no different.
a thousand clans, a thousand tribes, convene in this place, each with their own sense of hierarchy and their own distinctive markings. and then there are the rare free radicals bouncing off the walls.
some of our friends have backstage passes and v.i.p. wristbands, granting them access to the areas that hide behind the chain linked fences which are covered in green vinyl. i’m happy to be out amongst the proletariat, the ignorant and the unsanctioned.
while making our way to one of the smaller venues, we pass a wrought iron sunflower sculpture that spits fire. we find aphex twin in the middle of a set. it’s not a rave, it’s not really a party, but there is ritual involved. an audition of sorts. it’s mutual – the festival goers perform for the performer, and, in turn, richard d. james performs for them. a troubadour for the troubadours.
part two
there was a time when i couldn’t do anything by myself without listening to the verve’s two signature works, northern soul and urban hymns. these albums had a sound that contained a self-indulgent, melancholy-infused frustration to their slightly bipolar rebellious streak that appealed to the pathetically restrained kid in me – a kid who was just out of school and looking for an honest way forward.
before he started his barefoot dance onto a path towards drug-free self-realisation through world peace and groovy beats, richard ashcroft penned songs that were poetic and angry, that youthful urgency forming a woozy push and pull that i had a hard time turning away from.
there they were again, the verve on stage on friday night at coachella. long after sunset, as the lights turned for a moment on the audience while a propeller plane flew overhead, its fuselage and wings converted into a shimmering billboard that evoked a sight from blade runner, richard ashcroft grabbed the microphone and started to sing.
they were not masterful but it was good to see them. i welcomed the opportunity to shout along to their music again.
long after the roadies for portishead had packed their gear and prince had outstayed his final note, on a saturday night heading into sunday morning, we stood outside the palm springs museum of art waiting to be picked up by a shuttle bus.
it is an odd experience, standing in line to be ushered to a secret location so that we can attend an “exclusive” invite-only event. actually, it’s pretty stupid. this is not how the ‘party elite’ do things in copenhagen and berlin and it goes against a lot of the things that are important to me.
but we are in california now – and apparently, you can’t throw a decent party without making it invite-only and then restricting the list to young celebrities of the day and the industry types who want to socialize with them (or at least be near them). then there are the likes of myself (and a few others in our gang of friends), who find themselves populating the outskirts of this particular subculture.
the party was noisy and well attended. no complaints here. it almost felt european. there was dancing, there was music: pedro winter (busy p), whom i recognized from the copenhagen daze, worked the turntables. there was a lovely pool gleaming in the electric chill of the desert air, and most amusingly, the party took place in frank sinatra’s former home. amazing.
apparently, sia furler was among the 200 people loitering about – though i failed to see her, as i also didn’t see m.i.a. (though the dj played paper planes)… it was impossible to miss the shrill-voiced chloe sevigny (who evidently suffers from a staring problem) and the equally shrill behavior of the party’s host, jeremy scott, who pranced around in red spandex bicycle shorts, shirtless beneath a matching bathrobe, his gaunt cranium topped by a dark military squadron leader cap, while he launched himself onto white leather couches and glass coffee tables. thanks for throwing the party, jeremy, but it’s hard to think of you as a bad boy while you perform for the rest of us. jeremy scott wouldn’t just grab your attention, he’d kick at your ankles until you looked his way, making sure you get a good look at one of his emaciated legs perched suggestively on a table.
all for show, one presumes, and it’s just as well. one should not express ingratitude for the generosity of the host and his sponsors, adidas and belvedere vodka – which were in abundant supply. it was brought to my attention that some guy from fight of the concordes was milling about but i wouldn’t have recognized him or anyone else who was young and famous, even if i was sharing one of the many cocktails of the evening with them.
i did recognize anouck lepere, she of the hugo boss deep red campaign, the lean and tall fashion model with the remarkable cheekbones and equally noteworthy eyebrows. i think she changed her wardrobe three or four times during the three hours that i was at the party.
as the evening drew to a close, while waiting for the return shuttle bus, we did forward rolls on the grassy lawn beneath the cool night sky. i watched jane perform a triple roll that landed her in the gutter. she grabbed her shoulder and groaned. moments later we all got back on the bus.
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