Sweatin' to the Oldies
A perspirer’s guide to Coachella (see other Coachella Sound Features for more information)
This morning, when I was minding my own business on one of our perilous freeways, a Mad Max character swerved out from behind a van to overtake me. He was dressed all in black leather, wearing a mask/helmet thingy with big-ass horns on it. Horns! At nine in the morning! In the carpool lane. Who dresses like this before lunchtime? Then I remembered Maynard from Tool.
Two years ago at Coachella, sweaty-ass Coachella, I sat minding my business (again!) watching the Hasidic Jew rapper guy who was all the rage that year when Maynard and his entourage showed up. This would have been spectacle enough – Maynard and Co. passing a joint, which they did not offer to share even though I was sitting uncomfortably close to Tool and the gang – but on top of that, they were clad in tribal-looking leather getups in the 197-degree heat.
Maynard was so moved by the Hebrew hip-hop in front of us that he got up and shook his ass for awhile while smoking said joint. Suddenly, this big mannish looking broad came walking by with a delicious beer in hand, looking for a spot.
She sat, just as you expected, in place. Maynard, though, apparently, is a helpless little baby doe and doesn’t know how to take care of himself. He stood there completely bewildered, looking at his friends who were wrapped up having deep conversations about the meaning of life or where to find the latest latex face masks. He looked at me, sending silent – telepathic – S.O.S. signals. He kept standing there in shock, joint in hand, unnerved.
So I leaned forward, tapped the burly woman on the shoulder and politely got rid of her. It could have gotten ugly. She could have easily taken out me and Maynard with one crash of her meaty fist. But she didn’t, and Maynard didn’t even thank me, and that is the last time I do anything for Maynard from Tool. Tool? Indeed.
The point? Is this: Don’t wear leather to Coachella, because then you will be preposterous. Try for a nice cotton blend, instead.
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Coachella is sweaty, and comfort is key. That’s what you get for going to a rock festival in the desert. Ask any survivor about the experience, and they won’t immediately recount the time Madonna played in 2006 and incorporated
Pilates into her choreography, or when Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips 818
pulled that whole boy-in-the-bubble thing in 2004. It will be about the saturation level and the cake of dirt in every orifice.
How can you make the best of it Friday when you head to Indio’s Empire Polo Field for the big rock/hip-hop/electronica/hippy-dippy music extravaganza? With a little forward-thinking: sunscreen, hand sanitizer, baby wipes, sunglasses, a hat, mints, maybe even a toothbrush (those little travel ones they have at the grocery checkout stands work well), hand lotion, a small beach towel, disposable camera, cell phone, lots of cash and – this is crucial – antiperspirant.
Now you are ready, and can take the free Amtrak Thursday from Union Station (reservations at Coachella.com) to the only concert you need attend all year. When you arrive, all you will need to think about is what band to see next, which beer line is shortest, whether or not to go for the healthy raw food or the Spicy Pie pizza, and why one of your armpits is sweatier than the other. You will spend your entire paycheck on beer and never get drunk because you will perspire so much that midgets could get drunk off your armpits. At Coachella, your pits will become the focus of your day. This is when the wipes and antiperspirant come in handy (see above).
You will talk to lots of people from all over the world, just like how when you’re at Disneyland you strike up conversations with people from Montana and Berlin who came all the way to Anaheim to catch a glimpse of Mickey Mouse, except in the Coachella version they’re rubbing elbows with Scarlett Johansson, Perry Farrell and Danny DeVito, and people are not nearly as fat.
And don’t wear leather boots. (What did I just tell you about leather?) The only person who gets to wear boots at Coachella is Prince, and he needs them to reach the microphone.
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And that’s what it’s all about, really: motherfucking Prince.
Oh, and the rest of the music, man. Unfortunately, you will only get to see about half the bands you have been dreaming of for the last couple of months. Billy, don’t be a hero.
Relax. Take it in stride. If you see Fatboy Slim Friday night, but you miss Tegan and Sara, c’est la vie. If Les Savy Fav is playing but you’re at the DJ tent a mile away, hunker down with a lemonade slushie or some vegan enchiladas and wait for Aesop Rock.
But if you really want to plan it out, you can’t really do that until you get there anyway. When you walk through the gates of the happiest place in the desert, you will get a map and schedule, which will become your lifeline.
Then it’s time to get a game plan everyone can agree on. Friday, Datarock and Black Lips kick off the day. You’ll want to get there by 1 p.m. to see that. Then there’s Vampire Weekend, the band that will probably be headlining next year, so see them now. Go retro with Redd Kross, then hit up Spank Rock if you can. They’re funny as hell and will help lift your spirits just as you’re at the Fuck This! point and considering going home or sticking your head in the drinking fountain. In fact, go ahead and take a dip. You’ll be dry in 19 seconds. Then fashion your hair into a beehive and go for some doo-wop soul with Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings.
Things get pretty tight from there on. The headliners are the National (they are birthday candles and the wine is all for them, they say), Goldfrapp (ethereal disco Brit), Serj Tankian (if you’re into that type of thing), Tegan and Sara, Aphex Twin, the Breeders (fun fact: Two of those last three bands have actual twins in them, but not the one with the word “twin” in it), the Raconteurs, the Verve (Yes, the Verve!) and Jack Johnson. One of these things is not like the others, and we think Jack Johnson knows who that is.
If you have not ended up in the ER with heat exhaustion and a weird rash, and you’re still up for Saturday, this is the day to do some stretches before heading out of the house. Start with the Bird and the Bee — Inara George’s bossa nova pop will get you chipper and feeling like you can tackle the day. Head over to see Minus the Bear, and if you’re feeling like revving your engine, see any of the DJ acts, perhaps Orgasmic and/or Erol Alkan (the latter did the remix of that Elvis song a few years ago, and he also owned the London club Trash).
Then it’s time to rock. Check out MGMT, VHS or Beta, the Teenagers (horny French guys!), Does it Offend You, Yeah? (not a question, a band name), Islands, Mark Ronson (producer extraordinaire), Flogging Molly (awesome accordion!), Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks (must-see), Kate Nash (she likes your mates because they are much fittah!), Cold War Kids, Hot Chip, M.I.A., Dwight Yoakam (Yes, Dwight Yoakam!), Rilo Kiley, Sasha & John Digweed, Café Tacvba, Death Cab for Cutie (their new album drops in May), Kraftwerk (you don’t know where you are if you don’t know where you’ve been), Portishead and — PRINCE!
Fucking Prince motherfuckers! Yeah, woooh, OMG, LOL, run in place and throw your hands in the air freaking the fuck out Prince! This is when everybody will lose their collective minds. Anyone who is not watching Prince should have his or her pass taken away and thrown in the port-a-potties.
If you are a sadist and still up for day three, take it easy. Maybe show up a little late. Get some breakfast, drink some kombucha tea. Then drag your ass to see the Plasticines. Then rawk out with your cock out to Vancouver’s rock collective Black Mountain. Slow it down and breathe with Sia and her little sandals. Check out Sons & Daughters, the Cool Kids, Stars, Autolux, Metric, Gogol Bordello, Justice (French dance kings), Spiritualized, Kentucky boys My Morning Jacket and Love and Rockets.
If you have not hit a wall and have some energy left, then you’re awesome. Stay to the end to see former Pink Floyd frontman Roger Waters. If you’re seeing floating pigs, it will be hard to tell whether you’re hallucinating or not. You are. And know what? Those pigs are sweaty too.
Published: 04/23/2008
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