Live From Coachella

In this era of easy-access internet downloads, we often miss out on the powerful experience of music being performed live: the crowds, the cacophony, the rhythm of energy passing back and forth between audience and artist.  Major music festivals feature diverse artist line-ups and bring together music lovers from all cultural backgrounds. The previous generation had Woodstock; and, thankfully, we have Coachella. If you missed out on this year’s Palm Desert experience, then you won’t want to miss this firsthand account of how it all went it down.

My Beautiful Dark Twisted Coachella

By John Nathan


Photo Credit: Brian Chamberlayne

 

A gust of wind whipped across my face as Kanye West announced, “This is the last song of the night.” I choked out a sigh of relief. Thank you, God. For three days, I had forsaken my limbs as sacrifices on the altar of live music. My feet ached. My shoulders throbbed. My voice was coarse from overuse. I was beyond going through the motions.

Kanye closed his eyes, clung to his microphone, and sputtered out lyrics in heartfelt tribute to his deceased mother. His voice cracked – betraying what might’ve been his belief that she could actually hear him. I winced with him as the pain of three music-filled days and nights reverberated through my legs. This was the way that both he and I closed out the Coachella Music Festival — with a whimper.

Photo Credit: Brian Chamberlayne

Photo Credit: Brian Chamberlayne

 

Just two days earlier, I’d stepped onto the repurposed polo fields in the middle of the desert – surefooted and invincible. This was my first Coachella. Nothing could unnerve me. I strolled past an overdose/heat-exhaustion casualty strewn out in a patch of shade without even breaking my stride. Sure, the desert sand blew up into my nostrils, and the sun beat down on me like it had something to prove, but the music took precedence.

It felt as though the stakes were raised each time an artist took the stage. The atmosphere had an air of exuberance, but also a tinge of finality. “This must’ve been what Woodstock was like,” I wondered to myself as I watched the droves of shirtless hippies and music lovers stroll from tent to tent.

The underwhelming food (reminiscent of a low end farmers’ market), ubiquitous drug use, and seemingly endless crowds only reinforced the Woodstock comparison in my mind. This was the type of event I’d be telling my children about.

Photo Credit: Brian Chamberlayne

Photo Credit: Brian Chamberlayne

 

The performances, as a whole, lived up to the hype. The entire weekend seemed like one prolonged highlight reel. Indie rockers Arcade Fire rained orb-like balloons across a grateful audience of thousands in an “okay, I can die now” performance. Lauryn Hill, with the power and conviction of a Baptist choir conductor, shamed those of us who had actually forgotten the depth of her beautiful and soul-clutching sound. Internet sensations Odd Future (or OFWGKTA) let loose an explosion of crude lyrics, raw energy, and human cannonballs into the crowd in a performance that was topped off by a guest appearance by Pharrell.

There were some outliers, as well, of course. Animal Collective’s set seemed like a brainwashing torture device from a dystopian future; and Cee-Lo couldn’t overcome tardiness and technical difficulties to put together a noteworthy showing. The disappointments, however, were far outweighed by the unexpected triumphs of lesser known artists like The Drums, Twin Shadow, and Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears.

Photo Credit: Brian Chamberlayne

Photo Credit: Brian Chamberlayne

 

Coachella had its share of memorable moments that reached beyond the stage, as well. There was the guy who did a line of blow off of the backside of his hand during a surprisingly beloved performance by the folk band Mumford and Sons. There was the girl who refused to stand during The Strokes set despite the imminent threat of being trampled. There was the extended applause for a gracious Erykah Badu whose sound had gone dead – prematurely ending her impassioned performance.

Photo Credit: Brian Chamberlayne

Photo Credit: Brian Chamberlayne

 

As the festival drifted on, I ran myself ragged trying to catch as many acts as my weary body would permit. Eventually, as I stood amongst a crowd of survivors, worn and beaten, watching Kanye West cry out to his dead mother, I stopped. I didn’t raise my hands to celebrate, or recite the lyrics to show my support. I just watched. It’s not that the magic from the previous three days had “expired” during Kanye’s set so much as it had rested – having already fulfilled its promise. The crowd was simply spent: some from drug use, some from self-sacrificing devotion, and some from finally witnessing the zenith of their energetic youth. We were all ready for a long nap. We needed to go home. Besides, we had to start resting up for next year.

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