Coachella Day 2: It was hot but remember how stunning?

The waves of radiating heat by midday arrival at Coachella on Saturday felt the most heady of the three days, but perhaps it was just the swell in the crowd numbers in anticipation of The wee sexy Artist. More people = more body heat. Although I was excited about so many acts that day, the gild was off the lily-fresh novelty of Friday and I kept finding myself jammed into overpacked tents with too many hip dudes in neon sweating on me. This was the day I wanted to spend the most time in the Do Lab so that guy above could spray me with his cooling mists of the gods, in time to the pulsating electronic music. In that crowd, you cease feeling hot, and just feel blissful.

I started my rounds over in tent village wandering from French synthpop band The Teenagers over to the Gobi Tent for the music of Mick Jones’ (the Clash) side project with Tony James of Generation X, Carbon/Silicon. Their sound is true to those (slightly idling) punk guitar jags and the cockney drawl, but my friend kept shaking his head in dismay at Mick’s pink button down dress shirt. “Joe Strummer would’ve beaten him up for that shit,” he muttered under his breath. Ah, but we all age. Not all still sound as good as these guys did; it was an enjoyable afternoon set.

Denver’s “indie rock with a circus-polka-cabaret-Eastern-European spin” Devotchka was next, and not only were they all dressed up like a symphony in their (surely godawful hot) dress blacks, they brought acrobats and tubas.

I love how you can see the whole stage and the crowd reflected in Jeanie Schroder’s tuba, and who doesn’t want flailing spandex-clad women swinging from large scarves in time to their live music?

After a few songs from Cold War Kids, I got right in the middle of the main stage crowd for an exhilarating Spanish language bonanza with Mexico City’s Café Tacuba. Hot damn, that was one of the most fun sets of the entire festival for me. I had no idea what was going on. There were Mexican wrestler masks, flags being waved, everybody and their nephew singing along en español at the very top of their lungs — and I loved every minute of it. Once when I was studying abroad I went to an Italian pop/rap concert by Jovanotti and this was not a dissimilar experience. It’s great to feel out of place at a concert and yet completely, totally in place because you can share that kind of passion. Please go see Café Tacuba if you get a chance. The force of the energy exploding from the tiny man on stage felt like it looked:

After Dwight Yoakam (Dwight Yoakam!) and his hillbilly muuuusic –which seemed to go over quite well, as a testament to the variety of this festival– I headed over to get trampled at Hot Chip. The photo pit was as packed as the tent, spilling out into the open air, all of us sweating, weeping for a good shot of the band, and trying to deny that the rhythm of Hot Chip was indeed, in the end, going to get us. Those beats were just as delicious and tightly-woven as I had expected and the crowds were out in full force to be a part of that.

P.S. – You need proper athletic wear to survive Hot Chip (below). I also saw 5 grown men dressed only in matching Speedos and hip packs and it made me die a little inside.

If I thought I was trampled at Hot Chip though, my goodness it was just preparation for M.I.A. I found it interesting that the two most buzzed and frenetically attended sets of the whole festival that I saw were out in the Sahara Tent (bet it woulda been three if I made it to Justice). Traditionally, I understand that’s been the dance/DJ tent but it seems to me that maybe genres are bending and next year the organizers shouldn’t assume that the dance kids will all fit inside it. Under the stars at the outdoor stage would have been so much better. But nonetheless, M.I.A. was stomping and bright, a dizzying set causing complete crowd chaos from this Sri Lankan wundergirl.

In between Hot Chip and M.I.A. I swooned a little over Jenny Lewis, who charmingly dug out the same outfit she must have worn for her tap dance recital in 1988, and whose fellow Rilo Kileyans sounded warm and perfect in the setting sun:

Golden confetti during The Moneymaker as the sky darkened….

Portishead was alternately mournful and sexy and numbing and thrilling all at once. Under the starry desert sky Beth Gibbons’ voice floated like a ghost weaving in and out of the trance.

Also worth noting that Portishead’s set possessed the magical ability to completely jam the cell phone text messaging network, leaving thousands of us stranded, wandering with a dazed look in our eyes as we sought our friends. It was a near tragedy of Herculean proportions. You just don’t DO that to techno-addicted younguns. How did I survive festivals before texting? It was brutal.

Finally – Prince! You do not take pictures of The Artist. You take pictures of the screen showing the artist. Only Prince’s “personal photographers” were allowed in to the photo pit, much to mine and everyone else’s chagrin. I wanted to see how tiny he was from 15 feet away. But it was okay because his essence radiated all the way back to where I ended up on the field and I felt the heat, baby. One only needs to watch him play guitar like he’s in The Throes of It All to see why women flock to him (not this one, but some women. So I hear).

He was moody and sensual, I never could figure out what he was going to do next, he changed clothes in the middle of his set and played an hour after noise curfew with little concern for silly rules. And really, who was going to tell him to stop? And he pretty much blew the standard for future headliners sky high. I am not a huge Prince fan with the exception of a few undeniable favorites (Never Take The Place Of Your Man? P Control?) but this man was in charge. His cover of Radiohead’s Creep was one of those wtf moments where I looked around and said, “Wait, is he actually doing this?” – the ways he changed the lyrics eviscerated the song of a lot of its insecure meanings, and I didn’t care for that, but he made it his own. One thing Prince does not do is wish he were special.

As the final notes of Prince’s set vibrated off into the sexy oblivion where all of his performances are stored ad infinitum, one of my friends commented that people were going to be talking about that set for years. And indeed, everywhere I went I overheard conversations, starting with one at the table behind me when getting bagels the next morning.

“He kept changing what he called us!” Young Man With Visor #1 remarked. “Like, first it was [slight falsetto] ‘Hello Co-ah-chella!” then he switched and was all, “Y’all are the coolest, Cuh-chella. Unh!” When he achingly closed the sentence with that perfect Prince “unh,” I almost spit out my coffee trying not to laugh because then they would’ve known I was eavesdropping. Their conversation then veered into hypothetical situations that amused me so much I had to get up and leave: “So, if you had a nipple on your forehead, would you just wear a beanie all the time? Or a sweatband?”

On that thought-provoking note, we headed out into the ghostland observatory of Coachella on a sparsely populated Sunday . . .

Monday Music Roundup

“Won’t you wear . . . a sweater?”

We are requested by Mister McFeely to don a sweater of some sort this Thursday, in honor of what would have been Mister Rogers‘ 80th birthday. I think I’ll wear my green hoodie that I can zip up all the way, pause, and then zip it halfway back down. Man, I loved that (American kids) show when I was a tot. To this day, whenever I catch a rerun and he tells me that I am special, I believe him.

But seriously. Why was the postman on a childrens’ show named Mister McFeely?!

Tunes for the weekly grind:

Girls Like It Too
(new, live in Buenos Aires)
Jarvis Cocker
Jarv says that girls like it too, I only wish the audio here was a bit better so I could vouch for the girls in this equation. We’ll just have to take his word for it; he sounds like he would know. I like Jarvis because he always sounds a little smarmy, dramatic, and very Euro-metropolitan. This song also revives that fantastic stage whisper way he has of singing that makes you feel like he’s letting you in on a secret. Huge potential in this brand new song — it’s melodic with an arching, anthemic chorus — and the live rip isn’t half bad.

Snow in Berlin
Zookeeper
“Okay here we go,” warns the opening voice on this bright and effervescent tune from Austin, TX five-piece Zookeeper. The song melds horns with retro pop sensibilities, and feels like the anticipation in the sky the moment before the sun bursts out from behind the horizon. Another album art selection that falls under the conspiratorial hushed-whisper “I think they have problems” header, Becoming All Things is out now on Belle City Pop!. These guys played something like a dozen shows in Austin this last week, and hey! My beloved Dodge had them on his serious SIRIUS show back in December.

What She Turned Into
Retribution Gospel Choir
The purest, most enthusiastic music-blog stop in my regular rounds easily falls to the guys at Said The Gramophone (for example, on Sam Cooke). They recently posted up this track that I’d never heard a thing about, featuring Red House Painter/Sun Kil Mooner Mark Kozelek producing music by Alan Sparhawk of Low, Matt Livingston and Eric Pollard. According to StG, “That means that [Kozelek] strode into the recording booth and turned the amps up. He turned them right up. He slapped Sparhawk across the face, tore Livingston’s shirt and punched a hole in Pollard’s tom. He glowered at them. Then he went back to the mixing desk and set the thing on fire. “Play,” he said over the crackles. “Play me a pop song.” It was going to rain that night, hard.” I mean COME ON. Yes. Listen, and it is exactly so. Retribution Gospel Choir has a full-length album out tomorrow on Kozelek’s Caldo Verde label.

Silence
Portishead
And so the first new Portishead album in 11 years begins with a crackly, mysterious transmission in what I think might be urgent Portguese, kind of like the french woman in Lost. The song crests, thrumming and unrelenting, mysterious and sexy. In short, all the things you’d hope for from these Bristol trip-hop pioneers. But what you didn’t expect was that they’d make you feel like a spy in the cold sleek streets of Berlin, rather than a beautiful blissed-out clubgoer. Third is out April 28, and Portishead is another fine band that’s gonna be at Coachella.

Young Folks (Peter, Bjorn and John cover)
The Kooks & Simon Wilcox
Resist it as you might (and I did try to resist initially), the whistling from the original version of this song was the catchiest thing on the radio in 2007. Sometimes I’ll be walking down the street on an especially sunny day and I want to whistle something; this does nicely (that or the Andy Griffith theme). Therefore when The Kooks covered this song with lovely Canadian gal Simon Wilcox and cut the pursed-lip magic, something else got lost in the transaction. It is still catchy and adds that cute brogue. From a recent free NME disc, the Kooks say “We tried to make it more of a rock’n'roll song, throwing a bit of Motown and doo-wop into the mix.” See what you think.

And hey, happy St. Paddy’s! Me and Sir Jameson plan to do a wee bit o’ celebrating.