Toto, I've a feeling we're not in England anymore… True, if not for the blistering sunshine, the palm trees, the multitude of attractive, scantily-clad Californians and the mountains that seemed to encircle the Empire Polo fields, Coachella could have easily passed itself as an British festival (there were enough UK accents about the campsite, for a start), but it was certainly a novelty to attend an event where Factor 50 sunscreen was a far more essential amenity than wellies.
Musically, this year lacked the killer line-ups of years past, but there was still more than enough to keep even the most bitter cynic entertained, and I rather enjoyed the opportunity to check acts outside my normal indie-schmindie comfort zone. Admittedly, it didn’t start off too well- I only caught one and a half songs from the intriguing Dear and the Headlights, Alberta Cross came across as deathly dull, and Gui Boratto bored the pants off me (disclaimer: not literally). Thankfully, The Hold Steady were around to save the day, with an wonderfully lively performance that was only slightly diminished by Craig Finn’s voice being shot to pieces. Things only got better when I obliviously wandered into the tent containing the Portuguese-Angolan electronica/grime artists Buraka Som Sistema, who easily became the most talked-about bands of the whole festival. One of the most danceable, fun acts I’ve ever seen, I’ve honestly never witnessed a crowd go so completely batshit insane at 4:30 in the afternoon. Franz Ferdinand were dependably solid but unspectacular, mainly focusing on material from the debut, and not even sickly, sentimental arrangements could rob the legendary Leonard Cohen’s subterranean croon of its near-mystical power, especially on the likes of ‘First We Take Manhattan’ and ‘Hallelujah‘. I then wandered over to the Sahara tent for mash-up master Girl Talk- good fun, although a rather pungent experience for all concerned- before heading to the Main Stage for Paul McCartney. 90 minutes of the insufferably smug Liverpudlian’s tiresome solo material sprinkled with the occasional classic was a bit of a trial it must be said, but then he played ‘Hey Jude’ and all was well with the world. Once I was “LAAAAA-LAAAA-LAAAAA-LA-LA-LA-LAAAAAA-d” out, I retreated back to the campsite thinking the show was over, not realising Macca would continue to play nothing but Beatles hits for a further 40 minutes. Bah.
Being one of my most anticipated acts of the weekend, I had high hopes for Cloud Cult- and they certainly didn’t disappoint. Their ambitious orchestral indie-pop transferred surprisingly well into a live setting, and it’s not often you get to watch a painting get composed live on stage. American-Australian post-punks Liars also put on an admirable performance- miles better than their underwhelming Koko performance last year. Dr. Dog’s jam-band sensibilities didn’t set the world alight, but Amanda Palmer almost did, with a gloriously OTT performance which encompassed both her solo material and her Dresden Dolls work (Coin-Operated Boy FTW!), not to mention a Muse cover. But it was her finale that made her set the single most memorable moment of this year’s Coachella- crowdsurfing to the far edge of the Gobi Tent to the strains of ‘Ride of The Valkyries,’ she then proceeded to play ‘Creep’ on a ukulele atop a random audience member’s shoulders whilst the whole audience sang along. Now, *that’s* showmanship!
TV On The Radio were great- the trumpet section really added a lot to the Dear Science material- but once again they were stopped from achieving true brilliance by a dodgy sound-mix; the same fate befell the below-par Fleet Foxes, whose vocal harmonising seemed to fall a little flat in an open-air environment. MIA wasn’t really my thing, but give the girl some credit- her wondrously in-your-face introduction (including a troupe of fluorescent dancers) was one of the visual highlights of the weekend, and encouraging a full-on stage invasion, despite being expressly told by the organisers not to required some cajones. After this, the roster became a little threadbare, so I wandered aimlessly about until Gang Gang Dance, whose otherwise excellent show was marred by the ridiculously high volume levels they needed to drown out Mastodon in the adjacent tent. Then back to the tent to mock the awfulness of the Killers, whose craptacular set insisted in wafting across to the camping site- oh woe indeed.
Sunday was definitely the most musically productive day of the three. It was also by far the hottest. The Vivian Girls’ aloof manner and Pipettes-gone-punk schtick got old very quickly so I ditched them in favour of charismatic hip-hop duo Themselves- although I didn’t twig this at the time, the offbeat frontman was none other than Doseone from Anticon stalwarts cLOUDDeAD. The Night Marchers’ straight-down, no-nonsense rock ‘n roll was a real treat, and Okkervil River were excellent as always, although once again they took frustratingly long to get into their stride. By the time Lykke Li sauntered onto stage, the 38C heat started getting the better of me- I only caught around ten minutes of her jaunty Scandinavian pop before making a tactical retreat into the shade. En route, I saw resident fat Goth Robert Smith (sans make-up) being accosted by similarly plump teenagers- he looked a little bemused. Once I’d recovered from being slowly roasted alive, I ventured out to see
Peter, Bjorn and John, who tried to make up for their paucity of quality material with a succession of cameos, including a charismatic guest spot from Robyn, and Lykke Li on vocal duties for ‘Young Folks.‘ They were only partially successful; once their big hit was played, I (and much of the audience) swiftly departed for Anthony and The Johnsons pleasant if slightly inconsequential set over at the Outdoor Theatre. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs' performance was competent, although it never really sparked to life- it seems sobriety has sadly curtailed Karen O’s craziness, and they passed without leaving any real impression- a charge that certainly cannot be levelled at MY BLOODY VALENTINE. Although I swore I’d stay much further back from the speakers than I did at the Roundhouse, I actually ended up even closer- and I don’t regret it one bit. Yes, they were just as earth-sunderingly loud as last time, but this time round they were blessed an absolutely perfect mix- not only could you perceive the vocals (!), you could actually hear the end of You Made Me Realise after the 20-minute interlude of ceaseless, eardrum-obliterating noise. The light show was also much more immersive than in June, and the video screens meant you could fully witness quite how disconcertingly mumsy Bilinda Butcher looks. Absolutely fucking brilliant- I can’t wait to see them again at Primavera.
Of course, everything after that was a bit of an anti-climax. I dabbled with The Cure and Public Enemy, but neither really grabbed me. I caught the tail end of an energetic set by the Kills before checking out the delightfully named Throbbing Gristle who were…interesting…to say the least- it seemed strangely fitting that ultra-poncey film director Vincent Gallo was standing in front of me, trying to score some drugs. And finally, I mosied over to check out much-hyped Parisien Etienne De Crecy- his music was run-of-the-mill sub-Justice dance bollocks but he had a giant HYPNOCUBE which was full of win, so that was OK.
All things considered, a pretty excellent festival, albeit slightly too hot for my sensitive tastes. MBV aside, there weren’t any epoch-defining sets and the quality perhaps wavered at times but the site’s nicely compact, the sound was great and there was a giant mechanical hand one could control and smash cars with, which automatically makes it 50000000x better than the likes of V.
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