
When it comes to adventures in music, you can do a lot worse than Coachella - a kaleidoscope of bands and fans spanning all manner of genres and scenes. Rhapsody sent its rock editor, Justin Farrar, out to the desert to get his take on the whole big mess. Dig his wrap-ups in this space over the next three days.
Though I don't step foot on the festival grounds -- an obscenely picturesque nexus of severe desert landscape and artificially verdant oasis -- until early Friday afternoon, my Coachella 2011 experience commences the evening prior, over 2,000 miles due east. To be specific: gate B27, in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport.
While waiting for a direct flight to Ontario International Airport, the closet hub to the festival, about 5 hours west, I overhear the C-word over a half a dozen times. The plane, as it turns out, is littered with college kids and young folk all gearing up for a killer weekend of music, sun, fun and sundry activities too risqué to itemize here. I end up sitting next to two Coachella kids: Raj, a student at Georgia Tech studying aerospace engineering, and a girl sporting a
Jason Mraz straw fedora, whose name now escapes me, sadly. We don’t talk much; everybody rocks little white ear buds for the most part. But near flight's end the ice is broken, and we rap about whom we want to see perform, how many times they’ve gone to Coachella (several) and what's the best approach to lodging, hotel or camping. When asked whom she is excited to catch the young lady replies like a true teenie bopper, “Um,
The Strokes and
Arcade Fire and
um
I can’t think of anybody else right now.” Raj, who is from The OC (his three-day pass was a birthday gift from mom and dad), answers without hesitation: English indie-folkies
Mumford & Sons and German electro-dude
Boys Noize, whose 2008 mix Bugged Out! Presents Suck My Deck serves as his soundtrack while studying for a test on Monday (Raj will hop on the red eye back to The ATL Sunday night).
The sense of pilgrimage I feel during the flight carries over to the drive into the California desert. Already, Interstate 10 is packed with cars rocketing toward the festival, making their way past giant wind turbines and an absurd number of identical Stevie Nicks billboards promoting her upcoming appearance at the nearby Fantasy Springs Resort Casino in Indio. Some of these cars contain four, even five, bobbing heads; others are tattooed in raw neon graffiti: "The Strokes Rock," "Carpoolchella" and my personal favorite, "Indie Rock Rocks!"
On to the festival, boys and girls