...And on the Seventh Day God Created Coachella
1. Kanye West enjoys A-Ha's "Take On Me" and can pull off a mean Molly Ringwald two-step.
2. Sigur Ros is a moody Icelandic band that will never be found on my iPod.
4. The Del Taco outside Palm Springs has shitty 24-hour drive-thru service.
5. The lead singer of Franz Ferdinand can channel Jim Morrison very nicely.
6. Depeche Mode is genuinely awesome, and Dave Gahan rules.
7. After six straight hours of standing in a pit of sweat, shoving, and secondhand bong smoke, a beef gyro with teriyaki sauce and a cold bottle of Pepsi at 11:30pm is heaven on Earth.
Somewhere, miles past Palm Springs, there's a place called Indio where tens of thousands of alternative music fans from across the Southwest gather on a vast desert field for the annual 2-day festival known as Coachella, a 21st-century Woodstock (only more corporate-driven and wi-fi-friendly).
The line for parking extended onto the highway. All walks of life were gathering for the musical buffet that was lined up for the day. The sun finally broke through the haze. The heat was rising.
Next door was the Internet tent where I cooled off with a quick e-trip to MySpace to let my 400 friends know where I was. Everyone and their high-as-a-kite cousin did the same.
Next stop was the Coachella Stage to catch a few acts leading up to the headliners. Common went on shortly after 4pm. I think the sun burned my eyelids off at that point.
Sigur Ros was the band from Iceland. I didn't get them. At all. Singing in moody gibberish, I asked myself, "Am I really listening to this?" According to Ms. Jennifer Carno and my bosses at work, they are "fucking amazing." Apparently one needs to appreciate them in a smaller, more intimate venue.
Depeche Mode arrived at nine. A large silver orb occupied one corner of the stage, flashing the words "pain," "love," "peace," and "suffer." A marquee scrolled out a "Hello" to the fans. By now I was a sardine squished beyond belief, my arms pinned to my sides, body odor enveloping my private space. I knew I couldn't take any more. Dave Gahan and Co. finished their third song when I "peaced out" to Karim, hopped over the barrier with a little help from a security dude, and made my way through what seemed like a thousand sweaty strangers, Depeche drones deep in a trance.
I collected my wits, breathed in some fresh air, and devoured a beef gyro on the way back to the giant Sahara tent where Daft Punk was prepping for their closing show.
A sizable crowd had already gathered. The chanting began. "DAFT PUNK! DAFT PUNK!" Suddenly, the synthesized notes used by the aliens in Close Encounters of the Third Kind announced the arrival of our otherworldly entertainers. The curtain opened. Two robotic spacemen wearing metallic helmets stood at the top of a neon pyramid. The roar from the crowd was deafening. The French DJs, whose identities still remain unknown, boomed into their set with "Technologic" surrounded by a grid of glowing triangles. A wall of lights flashed behind them. It was a performance -- and experience -- for the music history books (and countless MySpace bulletins).
I bounced along as I watched couples of all orientations move together in unison, as if they were all connected. And they were. It was one of those magical moments that simply connotes unity and love. I met a couple from Mexico who shared a portion of the barricade I used to stand above the crowd. They were just happy to be there.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXXTk9UpyXLRjdkDeUau_yvRoWpVarA7imk0j1EtVcJgOz1E1YvrmdaMro22cH-etHZ1lysDX9jKU_8FRNkBtnv5NuGTyKgtevzxjjFGY-BcByGIIRDsjlhrUQOnNDfuJYlar/s320/CoachellaLights.jpg)
I wonder if Daft Punk had an actual spaceship parked nearby.
Ready for M:I III,
H.P.M.
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