LA Weekly

At last night's cool Filter party at the Corona Yacht Club, I ran into sculptor Christopher Janney, whose Sonic Forest installation will once again appear as part of Coachella's art offerings. Janney has been working for the past week to install his work at the Empire Polo Field, where the 2008 Coachella Valley Music and Arts festival began today. One of the perks of being on site early are the sound checks, and Janney told a funny story from yesterday. While on site, music was carrying across the valley, which is nothing unusual this week. This was some nice sounding funk, a little unexpected considering the festival's rock bent. And then the singer stepped in, and immediately Janney realized that Prince was in the house, here two days early to work out his show. Of course Janney made a beeline to see the sound check.

Christopher Janney's Sonic Forest

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By Randall Roberts
Top Songs (that aren’t trance or prog house) heard last night kicking out of
any of the hundreds of rolling sound systems (or someone’s mouth) roaming
the desert.

1. “Sara Smile,” Hall & Oates.
2. “Apache,” the Sugar Hill Gang.
3. “Fizheuer Zieheuer,” Ricardo Villalobos
4. “Funk #49,” James Gang.
5. “I Want You (She’s So Heavy),” the Beatles
6. “Sex Bomb,” Flipper.
7. “Kerosene,” Big Black. Screamed by some dude riding along the Esplanade.
“I was born in this town/Lived here my whole life!/Probably come to die in
this town!/Lived here my whole life!/Set me on fire, kerosene!”
8. “The Truth,” Handsome Boy Modeling School.
9. “Bitch,” Rolling Stones.
10. “Lose Yourself” (instrumental), Eminem.

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By Randall Roberts

He’s out there somewhere. I know it. He apparently comes every year. At least that’s what they tell me up in Seattle, where Bruce Pavitt, co-founder of Sub Pop Records, is some sort of minor legend. You know, Bruce Pavitt, the dude with the vision to uncover a few of the great rock bands of the 1990s: current or former home of Mudhoney, Nirvana, Sleater-Kinney, the Shins, Postal Service and the wonderfully odd new Jennifer Gentle record.

Photos by Charlie Evans More after the jump.

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By Randall Roberts

The Burning Man, which was prematurely torched by burner-assassin Paul Addis
on Tuesday morning, has returned. This morning at about 11:30, a crane
lifted what is now known as the Spawn of Burning Man into its rightful place
at the center of Black Rock City. The soundtrack to the celebratory moment,
courtesy of an art car with a crystal-clear, blaring sound system? Not as
expected, a crappy trance track, nor "76 Trombones," or "Anarchy in the UK."
Rather, much of the fifteen-minute moment was honored with a ritualist
playing of, yes, "Freebird," by Lynyrd Skynyrd. As the dualing guitars
soloed and wailed, at least a few happy campers sang along: "Lord, I can't
change."

Photos by Charlie Evans

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By Randall Roberts

If it's true, as many haggard hipsters have dismissively opined, that 'Nobody goes to Burning Man anymore,' then who the hell are all these people? The unofficial verdict among many regular burners is that this year is going to be huge, and although population estimates are notoriously inaccurate, last year's tally of 40,000 seems likely to be trumped.

Photos by Charlie Evans

Predicting turnout is a fool's game, but looking at the crowds both last night and Monday night, it's easy to see that there are a lot of damn people here already, more so than this time in 2006, which was enormous. Black Rock City is more built out on a Tuesday night -- more flashing lights, more structures, more unsolicited hoots and hollers, more bike thieves (fuckers snagged mine!) -- than it was on a Thursday in 2006. And on the sound systems strapped to art cars, trucks and buses, they're listening to the Stooges (Funhouse at 3 a.m. real loud will rock your world), Tracy Chapman (no shit, "Fast Cars" cranked to eleven) and Pharoah Sanders' massive "The Creator Has a Master Plan." Each song seems to ring true on some metaphoric level, seems to snap into place the moment you hear it (if you're really high, even "Fast Cars")."Wild in the Country," by Bow Wow Wow, "Your Own Private Idaho" by the B-52's. And always, of course, a lot of bullshit, lowest-common-denominator trance and progressive house. At night, the throngs race the city looking for adventure, which is everywhere.

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News Flash from the Playa: The Man Upstaged the Moon
By Judith Lewis

Here's the news. While the full eclipsed moon still floated above the Playa like a smooth orange balloon, the man went up in flames.

In case you haven't been here, this typically happens on Saturday, at the end of the event. Not Monday at 3:00 a.m.

First reports said the neon on the man had shorted out after they turned him off and then back on again in honor of the eclipse (I didn't notice this; I was immersed in the spetacular sky.) Most more reliable reports now say it's arson; two rangers I spoke with told me that at least one person is in custody. Several witnesses apparently saw at least one person climb the structure supporting the Man and set off fireworks. (Some people have also said he hurt himself.)

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photo by Charlie Evans

The ring of the bell is the first thing you hear once in range of the Burning Man Festival in bumfuck Nevada. Two of them, the size of logs, hang from poles at the front gate. The cars, RVs, trucks and buses crawl along the highway toward the entrance like ants to a watermelon. As you roll onto the dry lake bed on which the annual festival is held, the clangs get louder and louder. Finally, an arrival, and the source of the sound reveals itself: A sprite little angel giggles then strikes a bell. She's a virgin, so she must strike the bell. Then a shirtless dude with washboard abs swings like it's a pinata. He's a virgin, too.

The gatekeepers pound on the door and quiz the carloads: “Any virgins inside?” -- virgins being newbies to the festival, which last year drew nearly 40,000 wandering souls from all over the world. Last year a man dressed as a Victorian aristocrat handed me the hammer, instructed me in a very refined British accent to strike it as hard as I fucking could. Last year, I was new blood, and for a brief moment the whole of Black Rock City (the town that is Burning Man) knew that some new blood has arrived, new blood to perhaps carry the torch, new blood to perhaps ruin this for the rest of us, but new blood nonetheless. The gentleman ordered me to lay down in the playa dust and roll around. Then he spanked me.

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