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World of Wonder's fantabulous internet show Ring My Bell (in which local iconoclasts answer anything and everything via your phone calls) is giving speed dials around the county a workout today as Party Monster author and Club Kid icon James St. James takes over the lines for 24 hours straight to help spread the word about his latest tome Freak Show.
Try giving him a call at 323/603-6312, but prepare to keep dialing, we still havent gotten through! At least you can listen to the stimulating convo here.
COMMENT:
AUTHOR: Tanya
EMAIL: passidore@gmail.com
URL:
DATE: 07/06/2007 09:07:34 PM
Please have Broaddaylight on you show!! broaddaylight.cc
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So Paul McCartney is playing Amoeba TOMORROW, and despite my connections, I'm not gonna be able to see him. My pal who works there actually sent out an email yesterday to head off the inevitable flurry of requests. She said it's a circus down there and that people were camping out as of Monday night and she had no pull on this one so don't even ask. Oh well. I've seen some pretty crowded shows there and you can't see anything above the CD racks anyway! Love The Beatles but not enough to camp out in hopes of hearing a classic or two. (Sir P is sure to play mostly from his new CD right?)
Now Prince is another story. In case ya havent heard, the purple one is playing seven exclusive dates at the Roosevelt Hotel.
Dubbed the 3121 sessions, the Artist will debut new music including "Guitar," the first single off unreleased album, "Planet Earth." And you know there's always some corporate tie-in right? 3121 guests can download "Guitar" right at the venue for free courtesy of Verizon Wireless' V CAST Song ID program.
Anyway, VIP packages, including dinner at the Dakota (tax, alcohol, and gratuity excluded), will be limited to 130 seats, sold in pairs (65) for $3121.00. An additional 70, standing room only tickets will be made available for $312.10 each.
He already played last weekend, he's got two more shows this weekend and the rest of the dates are TBA. We're seriously gonna "Get Crazy" if we don't work it into one of those gigs! We'll keep you posted.
As for P-Hil, yeah she's outta jail. She's changing her life, her image, blah, blah, blah. She'll gab all about it on Larry King tomorrow night, looking gorgeously groomed (today's TV "news" reported she's already gotten a facial and new hair extentions! And no, I have no idea what's going in Iraq today). I'll probably watch it and I'll hate myself for it.
But ya know what I'll hate even more? If I see paparazzi photos of the reformed party gal at one of my Prince's shows! Then I'll really get nuts.
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Today is your absolute last chance to score some deals on cool wax and CDs at Echo Park's Sea Level Records, which is letting stuff go ridiculously cheap before it closes its doors for good tonight.
While Tower Records on Sunset enjoyed new life (if only for a night) as Icky Thump Records courtesy of the White Stripes last week, the real Indie crowd bid adieu to the the much smaller record store last Friday night at Safari Sams, which was by all accounts a sad affair, though we hear sets by The Switch and Division Day helped brighten the buh-byes.
We're just waiting to see what SL's Todd & Sylvia will do next. After their DJ sets on Little Radio last week, we think a show on the station would do swimmingly.
By the way, LR's "Summer Camp" BBQ's are in full swing again, though they are no longer free since some jackasses stole stuff from the warehouse a couple weeks ago. But 10 bucks is totally worth it for blow-up pool fun, free drinks and bands like Burning Brides (who played this past Sunday) and The Raveonettes doncha think?
Check out these slip n' slide pics we took there last summer.
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"Are you writing?" asks my mother.
"Are you drawing?" asks Joe.
I'm a little preoccupied with not dying, but thanks for monitoring my (total lack of) creative output.
No one asks "What are you working on?" in Santa Fe. Everyone's too busy laying adobe or inlaying silver to care.
Between acupuncture, four-hour shamanic healing sessions, long nights spent getting to know the toilet (cradling, embracing, teetering over, squatting atop, kneeling in front of, and racing to get to), and days at a time in bed, I've slipped out and sniffed around a bit. A few observations:
1. New Mexicans are directionally challenged and addresses are a highly guarded secret. Ask anyone how to get to Place X and they'll give you a rambling monologue wholly devoid of street names or accuracy, instead urging you to "go left at the Sonic – or is it right? Well, it sort of loops around and then look for a blue pickup truck next to a tumble weed and turn there."
2. There exists here a phenomenon known as "weather. " The vast expanse of sky is like an ever-changing abstract installation worthy of wonder and lengthy stints spent watching and appreciating. When those clouds move and morph, it generally portends a change in atmospheric conditions which manifests in sudden downpours, hail, thunderstorms, lightning, tornadoes.
Global warming is very exciting here in the Southwest.
3. Ten Thousand Waves sucks. I know it tops all those "Things to Do in Santa Fe" lists, but trust me, as far as spas go, it's overrated. The setting is lush and pristine and breathtaking, high up in the Santa Fe Ski Summit. It's set-up like a Japanese spa with private baths and communal baths and treatment rooms and whatnot, and overrun with uptight tourists, saggy and bloated, tittering nervously in (and out of) stiff standard issue kimonos, waiting for massages and body wraps, testing out the murky waters, all nervous and twitchy around the exposed genitals (Did I mention it's clothing optional?) and the lightning (Did I mention I visited during a hail storm?).
I got a half-hearted massage from a big, beefy dyke who claimed to "love working on the neck," and then spent the next fifty-five minutes avoiding mine. I called in my complaint a day later and was rewarded with a fluffy robe and an eighty-five minute "Masters Massage," that proved delightful, in spite of the spa's stilted vibe and total lack of flow.
4. The Whole Foods has little in the way of organic produce, but boasts a bitchin' bin food section. It's much harder to steal from New Mexican Whole Foods than the ones back home - security, and all.
Score one for L.A.
5. The sweetest spot I've found is a little cabin up in Trout Springs where red-tailed hawks soar over lush, oak-dotted hills, fat snakes sun themselves on the windy road that takes you there, and a rocky, rushing river lulls you (as in me) into the sweetest sleep you've had in years. Rhonda the set dresser invited me up to her family's compound where I spent two days lolling beneath a fat shade tree, watching birds, slapping at horseflies and experiencing something like serenity, with some itchy sprinkled on top.
I enjoyed it so much that I'm heading back up there today, provided I can find the jagged wooden fence next to the yellow bush that indicates a turn of sorts.
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It dawns on me this groggy, windy morning that Santa Fe Time (SFT) is one hour ahead of Los Angeles Time (LAT). I rationalize a lazy day to acclimate to the time difference and adjust to the altitude, which manifests mostly in my nostrils.
I soak up some rays by the pool, taking advantage of Santa Fe's intact Ozone layer. The Vitamin D goes to my head and, for a moment, I relax…until, four teenagers come cannonballing into the pool. I flee the scene while hoping they drown. Back in the hotel room, I rearrange the furniture. I unpack. I make dinner for my boyfriend, hide it, and craft an elaborate scavenger hunt which will ultimately lead him to his food.
I am well-rewarded for my efforts.
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I plow through a sleepy night drive from Sedona to Santa Fe. Twenty minutes into the six and a half-hour trip, I realize this latest cockamamie scheme is flawed.
I call Joe.
Help me stay awake.
"Pull over and find a motel."
No. Talk to me.
"(Yawn) What are you wearing?"
Plaid skate shorts and a t-shirt.
"…(yawn)…Drive carefully."
Click.
I sing myself awake and arrive at my boyfriend's hotel just after three in the morning (he's shooting a movie there – a movie I cannot name, lest Studio X's publicist start once again foaming at the mouth and convulsing to the tune of "confidentiality agreements" and "closed sets").
I awake to an empty bed (early call time), gusty winds and a strange click-clacking on the roof, which I assume to be a herd of rabid scorpions.
Boyfriend left directions to the set. I take a languid drive to the tiny time warp of a town where they're shooting. From the sidelines, I watch the special effects guys prepare a vat of vomit (chili with oatmeal - a binding agent), the make-up gal paint lacerations on a Bad Guy's hand, and the star, a puffy Shatneresque version of his former heart throb self (those luscious lips, those swinging hips - yes, he is that desert reptile King) preen, prance and wisecrack around the set like a spoiled petulant child.
He introduces himself as he stumbles out of an old-fashioned saloon, just before the director yells "Cut!"
"Hi. Who are you?"
Dani.
"Actress?"
Writer.
"New Mexico gal?"
L.A. gal.
"Are you visiting a friend?"
My boyfriend's the D.P.
"No wonder he's so chipper today. What's the attraction?"
That's a longer conversation.
The on-set P.A. interrupts to tell Movie Star they're ready for him.
"I'm not ready. Seriously, that guy?"
Movie Star procees to lay down on the concrete and stretch. The crew stands by.
"What's Dani short for?"
Danielle.
"Can I make him jealous?"
He doesn't get jealous.
"He should."
Movie Star grunts his way to his feet and saunters inside for his next take.
"THIS ONE'S FOR DANIELLLE-UH!" he announces.
"Whatever," boyfriend mutters, rolling his eyes.
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I spent the better part of the afternoon looking for an unpeopled swimming hole.
Four hours, three U-turns and two bottles of Smart Water later, I'm still in my car.
I drag my red-faced, sun-soaked, soggy self into Enlightenment, a tiny book store on the side of Highway 179. I ask the middle-aged sprite behind the counter if she can recommend a scenic chill spot off the tourist-y Teva-trodden path.
"You should check out some of the vortexes. They're very healing."
She hands me a a Sedona vortex guide book. I point to an overstuffed chair next to a display of Dreamcatchers in the corner, and ask if I can take five and skim through it. She snatches the book out of my hand and sends me down the road to Circle K for directions.
The Circle K is like 7-11, only the cashier is white and chipper. A giant crystal dangles from her neck(s).
"She probably sent you here because she knows a lot of us that work here are psychic."
Probably.
She directs me to a nearby vortex, which looks a lot like a hill - rocky, red and cactus-strewn - but a hill, just the same.
It's pretty. It's hot. It's crowded.
I think I hear Santa Fe calling my name...
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Fashion is more of a mish-mash than ever right now: 70's silhouettes, plastic 80's jewelry, 60's haircuts. It seems the only decade that's not being heavily regurgitated at the moment is the 50's. Of course, rockabilly chicks are still out there with their perfect red lips and skin-tight leopard prints, but it's a very specific club.
Like the love of Morrissey, cool cars, and homemade tamales on Christmas, a lot of us Latinos have a particular affinity for the 50's look. With my penchant for platforms and maxi dresses, I am definitely an exception. Still, it definitely looks good on my sistas.
For them -and for retro-greaser types of all ethnicities- designer David Contreras has opened Tarantula, a new shop in Boyle Heights. The opening party last Saturday was swingin' to say the least, with a live performance by Chuy and the Bobcats (at his house next door to the shop), mexican food (yeah, the tamales were amazing) and a friendly, family-feel that will surely remain in the space long after the opening.
Contreras, who I knew back in the day when he was big drag queen named Queen Esoterica, has always had an eye for style (he ran with a fabulous posse of boy's boys that included hot hairdressers, designers, club kids and fashion forward types like singer Tommy Chiffon and Grey Ant's Grant Krajecki aka Krakt Wheat).
Now that he's taken the Fonzi and Pinky look to the Heights, the hot rod crowd is sure to flock there. Everything in the store is a reproduction of classic 50s piece: full skirts, pencil skirts, cropped jackets and peddle pushers for gals and pendleton jackets and loose slacks for guys. The prices are reasonable too.
I may always be 70's glam gal, but I can definitely see the Tarantula look creeping back onto the style forefront. Stay tuned dolls.
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I cruised into Sedona a little after 8 p.m. I'd arranged to stay at a private residence I found on the Craigslist.
The three-bedroom house is decorated rote New Age - crystals, angels, fairies, affirmations, candles. The backyard has a gratitude wheel (I'll explain later) and a killer view of a giant rock formation.
Jeanette, my hostess, told me she'd been channeling Melchizedek before I arrived. She handed me a Peruvian crystal that vibrated intensely in my hand.
"I was told to give it to you."
We chatted for a bit while I nibbled raw chocolate and, upon Jeanette's prodding, pulled my Angel cards to determine my purpose here: Beauty, Inner Power, Vacation. Sounds about right.
I showered off the road grime and crawled into bed.
It's a thousand degrees here and I can see a zillion stars. A boom box outside my door is playing a recorded miracle chant in an ancient language that sounds a lot like Hebrew.
Can't wait to see this place in the light of day.
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Brilliant PR tie-in of the week--
PARIS CUFFED!
Just got a press release with the above subject line for the Linz hangbag line. The bags feature "police grade" handcuffs and chains and apparently Mz. Hilton bought 'em in every color, way before her arrest.
And while some might find it ironic, we're not suprised girlfriend likes her cuffs. Sex tapes, naked celly pics... C'mon, everyone knows she's a kinky pinky!
She's probably not getting a cut for her endorsement of the carry-alls, but the latest is, the Simple-ton will be getting a cool mil for her prison diaries. Oh the injustice...
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"Hippie chicks with boob jobs." That's how a (male) pal inaccurately described the annual Topanga Days fest in the Santa Monica hills this past memorial weekend, when I asked him what the scene was like. Well, I didn't notice too many big chests, faux or otherwise, but I did see more dreads, flowy Indian fabrics, hairy armpits and naturally tanned skin than I'm used to at outdoor festivals. This event sure ain't no Sunset Junction that's for sure.
Never been to the Topanga area before Sunday, and I gotta say, the houses are nice in an earthy, clubhouse-in-the-trees kinda way. The air is cleaner too. Yes the locals do have that unwashed yet moneyed look, like the Black Crowes Chris Robinson, who was seen hangin' out all weekend., but there's no attitude or pretense with these people.
This was an outdoor party filled with kids running about, drum circles breaking out, belly-dancing, hula-hooping, music, beer and every now and again, sweet herbal aromas wafting amidst the breezes. Kinda reminded me of the days when my parents would take me to the jam sessions at Griffith Park in the '70's. Pops played the congas and I'd dance my little ass off. 
Topanga Days Sunday lineup had a decidedly country flair with John Doe (who sang both X songs and Beatles covers!), a reading from Pamela Des Barres and the Sin City All Stars with guest appearances by Michelle Shocked and Lucinda Williams. All sounded swingin'.
Apparently there were more tats and less cowboys hats on Saturday with acts ranging from Taylor Hawkins' Chevy Metal to Veruca Salt. I hear the hipsters actually outnumbered the hippies.
My nights are hip enough though. For a day off, it was nice to leave the lip gloss at home and just chill with friendly folks and my family. There will always be another Hollywood barbeque, ya know?
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Instead of going out, I've been going in. You know those heavy introspective phases when you hole up, reexamine your life and call every choice into question? That's where I hang out these days. I spend weekends curled up on the couch, not answering the phone, staring at the heater grating, waiting for the grand epiphany that will make it all make sense.
Clearly, my evenings do not a fun, fabulous Style Council blog make.
The Animatronics played the Roxy Saturday night. I spent the evening in my robe contemplating my hands. Please refer to the masterfully rendered photorealistic annotated diagram below:
1. On my left thumbnail are two blobs of red nail polish – different shades – one, the color of fresh blood as it flows from a new wound; the other is darker, like the thick, coagulated variety indicative of stagnation or death.
2. A burn.
I answer the phone while heating up a frying pan sprinkled with coconut oil.
"Hello," I wheeze.
"Hello Dani."
It's my ex – the one I'll always love regardless of how twisted and co-dependent our relationship was.
"OW!!!"
I burn myself as I toss a colorful variety of chopped vegetables into the pan.
"I was going to see if you were hungry and wanted to grab some sushi."
And this concludes the short but telling metaphor for our entire relationship.
3. Silk screen ink. I had the insane idea to schedule a sample sale/salon while still in the throes of biological/existential upheaval. On the heels of the acupuncturist's strict order to "Rest. Do nothing. Just rest," I spend Friday on my feet, silk screening three dozen t-shirts for Sunday's sale.
4. Like a bumbling eighth-grader, I am still prone to jotting notes on my person; hands, arms and legs are all fair game when there's nary a scrap of paper in sight. I've been invited to participate in/write about a shamanic exploration of the Divine Feminine in Peru this summer and am strategizing sponsorship to pay for the trip since magazines/newspapers don't pay for crap. A couple ideas found their way to the back of my hand.
5. A freckle.
6. Scars from various gymnastics-related surgeries.
7. Yet another note (somebody get this girl a Moleskin!). Dr. D is a brilliant integrative physician upon whom I've harbored a crush for years. After a surfing accident, a coma, numerous brain surgeries and a flatline, Dr. D. emerged with a rockin' sexy skull scar and a renewed passion to revolutionize Western medicine. We'd scheduled an interview for Friday to help publicize his efforts. Weak, exhausted and shaky, I tried to reschedule our interview to no avail. I dragged myself to M Café and picked at a pile of dandelion greens while half-heartedly grilling Dr. D on the benefits of an integrated medical approach versus that of traditional Western medicine. After ninety minutes, Dr. D's companion was antsy and I was dangerously close to passing out. As we said our goodbyes, Dr. D pulled off my hat and gave me the once over.
"You should wear color. Go buy yourself something expensive."
He then prescribed a mugwort bath at the Korean spa and a Thai massage – simple, silly instructions which, in my lightheaded delirium, I jotted down on my forearm.
8. A deep, craggy multi-colored scab garnered while weeding Joe Donnelly's garden last weekend.
9. Rings. Pearl on gold chain, plain gold chain, another plain gold chain and shrunken disco ball on gold chain - handcrafted by me while feeling crappy though crafty.
10. Black hair tie. For those instances when my long, thick lustrous locks annoy the fuck out of me.
11. While there is nothing on my appendanges to indicate such, let the record show that Ben Goldhirsh (founder of Good magazine) is no trustafarian. He's got the wits, the heart, the goods and the foresight to prove it...and the posture.
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So I finally tried Pinkberry, and folks, I've just got one question- what's the big wup? Okay, it's pretty tasty and the place is cute (despite the name, the Vermont Ave. space has no pink to speak of; the palate is lime green and it's all plastica'd out with distinct Japanese toy touches) but seriously I just don't get why everyone's so cuckoo for cocoa puffs over the place.
Speaking of cereal, I'm a big fan of the stuff (I eat it day and night) so the fact that they offer toppings like Capn' Crunch and Fruity Pebbles- I like that. Still, the taste aint worth getting all Crackhead about, which Pinky's proponents seem to act like, battling traffic for parking spots and actually waiting in long lines (at the original WeHo location anyway) just to get another frozen fix.
Coldstone Creamery's got all the same yummy crap to put on their frozen delights, and hell even 31 Flavors offers tasty toppings. You don't see these chains enjoying a Starbucks-like hip hangout status. Yes, yogurt has less calories than ice cream (25 per oz., they say) but once you pile on the toppings it adds up quick.
Also, I'm not entirely convinced it really is as "light" as they say. Doesn't anyone remember that Seinfeld episode when Kramer got fat on the supposedly low-cal concoction? Guess I'm not the only one whose been skeptical either. On the front page of Pinkberry's website they address the "recent claims" about the "nature" of their products, and say they are "investigating." Sounds shady to me. (Oh, and while you're at the site, check the electro-girl rap. It's a hoot.)
As I mentioned on this blog not too long ago, I used to work on Vermont Ave., back when you got coffee at the Onyx, you got your videos from Mondo Video and you got your books from Amok. It just wasn't the kind of place where chain stores fit in. And while I have nothing against franchises, chains, or even corporate owned establishments ( I love fraps okay?), when too many pop up, it inevitably changes the vibe of a street and ultimately the neighborhood, mainly due to traffic.
Even indier than thou Trader Joes market is guilty of this. Look what it's done to Hyperion Ave. Gawd, I can't even drive thru there anymore without getting into some road rager with a spectacled scenester in his/her Prius. It should only get worse now that Pinkberry is opening up across the street, right at the corner of Rowena and Hyperion, next to my longtime nail place, Bonsoir Nails.
Still, I'd be lying if I said I'll never pop in for a yogurt after my mani/pedi, especially as summer approaches. It's too damn conveinient.
Actually, if this location becomes as popular as the orginal, it might end up being anything but. Anybody know of a good, not too popular nail salon in Silver Lake?
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The other day I got an email - a company called Joe Joe Productions is throwing a glittering bash at the Playboy Mansion on June 23. Boys get in so long as they're rich, girls get in so long as they're hot. The Kandyland bash, which they're calling 'The MOST Outrageous Party of the Summer', will be populated by 600 studs who paid $1500 a ticket for four hours of fun (that's $375 an hour). For that, they get to mingle among a crowd of luscious 'hand-picked ladies', selected by JoeJoe and his team. That's right, if you're a girl and you want to go, you have to undergo a strict vetting process. Any 'Elegant Lady' who wants to attend Kandyland for free needs to go to www.KarmaKandyland.com, click on "Delicious Ladies", fill out the contact info (assuming they can spell, that is) and upload their hottest photos. If you're hot - you're in. If you're homely, you stay home and play with your cats. Here's what you'll miss:
"Kandyland II will have even more sexy treats, cellophane (see through) wrapped girls passing candy drinks, there will be desserts and chocolate fountains, painted ladies, cyber girls, girls swimming on the Kandy islands in the pools..."
Joe Joe Promotions also runs Thursday nights at Social, previously Thursday nights at Cabana, Saturdays at Vanguard - and they did Lindsey Lohan's party at the Saddle Ranch last year. If you visit the Joe Joe Promotions' MySpace page, you'll see that the LA Times, Associated Press and la.com think he's something of a nightlife king, a jock-turned-smooth operator who started throwing parties for his friends ten years ago while on a sports scholarship at UCLA. JoeJoe invites you to visit his personal MySpace page because "there is more to me than clubs, events and glitz and glamor! Believe it or not, I'm a real person" he says.
I'm intrigued, so I visit his page. Turns out that JoeJoe may seem like a Hollywood douchebag, but is actually an entirely different person. Under the Prada shades and the cologne lies a sensitive little fella. One who just wants to be loved. "It is essential that in a relationship somebody expresses their feelings verbally and constantly for me," he writes. "It makes me feel good, its like aural ecstasy to me. You can buy me a Learjet, but it wouldn't equal just saying "I love you," or "I miss you."
He then adds:
"I pick my nose sometimes, mostly in the car."
We learn that JoeJoe originally wanted to be in the FBI, that he likes wearing women's accessories, that his clothes always have to match and that he's "addicted to tattoos, despite only having 3. (Buddhist Chant on left wrist, Tibetan Sanskrit on my right wrist and a white star in my ear)."
And:
"I used to weigh 265lbs. all muscle. I benched 470lbs! Now I can bench 225 on a good day. I was a fucking meat head!"
Some things change, and some things will always stay the same...right, Joe Joe?
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OK, as if you weren't knackered from Coachella and Stagecoach and Wango Tango and all the other hedonistic mayhems we are privy to here in LA ('cause there may be a fookin' war on, but that's no reason not to partaaaaay!!!) - now we have Lightning in a Bottle, a 'green music festival' taking place in Santa Barbara this weekend.
I'm not entirely sure what 'green-music' is (drum kits made from recycled bottles? mic stands made from branches? conch shell orchestras?) but the line-up looks interesting - a little heavy on the Burning Man vibe and I imagine there will be some serious multi-colored dreadlock action, but maybe that's just what bougie Santa Barbara needs.
The whole thing is being powered by alternative energy, and vegan, veggie and raw food will be on sale. 'Radical self-expression' is promised on three stages, with 40 acts on the bill, including the Lucent Dossier Vaudeville Cirque, The Mutaytor, and Dublab DJ Edit.
Poi warning levels have been set to high, hula hooping dancing chicks and cyber punks with 8-inch soles expected.
PS: For all your rave gear accessory needs, visit this website, www.raveworx.com, where you'll find things like pocket plasma clip-on belt buckles that glow in multi-color rainbow, or a diamond-shaped battery powered pendant that glows brighter depending on the sound volume.
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I'm gearing up for the first ever Stagecoach Country Music Festival, back at Coachella this coming weekend. I have a feeling things are going to be very different, I just can't picture the Tesla coils or Burning Man art installations working with country music folk. Already the stage names were changed (don't know if they will have tents, they're called stages now) the Gobi, Mohave and Sahara tents, will be called Mustang, Palomino, Mane and Appaloosa, and masala fries will be replaced by BBQ, lots of BBQ. We'll have a full report. In the meantime, here are some Coachella outtake pics, you remember these people, the dudes who kept your potties clean, the chick who really should have put more clothes on, and the guy wishing the ride he was on would end soon.
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Coachella: Day Three
10:00 a.m. I can barely wake-up, I'm in complete denial that there's another full day to go. The press band and the ID bracelet that proves I'm over 21, have become like shackles. But somewhere in the exhausted recesses of my mind, the thought of seeing Willie Nelson gets me out of bed.
3:00 p.m. We are making the trek to the field, there's some drama. A tiny woman is chasing her BIG boyfriend, yelling and berating him. She waits until she's right in front of the cops to smack him about the face, having to jump up a few feet to do it. The cops put her in hand cuffs and for the next 20 yards it's all the crowd can talk about, re-enacting the slaps.
4:30 p.m. I finally get an interview with a band. A very persistent publicist smuggles me in to the backstage area. I feel cooler with the fancy cloth wrist band, less chaffing. The trailer area for the talent, looks like a really cute trailer park, each one has the name of the band written in glitter, that looks like they were done by a second grade class. There's white picket fences in front of each trailer, making little front yards complete with plastic lawn furniture and a tent in the center with red velvet and leather couches. I'm here to interview Placebo, but singer Brian Molko is walking around somewhere else. The publicist gives me the ok to snoop around while Brian makes his way back. I see Lily Allen's trailer, the door is wide open, and two young girls are giggling as they type into sidekicks. I try to have a closer look inside without being creepy, no sign of Lily. The Happy Monday's doors are closed and their yard is empty, while the guys from Crowded House are tucked into a corner, playing cards. I make a full circle, and Brian is back. We sit to chat about their cover of Kate Bush's Running Up That Hill that has been getting a lot air play recently. "That song was recorded 3 or 4 years ago, but people were asking for it, so we re-released it. We're kids of the 80s," he says behind dark sunglasses. He's wearing a collar shirt, a vest, and long pants in over 100 degree heat, that's a commitment to style. "We liked the experimental nature of 80s pop, now pop doesn't push the boundaries, it feeds the lowest common denominator. I blame the whole American Idol karaoke thing." Placebo had some big hits in the late 90s in the UK, but recently Dj's and radio stations have been playing them, last summer Indie 103 and KROQ, were playing the single Infrared. "That song was picked up by the OC and it became an instant digital hit," he says. I ask him if he's playing LA soon, "You can't, they don't let you play." The "they" is Goldenvoice, Coachella organizers. To play Coachella bands have to agree not to play before or after the festival, according to Malko, "for like three months or something."
6:37 p.m Willie Nelson. The crowd is feeling Willie, he's really one of the last classic country musicians left. When he goes, we will have witnessed the death of an original genre of music. Willie smiles out into the audience, his soul seems calm like the Dalai Lama. He sings Will The Circle Be Unbroken, it was an old gospel performed by the Carter Family. But now the song feels like a lament, like a warning to not let these songs and music and traditions be forgotten. Lucky for us, Willie is joined on stage with his two sons, Mike who plays drums and Lucas who rips on guitar. Lucas also sings just like his pop, the crowd goes wild for him, with Willie's genes clearly carrying on, maybe there is hope for real country music? Johnny Knoxville think so too, the big screen showed him in the front clapping and singing along.
8:00 p.m. Crowded House. at first there wasn't much of a crowd houses for them, but as they went through their set, I watched more and more people lured to the music, They sounded great, and I did get some pangs of 90s nostalgia, and a little longing for my college days when they played "Locked Out" which was on the grunge era romantic comedy Reality Bites soundtrack. And then I felt old realizing that many had no idea who this band was. As if the band was right there with me, they played Something So Strong...
I've been feeling so much older
Frame me and hang me on the wall
I've seen you fall into the same trap
This thing is happening to us all
Something so strong
Could carry us away
8:50 Lily Allen. We make it in time to hear When I See You Smile. I have to say we've had good luck catching the singles. I decide to push the boundaries of crowd attrition in the tents (Judith had mentioned this in her post). I grab my boyfriend's hand and we plow through the crowd. I was amazed to find the tent a lot less packed that it appeared, and if you smile and say excuse me, and it helps also to sort of dance through, you won't be denied, we make it about 10 feet away from the stage. I couldn't believe how easy it was. Allen did an awesome rendition of Heart of Glass, and ended with her song to her baby brother.
9:14 Air. When we arrive we're about 100 feet from the stage. A hail storm of white inflatable balls rain down on us, we punch them into the air toward the stage and watch them bounce their way down. Feeling empowered by our recent success in plowing through the crowd, we exert our dance-walk to about 15 feet away from the stage. We had to step over a bunch of people who have staked their claim by laying down blankets. I watch the guy ahead of me glare at one group. If they would only move, he could move closer. They're like the little old houses who refuse to sell to big business, all around them huge developments are going up. They cant even see the stage, but they're not selling the real estate. There is a bright yellow light that really has me distracted, I find it hard to connect to the music. Due to a promise not to miss the Happy Mondays, we work our way out of the crowd and head toward the tents.
9:50 p.m. We are distracted by the Teddybears, giant teddy bear heads on musicians, a screen in the back shows some haunting animated teddybears in suits. We get caught up in the music and stay til we hear their Iggy Pop cover, I'm A Punk Rocker. Oh shit, I can't miss the Happy Mondays.
10:00 p.m. We sneak on the side of the nest tent, and catch the Happy Mondays near the end of their set. I 'm not really familiar with these guys but their instrumental dance groove-riffs were catchy. I dunno I was expecting some kind of depressed emo band, thinking the band's name was ironic, kind of like calling a fat guy slim. But they were poppy and dancy and happy, at least the music felt that way, I couldn't make out all the lyrics. But big thanks to Joe Donnelly, deputy editor at the Weekly for making me check this band out, it was a lot of fun.
10:40 p.m. Rage Against the Machine is on, but I really don't want to see them. I don't know why. I saw them at Lollapalooza back in the day, back when I was an angry teen, moshing, and kicking up my Docs. I went alone and a crowd surfer wound up kicking me in the mouth, knocking me briefly unconscious and splitting my lip open. I was dragged to the side by a few strangers, and when I came to I had a fat bloody lip. I guess you can say I'm kind of Rage shy now. So we head to see the Lemonheads...
11:00 p.m. At 10 minutes before 90s hearthrob Evan Dando is to take the stage, there are maybe 15 people lined up. The entire field is empty. Everyone is going to see Rage. I mean there is a very small percent of the population who aren't watching, but by and large the other stages were deserted like an Area 51 bomb test site, just littered with bottles and papers, evidence that something had happened here (I can't speak for the dance tents). I went to the VIP area to see if we could see Rage in safety. Normally a walk that takes 5 minutes took over 15 because the crowd was so dense, we had weave back and forth. Even the VIP area was packed so tight. The aggro yelling and shouting made me nervous. I guess that's the point of Rage, I know, but as I got older, inner rage seems useless, yelling at a concert and slam dancing for an hour is ineffective. We go to see how Evan Dando's gotten on instead, more to appease my curiosity. To see how an unrequited crush is doing after all these years.
11:40 p.m. Evan Dando is wearing a hard hat. We joke that maybe it was in case people throw stuff at him. But that would mean there would have to be people actually watching. This was the least attended performance I saw all week. It was kind of depressing. And he wasn't all that good. I feel like Angela going back to find Jordan Catalano and having this moment, like what was I thinking?
And this is the way Coachella ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper.
On the way out to the car, Rage Against the Machine is still screaming away. The guy walking ahead of me says to his friend, "I don't know I never got into Rage, I guess I've never been that angry."
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Lessons Learned Day One: Don't be a hero and fuck fashion.
I'm in flip-flops. Fuck it, that half inch of high density foam is better than having to trod barefoot, through discarded food and spit, s I flippity-floppity my way to the main stage.
3:55 p.m. Regina Spektor, has all the red-hair, milky skin, and voluminous breasts of a Jane Austen heroine. I am mesmerized by her heaving bosom larger than life on the screens. "It's so fuckin' hot, I'm sorry !" she offered her condolences. Spektor is like a humorous Joni Mitchell, in a way, a softer Liz Phair, but with a good voice, and there's a touch of Tori Amos, though that's an easy comparison, red-hair, piano, but where Amos is fragile, Spektor is tough, less like a fairy and more like a hearty barmaid. In her song "Bobbing For Apples" she sings "someone next door is fucking to my songs" and then there was the crowd-rousing Mariane is a Bitch, about a girl who doesn't put out. I decide being on your feet for over 12 hours is misery and try to sit often. This is the perfect mellow sun soaked set to lounge on the grass and listen to.
5:00 p.m. Travis. "Hell is tuning a 12-string for ever and ever," says the lead singer frustrated with his instrument. I'm not that familiar with this late 90s band, but the crowd seems to adore them. "Y'all look so attractive," the lead singer says in his thick Scottish brogue. Flattery always works. And then there's water. The group up front is dancing so much, the singer worries about their hydration and has the security guards toss them some bottles of water. Apparently the bassist's classic move is a little hip swing that looks as if he's screwing his instrument. That was fun to watch. Their sound is hard to describe, Brit pop, a little folky, a little pop-y but not as shiny as most pop, there's a little more nutrition in the songs than the high fructose pop we're used to nowadays.
5:45 p.m. Panasian. Ok, I get the food court thing sort of, I found three distinct eating areas named after different cuisines, European, Panasian, and Americana, though once you get inside, there's basically all the same stuff. Eating now turns out to be a bad decision. DON'T EAT AT DINNER TIME. I was salivating watching all the Hawaiian BBQ roasting on large pits. I had paid for a plate, and went to stand in line, but after 15 minutes I noticed the Gobi Tent filling up fast. My eyes shifted from barbecued meats to the now crowded tent. I abandon the crazy idea of eating, got my money back, and ran to try and nab a spot to see Andrew Bird.
6:03 p.m. Andrew Bird , the jazzy violinist, is playing inside my head. That's because I'm standing two feet from the tower of speakers in front of the stage. There's a weird two sided phonograph looking thing on a red box, and another black and white striped phonograph on stage, kind of looks like sculpture but I hear they may actually be speakers. Bird, a skinny dude in jeans,and glasses and man-dals, trades back and forth between the violin and the guitar, swinging the latter behind his back while he picks up a bow to assault his violin. Two young girls in front of me record him on their digital cameras, then immediately share their pictures with each other. While they giggle, I notice every time Bird leans in toward the mike to sing, he kind of whips his head back and grimaces. I realize he's being shocked my the mike. After repeated shocks I can't watch it anymore. It's like watching someone being tortured for your enjoyment. And besides, the Decemberists just began their set across the field.
6:32 p.m. "Just so you know, seersucker is the perfect fabric for this type of weather," says Colin Meloy, his band the Decemberists are playing Coachella for the first time. Somehow I knew he'd be in seersucker. The whole band look like they're at a Gatsby garden party, crisp white linen and fedoras. They play mostly songs off their new release Crane Wife, but you kind of never know what you're going to get at a Decemberist show. For this one, we carved huge circles into the crowd so that Meloy could host an impromptu dance contest. "You never thought you'd have a dance contest at a Decemberists show did you?" He asks. Fans have come to expect the audience participation, maybe even crave it, and clap rhythmically without any prompting from Meloy, "watch your tempo," he warns when the claps quicken. He makes us wave our fingers during "The Perfect Crime #2," he makes us jump up and down as if we were on pogo sticks. I know we are doing all of this in some reason to appease Meloy, but it is kind of fun, and gives even the uptight an excuse to bounce. For the last song, they play an oldie, off their first EP, the Mariner's Revenge, you know, back when they were drama nerds. And I think to not disappoint, Meloy instructs us to scream as if our lives were in danger, when Chris Funk, pretends to be a whale. They jig, and dance through the sea chanty, and the big pay off, a giant fake whale comes out on stage and swallows mellow while we screech in mock horror. And that might sound really dorky to a lot of people but it was actually the most engaged with a band I felt so far at Coachella, but I realize not everyone wants to be that engaged.
7:40 p.m. The Arcade Fire. I don't even know what to say. So far, if I had to write about only one band this would be it. They are a force, there was so much raw power coming off that stage, I felt that cars could be fueled in the future by Arcade Fire. And even if it weren't for the organ on stage, the religious sort of altar, it would still feel like going to church. Win Butler, the lead singer, was like a preacher singing to us. He was intensely focused on delivering the message of the song, and only that. The rest of the band looked like his disciples, they were enraptured, they looked possessed, speaking in tongues, taking on different instruments, trading one for another, running around the stage channeling the song like possessed musical mediums, but always getting to their part on time. The Napoleon Dynamite looking dude smashed a keyboard in his fervor. One of the girls squatted low and looked out to the crowd, put her hands up to her mouth in astonishment. It looked as if she were savoring the moment. They played a few songs off of their latest release, Neon Bible, which is getting great reviews, but the crowd really got into it when they played stuff off their last album, Funeral, I felt this unity in the crowd, the mass of moving bodies, without instruction, getting it. We were all getting it, and the power's out in the heart of man," Butler sings, "take it from your heart, and put it in your hand." It felt like a call to arms. And when he sang, "Scare your sons, scare your daughters...every time you close your eyes, lies, lies," it felt like this band was speaking to my generation and for the moment we were all hearing it, feeling it, feeling empowered, and connected, like we have control in our uncertain days. At one moment, the energy of the crowd and the band, whose members sang and wailed, moved me to an ecstatic state, I'd never gotten high off a band before. I never felt so connected to my generation. The crowd became a congregation, and for a while in the desert we believed we can be saved, and more than that, we have the power to change. As I walked through the crowd, it was apparent , at least to me, everyone was feeling this. From the bare chested frat boys slapping five, to the indie kids, we walked around smiling at one another. To prove the unity was there, when a guy knocked over my wine, only a little spilled but he offered to buy me a new one.
9:00 p.m. We had a lull in our schedule, so we walked around all the art installations. There is sort of a big Burning Man feel to the festival this year, from the steam powered and bike powered rides, to iron fire breathing dragons. We walked through this fabric coiled snake, we walked into it not expecting much, we had passed it all day long, not realizing the tube hid a surprise, as we walked around the tunnel shrank, it felt like Alice in Wonderland, all of a sudden we were bent at the waist walking with our heads ducked until we actually had to get on our hands and knees and crawl for a while. The shrinking was hidden from the outside cause it coiled inside itself. It was a lesson in commitment, crawling through this tunnel, a line of people a head, a line behind, there was no turning back. Your expectations were fucked with, your commitment and trust, trust that there was a safe exist, was tested, At the end, there was a dome filled with people, talking and hanging out. But the experience left us excited to see what else was out there.
9:30 p.m. We went to go check out some music we ordinarily wouldn't listen, We checked out the DJ, dance party known as Girl Talk in the Gobi tent, it was cool to watch people having so much fun, dancing to their thing, but then the giant screen lit up with the words, "that's all I need to know about that" and it pretty much was how I felt, so we moved on to the dome to check out some live rapping, a battle between these two dudes. A couple of girls ran up on stage, looking pretty ecstatic, it may have been drugs, or it may have been that these guys were sort of their Arcade Fire.
10:00 p.m. Sparklehorse. We found a passive civil war inside the Mojave tent, half the crowd was sitting, the other standing as close as they could to the stage. Once we got inside we realized why, you could hear the Chili Peppers in the quiet spaces of songs. And depending where you were, the Peppers might be all you heard, we heard them from the other side of the festival. It was so hard for us to focus on the Ariel Pink like band, with all that Red Hot invading our sound space,h we threw in the towel and went to see them on the main stage.
10:15 p.m. We sat on the edge of the crowd, watching Anthony Keidis in a Dr. Spock hair-do do his thing, we caught Under The Bridge, and a pretty good cover of Donna Summer's I Feel Love. But if you've seen one Peppers show you've seen 'em all. All of a sudden a strong wind started picking up. You could see large dust clouds blowing.
11 p.m. Not really all that anxious to sit in the car again, we walked around, sat and watched the tesla coil, which I was surprised to hear, gets lots of applause. All of a sudden we heard this booming voice, and we followed it. It was Tiesto,I don't know anything about this guy, cause I'm not big on the Dj thing, but he was like a maestro, a conductor, leading a symphony of artists, cutting between Bjork and Moby. The crowd was huge, I had no idea so many people came out here for this sort of thing. We wound up dancing and I gained a whole new appreciation of this kind of music, it's sort of our modern day symphony.
12:30 a.m. We find the Jeep relatively easily, though I feel like I'm choking on the all the dust.
2:00 a.m. I fall asleep on the couch to Adult Swim, deciding to transcribe my notes, tomorrow.
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(Brief note regarding Lina's very complete Do and Don't list: I'd like to add one thing: DO bring your tickets!
I overheard someone saying they got within a half hour of arriving here before realizing they forgot their tickets, they had to turn around to go all the way back to LA.
2:00 p.m. Stuck in traffic on the way to free event parking lot, I rolled down the window to feel the desert air, its like sticking your head inside a clothes dryer. I can't help but feel a bit of schadenfreude for those who don't have AC.
4:45 p.m. We finally get our ID's checked, and our tickets, OF MONTREAL is playing, or so we think, we take off running full speed toward the Outdoor Stage. We get there 10 minutes early. The lead singer is dressed like an indie Elvis in a white bedazzled suit and his guitarist has pink feather wings. My body temp raises 10 degrees just looking at them. "All I want is a drink and to be left alone, " are the lyrics, "is that too much for Britney Spears to ask," he ad libs. He changes into a green and white bib shirt, I can't tell if it's glam clown or pirate . I stay long enough to hear Helmsgate blah, blah, my favorite song of the moment, you know the one he wrote in Iceland, that gies "Chemi-ca-a-a-als, gone mess me up inside" I dance and sing with such reverie and joy only to sort of be buzz killed by the fact that it's still over 100 degrees and the rest of the crowd is lethargic and unmoving. I realize this band would have been kick ass at sundown, but as daytime outdoor rock, not so much.
5:20 p.m. SILVERSUN PICK-UPS. I love this band. Lucky me, I make it right in time to hear Little Lover So Polite, my favorite song! I'm two for two. These are new bands to me so I'm lookin' forward to hearing these guys live, instead of on Indie 103 stuck in my car in all the bullshit Hollywood Blvd. construction. We had a split second decision to make, and decide to sacrifice Gillian Welch, on the the logic that we'll see her next week at Stagecoach Country Music Festival. Silversun Pick-ups, though we can see them anytime, is a really great outdoor band, the energy radiates, we watch the lead singer sings. Lazy Eye, the song with a four-minute build, makes us shake off our laziness especially with the pay off when the singer croons, "sunshine, sunshine." I have to be pried away.
6:00 p.m. Smoking Lounge. We head over to the swanky air-conditioned Smoking lounge to get our free American Spirits, and too cool off. We are checked for ID twice, our driver's licenses were scanned inside. We grab a couple of 7 dollar beers before booking it across the polo fields to see Amy Winehouse at the Gobi Tent.
6:30 p.m. AMY WINEHOUSE, has a couple of dude back-up singers, dancing in unison like the back up girls of old Motown. (I love her, I've already blogged about my deep love for Amy Winehouse, and see Judith's post below for a great review of her performance, I didn't want to repeat too much.) She has a live horn section, which really amps up her bluesy soul drenched style. "Where are you guys going to go next?" she asks, pausing for a second to add, "Peaches! Go see Peaches!" We try to move closer but clearly, the organizers underestimated the draw of Miss Winehouse who is one heavy rotation on indie 103. The sides of the Gobi tent bulge and spread .
7:06 p.m. RUFUS WAINWRIGHT. At this point my attempt to be fashionable and wear wedges goes proverbially south, I decide I need the additional two inches to see over the crowd and sacrifice comfort. The bottoms of my soles feel like they are peeling off. Ruffus open to big applause, wait! That's not Rufus at the piano. Some spiky haired dude is tickling the ivory, and we all know Rufus doesn't use gel. Rufus eventually comes out in a PJ/Muslim/Hoodie floor length thing, his chuck taylors peeking out, he plays Hollywood Is Over, the takes his place at he baby grand, I hate these tents, and find myself thinking of the small earthquake that hit 29 Palms yesterday, 3.3. on the richter scale and wonder if my last moments will be spent listening to Rufus. Who now is taking off his weird floor length parka. He's wearing red white and blue striped tiny boy shorts with matching collar. "I feel like a faggy Sinatra" he says. Ok, if I'm gonna die soon, I'd like to to be to something a bit harder, a bit more masculine. I run to catch Peaches who is just starting at the Outdoor Stage. I kick off my killer shoes to facilitate this.
7:35 p.m. PEACHES. She's wearing a signature pleather one-piece, a metal mask and is holding a lightsaber like an erect penis. Her first number is Impeach Bush, and she sings it, I guess we call it that, while standing on the kick drum. She's playing with a few chicks from La Tigre, the crowd thinks they're young boys, which I guess I did too, mistaking the faint mustache for a sign of prepubescence. I'd love to stay, Peaches is getting hotter by the minute, but the Jesus and Mary Chain is starting in 10 minutes...
Overheard: dude! How old are you? (to the chick with the mustache from Le Tigre) You're like 12!
7:55 p.m. JESUS AND MARY CHAIN. They open with Happy When I Pray and Candy Talk. His voice hasn't changed that much, and neither has his stage presence. This isthe original shoegazer band, he's 48, but with his mellow stage presence he can play til 80 without having to change much, unlike Mick Jagger. He caresses the mike and stares intently out into the audience, and the rumors were true, SCARLETT JOHANSON joined them singing back-up in a paisley shift dress and a fedora on Just Like Honey. "Miss Scarlet Johanson, I love her," he said as she left the stage. It was hard to really hear her chops, she only sang one word "honey."
9:01 p.m. Jarvis Cocker. They started a late, but the crowd, die hard fans, could care less. He's sort of like Leonard Cohen, not the greatest voice, but poetic, and those who get him kind of think they're better than those who don't, that they're keyed into something special the rest of us don't understand. Personally, I just wanted to hear Common People. Some people must have thought the same thing, cause we left in droves to the VIP tent. Though I did overhear a fashionable chick say, "He better NOT do any Pulp covers."
9:40 p.m the first time I sat down for more than 5 minutes. My feet won't go. They burn.
10:00 p.m. I eat my first bit of food all day, a slice of pizza. I want so bad to see Sonic Youth, but I can't walk back to the outdoor stage, I can't.
11:00 p.m Bjork. Judith did a great job posting about this already. When I got into the photo pit to take pictures it was impossible to move. Another photographer commented it was the most photographers he's seen in a pit in COachella ever Bjork wore a corset with bones on it and multi-colored dress. The neon female chorus horn section with flapping fans was very dramatic, especially when the first song was her new single Earth Intruders. It felt like we were being take over. I sat through the set because of the shoe situtation and towards the end we left to try to beat the crush to the parking lot.
12:00 a.m. We are wandering aroud the parkign lot, I'm hobbling, looking for our car, all of the cars are covered in dust, and becuas eof the lack of lighting you can't tell one from the other.
12:20 a.m. I find my Jeep.
1:30 a.m. We are stuck in the Jeep, no cars are moving. We've sat for an hour, people have given up turned their cars off right in the driving lanes and some have gone to sleep.
2:00 a.m. Two ambulances race toward the Polo Field and we finally move.
3:30 a.m. I finally get home to go to bed.
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Admit it. If you're going to Coachella, you've been thinking about what to wear for days now. You want to look good, but you also want to feel comfortable and not seem like you're trying too hard. There's the heat to think about, of course, but overexposed isn't always the way to go. This year you've got an extra day to outfit yourself, and let's not forget all those corporate-sponsored pool parties to attend!
I've been to Coachella every year except the first and as a veteran, I've learned a lot about what to wear and what's essential to bring. Though the extra day this year means re-evaluating some dos and don'ts, in general, it doesn't call for a bigger suitcase. After all, we always pack more than we need, don't we?
I've compiled some helpful suggestions just for you my fashionable friends. Read it, learn it, live it, and love your Coachella experience with no regrets….
Do bring as many pairs of shoes as days of the fest (this year, that would be 3). Even your comfiest sneaks will be suffocating your soles by the end of the day, which means anything else (even less walk-friendly styles like sandals, slides, flip flops) will seem refreshing the next day.
Do bring a big-ish bag with a strap long enough to cross from shoulder to opposite hip. I started doing this when backpacks weren't allowed at the festival (now medium sized ones are ok) and it worked so well, the bag I took became my "Coachella bag." I just dug it out this week and it obviously hasn't been washed since last year. It smells like dirt and alcohol (you can't take cocktails from VIP out onto the field and my attempt to sneak one last year didn't quite work out). I'm game to try again though!
Don't buy a whole new flashy wardrobe for the weekend (unless it's vintage—see Linda's previous post). That cute polka-dot frock with the heart buttons from Forever 21/Rampage may seem perfect for the high temps, but some other trendy gal probably thinks so too. Ya don't want to be line at the bar behind your dress doppelganger.
Do wear large sunglasses. I know, they're everywhere. But big-as-coasters Jackie O's (I still adore my Diors) not only offer maximum protection from the harmful UV rays, in a weird psychological way, they make ya feel protected from the music-manic masses.
Do bring leggings -if you're wear a dress or skirt- and a thin but tightly woven sweater. I've been bringing leggings to wear under my dresses after dark since my first Coachella, way before leggings were back "in." It's so nice to slip 'em on when the desert chill sets in and the sweater is also absolutely worth bringing, a hoodie even better.
Don't wear too much makeup chicas. It will melt. Matte lipsticks will peel, liquid eyeliner will fade. Glosses are good, as they keep things moist. Sunblock is obviously a must. Of course, if you have a VIP pass, care nothing about the bands, and plan to hangout on a couch near the bar area, this does not apply to you.
Do bring a hat (floppy, baseball cap, etc) or scarf. When it gets really hot, my trick is to pour cold water into it. Let it soak in, put it on your head and you're easily 10 degrees cooler. This has saved me during afternoon sets, particularly those at the second outdoor stage, which sizzle. The year before last, I remember the heat actually melted the band Atmosphere's wax, but I was chill as a pill.
Don't wear all black. Bjork, Interpol and Jesus and the Marychain will not notice you better. But the sun will.
2005 desert get-up: shades- $12. Hat- free from Rockstar energy drink. Halter top- vintage cheap. Sunscreen- $6. Guy taking my photo (in sunglass reflection)- priceless.
More hot tips:
Dress yes: sundresses, t-shirts of bands playing that day (preferably a really old one which shows you're not a newbie fan), loose skirts, shorts, jeans, tanks, anything cotton, and (please!) deodorant.
No Go: High heels, too much black, too much bling, studs, spikes, ironic t-shirts (I know a lot of you dudes will), or bathing suits (I know a lot you ladies will).
Pack: Tylenol/Aspirin, sunscreen, minimal makeup, camera, mints, hand sanitzer (for after the port-o-potties- eech!), cell phone, ear plugs, Airborne, the leggings, sweater and hat, and ID/ATM cards (but bring cash, the ATM lines are nuts).
Wack: Drugs (unless they're easy to hide), booze (or any kind of liquid for that matter; they will make ya dump it), weapons, or anything else under under the "No" section from this page.
And while you're on the site check out the set times and their nifty "Coachooser" feature which lets you tailor your own personal schedule and email it to your pals. See ya there!
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I don't know about you guys but I am so excited for Coachella this year. I feel like Larry Birkhead after the paternity results. But last year, I was completely under-prepared, marching through nasty piles of half eaten pizza and discarded cups in flip flops, only a thin layer of high-density foam separating my feet from regurgitated goop. I lost my sunglasses and got sunburned. This year I'm going prepared. If you're looking for a one-stop place to shop (after all you only have a few days!) head to Immoni on 3rd Street, a little gem that some fashionistas will kill me for telling you about.
But you can find all kinds of adorable vintage sundresses ($40-$60), sunglasses ($15), and feet-saving boots ($60-$200), they even have the cutest vintage floral overnight bags and suitcases ($60-$100), and a genius pseudo-military "fanny back" that clips onto belts or waists of pants. They have lots of scarfs ($14) , so you can cover your 3-day party bedhead, and cute music inspired accessories like 80s keyboard earrings and turntable belt buckles ($10-$25), and the most adorable little hand-made bloomers, meant to be worn under super-minis or tunics ($28), perfect for popping a squat on the grass. Watch out for food wrappers!
Immoni, W 3rd off Crescent Heights
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How great is the show House? Fuck Grey's Anatomy, that show is so lame, I feel bi-polar watching it— is it a farse comedy? a serious medical drama? It can't make up it's mind and just as we're supposed to be freaking out about some pandemic, we're thrust in to some love triangle we could give two shits about. But House, House is really good. It reminds me of Law & Order: CI, where Doctor Dr. Gregory House is like Vincent D'Onofrio with a medical degree. House is a thoroughly flawed human being, who knows other thoroughly flawed human beings, well enough to cure them.
Well now the hit medical drama is selling t-shirts to raise awareness for mental illness. Proceeds from sales, which begins today at www.housecharitytees.com will go to NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness.
The shirts bear the series catchphrase "Everybody Lies" and they cost is $19.95 each. The sale begins today (Monday, April 23rd) and runs for a limited time only.
Maybe they can do something for all the mental damage inflicted by Grey's Anatomy....
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I just got back from the Folk Yeah festival up in Big Sur this weekend, having journeyed up the PCH with my man to attend the two-day gathering in the redwoods. We found an ecelctic bunch of music lovers hanging out among the trees, with a heavy bearded contingent (Devendra Banhart's included), as well as some tweaked-out raver types and lots of bemused Big Sur old-timers. Classic rock revivalists Citay - originally a studio project between Ezra Feinberg and Tim Green from The Fucking Champs - stole the two day show, held at the Fernwood Restaurant (you MUST try their lasagne if you're ever up there, and their Caroline Salad is pretty bitchin' too). Citay frontman Ezra, it turns out, is completing a PhD in Psychology at Berkeley, but I think he should put off being a shrink for a few years and continue making awesome music instead.
The Folk Yeah fest (which has nothing to do with LA's Fuck Yeah fest), started last year, and there are plans to make it bigger next time (a weekend in Fall 2007). That would be a very good thing, in my opinion - the event seemed to revived the original beatnik spirit of a now heavily bourgeois Big Sur, which is dominated by overpriced New Agey hotels and retreats, the kind where you'd have to sell incense sticks for a good year to afford a night's stay. Folk THAT.
Britt Govea, the man behind Folk Yeah, has been keeping it real and organizing lots of events at the Fernwood in the last year - next up, Black Crowe Chris Robinson and his band The Wooden Family, in late May. Who needs Commer-chella and their Heineken sponsorship when you got beards, patchouli and lasagne just up the road???
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When it comes to blending girly with badass, Tarina Tarantino is the master. Although these Terminator-esque little skull faces attached to barettes are a little too smiley for my liking. Creepily cute!
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I stopped by Taste of the Goddess on Beverly for an overpriced sub-par smoothie. A failed parking meter brandished its very own torn Dior scarf. A glimpse of my reflection in the passenger window of my car confirmed that three days no shower does not a happy hairdo make. I thanked the Universe for the generous gift as I transfered the scarf from parking meter to skull. 
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He might be a crazy character, but it aint from GHB!
All charges against Germs drummer Don Bolles will be dismissed after additional testing of the peppermint-scented Dr. Bronners soap found in his car came up clean… pun intended.
A field test allegedly showed traces of GHB, but more thorough tests done by the Orange County Sheriff's Department c