Los Angeles Music Blog

Videothing does it again. After helping West Coast Sound with an ace tour of Michael Jackson's Cancelled Neverland Auction, the LA-based video site went stealth at Coachella and got some great footage. Quote of the video: "I got so fucked up last night that I fried balls until I cried."

Timothy Norris

Fans during Tellier ...

On a Sunday bookended by ear-splitting distortion (No Age and Fucked Up at one end, My Bloody Valentine at the other), Sébastien Tellier was an oasis of funk and sex. After some minor technical difficulties sorted out by his band, the bearded Frenchman arrived wearing shades, a loose tunic and a panama hat, holding an angular guitar and acknowledging the audience with but a mere nod and wave.

Timothy Norris

The pit at the Mojave Tent on Sunday; keep in mind it hit 100 degrees that day.

Sunday was a good day for the noiseniks. Coachella-goers who arrived early enough were greeted by boxes of complementary earplugs as they piled through the gate -- vital accessories for a My Bloody Valentine showing, but also for the early afternoon tent performances.

Slowly, my brain is slinking its way towards sensible shape. Three days of Coachella are not for the faint of heart -- if nothing else it requires a quarter-ounce of weed, an array of narcotic edibles from potcorn to cannabis cakes, several brightly colored pills of indiscriminate origin, copious spending money for wine, water, and whiskey, plus the heart of a three year-old Labrador to handle the strain.

So who am I to knock Coachella? It puts you in a position to win, and that's all you can really ask of a coach or a festival. Even if the Clipse cancelled at the last second, that's the brothers Thorton's bad. Abandoning throngs of people waiting for Pitchfork-approved trap-rap is an unwise move. Is Lupe Fiasco supposed to provide the kids with minimalist nihilism?

Or maybe Clipse know that no matter how many new bad puns they devise involving the word, "brick," they can't match the freak show promised by Throbbing Gristle. After all, lead singer Genesis P-Orridge wears gold grills. She used to be a he. He once nailed piercings through his dick. That's either the most incredibly hardcore gesture possible, or the dumbest. Either way, Genesis is a better rapper than Paul Wall.

Anyone who's ever been to Coachella knows it leaves you with a special brand of Monday morning pain. This 3 day monster will test even the fittest, most fervent music fan. For most attendees this was a call-in-sick day, a day of rest and merciful silence. Or, if you did the weary drive home today like we did, a Coachella-band-iPod-shuffle-mix-on-the-car-stereo, come-down kind of afternoon.

The last day of Coachella was tough (and not just because we were burnt every which way). In terms of deciding what to see and how much, choices had to be made. Leave Yeah Yeah Yeahs near the end of the set for Paul Weller? We did. The Kills or Public Enemy? Went for the later. Get brutalized by My Bloody Valentine or check out some equally dark UK faves (The Horrors) we've never had the chance to see? Again, we did the later and now have a full-on new band crush.

Chuck D. and Flavor Flav know what time it is..

Timothy Norris

Even the machinery was flashing the horns.

Nothing says "I love you" like a cover song. Artists at Coachella like to acknowledge their influences, love to thrill the crowd with a surprise singalong. This year bands drew from music of many genres, from ragtime to post punk to hip hop. Here were ten to remember:

View more Coachella pics here: Day One, Day Two, Day Three, Half-Dressed People & Scenes from the Desert

Timothy Norris

Coachella 2009, at the awards ceremony

Weirdest Between-song Banter: Paul McCartney, bless his heart, played an epic set, staked a claim on a body of work that only fools would ignore. But between his songs, when he was trying to communicate with us, he talked like we were little children, uttered the word "Coachella" a few too many times, then said, "Woo!"

Best Brush-With-Fame Moment: Chris Holmes used to play in a Chicago band called Yum Yum. Then he started DJing and producing. Paul McCartney heard him DJ in South America, called him up, asked Holmes to do something prior to his Friday set, and suggested the Stax Does Beatles collection of Memphs r&b artists covering Macca's former band. Holmes dropped a nice mix of old Beatles' covers, mixed in a little bit of Macca's "Temporary Secretary," and basically made the preamble party-ready. If you're wondering why there was an "Ashtar Command" logo on either side of the stage prior to his Friday warm up for McCartney, it's because Holmes' long-incubating Ashtar Command project is apparently coming to fruition.

Bring these.

It's important to acknowledge that despite the scope of the Empire Polo Field, Goldenvoice has seen fit to clear a big chunk of tonight's schedule to make way for the massive sound expected for My Bloody Valentine's set. Whereas on most nights the five stages can operate simultaneously without too much worry about bleed-over -- the exception being the intrusion by Morrissey on the main stage near the close Leonard Cohen's Friday set on the neighboring Outdoor Theatre stage (but that was kinda cool, hearing Morrissey and Cohen in our head at the same time) -- tonight during My Bloody Valentine's 9 p.m. main stage slot, there is nothing on the Outdoor Stage and nothing in the Gobi tent, which is maybe the length of two football fields away.

Surely they're preparing for volume. They'd better be.

Timothy Norris

M.I.A.'s dancers: Working it harder than Maya

As I wriggled out of the teeming crowd that clotted for M.I.A, I eavesdropped on the Spalding basketball-bronzed sorority sisters speaking behind me: "If I was like a dude, I would totally want to do M.I.A." Personally, M.I.A. doesn't really do it for me, but I get where they're coming from. After all, I've long suspected that at least a modicum of the unchecked praise tossed her way stems from the fact that hundreds of thousands of her fans, "totally want to do [her]." Big deal. "Pop star's success aided by looks," is a story so spavined that it could only be broken by the Onion.

But--of course--there's more to Maya Arulpragasam than just looks. Her back-story was Slumdog Millionaire before it was a glint in Danny Boyle's eye. Between the radical politics, the day-glo clothing, and a savvy iconography befitting a former visual artist, she's emerged as the first true pan-global pop star--the type to send writers to their keyboards binding the viral nature of "bird flu" to the viral nature of the Internet. Like the faces of the overly tanned acolytes standing behind me: it's a slam dunk. Critics love nothing better than a good narrative, and let's not kid ourselves that globetrotting, caps lock-impaired, Tamil Tigress isn't a whole lot more interesting than Katy Perry--or god forbid, Lady Gaga.

It's an image that will be ingrained in our memory till our dying day. It's nearly midnight. Mastodon, one of America's greatest metal bands, is playing the Mojave tent. The guitars are fucking loud, the bass is in your bones. The pit, in front of the stage and about the size of a boxing ring, is filled with shirtless dudes letting off some serious steam. Aggression is a scary thing. What's inside of that fury that's spinning in the pit? Anger at mama? Papa? Both? The men, maybe 25 of them, are swirling around the edge of the space like stock cars around a track, bumping and banging and colliding and, well, being angry white males.

Timothy Norris

Glass Candy's Ida No, sleek and form-fitting disco futurism

Glass Candy's Ida No and Johnny Jewel have one thing going against them: it's hard to get a crowd moving when you're a behind a lot of gear, and your singing is less about showing off as it is getting the crowd moving. The solution: Ida can dance. She does this little shimmy shake that's part go-go dancer, part new wave seductress, part disco funk thingy. Jewel tosses off thumpy beats that draw from disco and first wave house. Ida No gets the crowd moving. It's simple.

Almost as soon as it began, sponsors and magazines have tried to find ways to promote themselves to Coachella's massive audience (as well as its performers), and there's no better way to do that than a party. Booze, food, DJs and other amusements are laid out at some swank Palm Springs/Indio pad, and style-conscious fun in the sun ensues. Unless there's a band we are dying to see (who wont end up playing LA eventually anyway) our M.O. the past couple years has been to skip the sweltering fest to lounge at these freebie-filled oasis' til the temps cool.

Despite the economy, there sure wasn't a shortage of shindigs this year: Filter's pre-party on Thursday, Urb's Indioasis, BPM's Music Loves Fashion, Levi's Desert Gold, Vitamin Water's Good Life, T-Mobile's after bash last night (which we planned to attend, but had absolutely no zing left for by the end of the eve). Yesterday's Anthem magazine gathering, was, as expected, pure mayhem. Ink baring teeny-tiny swimsuits everywhere, drunk dudes in funny hats, all splashing and screaming and shaking amid blaring beats. The DJs were great, even if the guy who played Mr. Mister's "Broken Wings" pushed the irony bar too far. It was the most crowded and crazed Coachella party we might have seen yet, alternately exciting and annoying.

We've got some friends who poo-poo the party scene all together, insisting that Coachella should be all about the music, not corporate-sponsored events. But Coachella is a big corporate sponsored event, and connecting with others is a big part of the experience too. Prancing and posing at parties, in the VIP (and super Artist VIP area where we scored access this year) aside, everybody mostly just wants to have fun. Come with the right attitude and you will make some inspiring human connections. This weekend in particular we made a lot of new Coachella friends... and only some of 'em were on Ecstasy.

Timothy Norris

Um. Yes? No?

You decide whether this works or not. We're just saying that more than one person remarked on the inordinate number of sailor's caps and Navy hats being worn yesterday. The white caps are a Turbonegro thing, apparently. But could this cleaner, more playful head wear supplant the feathered headband? Please? Also: lots of big Ray Bans and Carrera-style racing sunglasses.

Timothy Norris

Coachella nights, bathed in tattoo blue.

Out under the stars, Jenny Lewis' songs about God, love, family and travel sounded divine. Her coutry-tinged rock 'n' roll, even at its most bar-room raucous, gave the impression of a fireside gathering led by a counselor with a flair (and great talent) for the theatrical.

Timothy Norris

TV On The Radio at the Coachella main stage.

As the sun goes down on Day Two, TV On The Radio, last seen two years ago in the Gobi tent, stakes undeniable claim on the main stage. Underneath a backdrop of huge quilted banners, the band burns through "Wolf Like Me," with Dave Sitek and Kyp Malone in fine ax-wielding battle stance while Tunde Adebimpe and guest Katrina Ford (Celebration) dance across the stage hollering lyrics. A three-man horn section including members of Antibalas and Breakestra blares out further fantastic skronk, and only when the song ends do we come up for air. At this point, Malone's thin speaking voice trickles out: "Everything can change so fast." Pause. "Which is why we keep asking you." Longer pause. "Are you having a good time?"

Timothy Norris

Tinariwen: Nomads who now roam the earth delivering Tuareg music of Saharan North Africa.

This is the 2009 show that's likely to build into a Coachella legend. Tinariwen's sunset set at the Gobi tent. Standing on the stage, the sextet, dressed in traditional Tuareg robes and headwear and veils, the band, part of a nomadic community of Saharan North Africa, draws influences from the music of the region: Malian guitar pop and a little bit of tangled tunings of its fellow Africaners to further south and west, combined with western electric guitars and this ringing, pure tone that's closest American kindred is maybe Lou Reed's hollow, somewhat distorted electric vibe. Mingle this sound with an acoustic strum, hand claps, bass, percussion and something that we mere mortals can only understand as "groove," and you've got something magical.

Randall Roberts

Fashion tip for those wearing headbands and/or Carrera sunglasses: Tinariwen had a better look.

Updates coming. We're still in a sort worship mode. Tinariwen at sundown yesterday was a glory to behold. It carried us through the night, and this morning as we were drifting awake after day two of Coachella, Tinariwen's "Matadjem Yinmixan" graced our internal jukebox.

Timothy Norris

Buraka Som Sistema

Buraka Som Sistema
Gobi, 5:35 5:50 - 6:20
 
A sizeable crowd has gathered for Buraka Som Sistema in the Gobi tent, but the music hasn't started. Several men are running around the stage, chasing cables, jiggling things, playing music, stopping and starting again. The Portuguese band should have begun 15 minutes ago, but the audience doesn't mind. They take each false start as a cue to smash their palms together and chant like soccer hooligans: "Wegue! Wegue wegue wegue!" Soon enough, a swell of Kuduro percussion washes over us--a combination of sampled clatter, digitally triggered pads that DJ Riot is smacking with sticks, and a drum kit with a kick that'll blow a hole in your chest. MCs Kalaf and Conductor storm the stage and the tent becomes a heaving favela. Shirts go flying, arms too, and then the lithe-bodied Blaya arrives. She kicks, pops and spins like a capoeira fighter, and when she grabs the microphone, it's pure fire. Eight minutes later and the extended version of "Luanda/Lisboa" is over. It's cooling down outside, but all anyone here is interested in is heat. A highlife sample signals the start of the next song, an upbeat number bursting with bright overtones, all of which contrasts neatly against the opener's thumping menace. "Let's go to Africa," says Kalaf. "Are you familiar with Africa?" Bamako, Rio, Lisbon... Wherever we are, it sure ain't Indio.
 

Randall Roberts

All hail the Queen

Bret Easton Ellis once pointed out that the inhabitants of Los Angeles never stop babbling about the freeways. Then again, he penned, Less than Zero during the comparatively halcyon Tom Bradley days, prior to the total arteriosclerosis of the 405 and 101. Nowadays, surviving requires a serenity towards the iron inferno of rush hour. Consider Coachella a proxy for the city itself--if you're going to survive, you have to channel your inner Gautama towards the terrible, tortuous lines. Waits for everything: the asphyxiating grind down Jefferson to park, lines to pick up your press ticket, lines to enter the actual festival grounds, lines hoovered in the bathrooms of the VIP section. It makes sense--this shit's held at the Empire Polo Grounds: do as the livestock do, learn to queue.

If you can accept this basic reality, the festival continually lives up to its reputation. Three days in the desert, a backdrop of swaying palm trees and chocolate cake mountains, and every diletantish Angeleno trekking east to partake in a bit of cultural tourism. Thankfully, there's a VIP section to contain the anti-rabble, ostensibly to provide them with cleaner bathrooms, shorter lines, and a place to wear their fedoras unmolested. But really, the place is a Twilight Zone-type netherworld--the clubs of Los Angeles turned inside out and dropped in the middle of the Mojave.

This pretty much speaks for itself. It was everything you could ask for in a McCartney set. Stunning. Beautiful. And he opened with "Jet." We'd like to think that had something to do with us. It didn't.

Set list after the jump:

This weekend we pledge not to bitch about: the heat, the long-ass lines, the girl(s) wearing the same dress as us, the camera bullies in the photo pit (think big cars are penis extensions?), forgetting earplugs, and the fact that we WILL miss a band (or 4) we want to see...

We will, as we did last night, dance like a fool in the VIP area no matter how ridiculous we look, drink too much, take lots of pictures, and try to give you some semi-coherent day- after blog posts here.
Obligatory Coachella car-in-traffic shot

We've been tweeting (@L_in_A) too, and it being our first time doing it via phone, we learned an important lesson. Toasted tweeting can be risky. We heard that LA club DJ Chris Holmes was personally chosen by Paul McCartney to spin before his set (after he heard him at a party) and we're so impressed by his Beatles remix/soul slosh that we decided to tweet it. Unfortunately, we called him David Holmes (the English soundtrack guy) and got corrected by fellow twits real quick. CHRIS did a great job.

Larger than life Paul

But our full-on foolish moves came out only for Sir Paul, who graciously gave us Beatles fans just what we hoped for (see set-list post below). He was having a grand ol' time and seemed like he never wanted to stop. We watched half the set right in the thick of the crowd, and the other half in the VIP area, and encouragingly, the field crowd had nuthin' on those in the more glamorous gated section. Hell, if you're too cool to sing-a-long to "Hey Jude," with thousands and thousands of happy (high) humans, then you should NOT be at Coachella. Period.

Timothy Norris

He's our man.

It's always amazing to me when lyrics and other sounds beget tears, when a thought in someone's head transmitted from his neurons to his vocal chords (which propel sound waves through the open desert air) land on the thousands of eardrums awaiting the message, whatever it may be, with hope and openness. That thought vibrates in heads, sends a stereo feed to the brain via billions more neurons. They wend through our heads until aligned into some sort of mysterious order: "It goes like this/The fourth, the fifth/The minor fall, the major lift," our baffled brains composing "Hallelujah."

Randall Roberts

A rolling, tantruming, fucking breakdown on the polo field: Warrior Queen is victorious

We're going to provide a more detailed analysis of Warrior Queen's amazing sunset moment in the hours to come, but wanted to offer this quickie picture of her and collaborator The Bug's huge Gobi tent victory. Mixing dancehall, dubstep and bass that'll jiggle your tummy, the pair dropped an absolutely thrilling, bawdy, raucous set, the kind that'll stick in some memories. She reminded me of Muddy Waters up there, or James Brown. Holy moly.

Patrick O'Dell

Fatbeats' DJ Rhettmatic

Celebrating record stores as part of the second annual National Record Store Day, which is tomorrow, should be a no-brainer for Southern Californians. After all, the region is the undisputed center of the vinyl industry, with RTI, Rainbo and Erika all pressing vinyl for the country's best labels, and with Stoughton Printing in Industry being the leader in beautiful LP sleeves.

In this week's issue, Nikki Darling honors the contributions that record stores provide for musicians: paychecks that they're not making by being musicians. If you're out and about running errands and want to toss some of your $$ to record stores, we're providing a list of area retailers after the jump. If you're at Coachella, a bunch of bands will be hanging at the on site record store and signing autographs.

Randall Roberts

Will the VIP area feature as many silly headbands as last year? Stay tuned to find out.

... but if our calculations are correct and time keeps moving forward at the same rate it always does, in about five hours the tenth anniversary of Coachella will commence with a set by DJ Switch. Then, all bets are off. West Coast Sound has four writers on the ground covering the event. We'll be roaming the VIP taking photos of douchebags, looking for fashion geniuses and generally yucking it up behind the "velvet rope." We'll be roaming the grounds taking notes, will be Twittering, will be seeing music and then writing on it.

We've had our differences, Sir Paul, too many go into here ("Silly Love Songs," "Let Em In," "Ebony and Ivory"). I miss the simple Beatles songs that you crafted, some so beautiful ("Martha My Dear," "Eleanor Rigby," "Yesterday," "And I Love Her," and on and on) that you can't imagine them not existing in this world. But with a few exceptions, I never bought too much into the solo stuff. It seemed like you were trying too hard. Like it was so important to distance yourself from that Lennon fella that you kinda messed up your mojo. I don't know. I don't feel good about not liking your solo stuff as much as I should. My sister did her best. She inculcated me into the Church of Macca when I was 12.

Throbbing Gristle, back in the day.

We've acknowledged our excitement at Throbbing Gristle's return to Southern California already, but we figured that since the legendary band is closing out the festival on Sunday night, it might be a good opportunity to convince you to stick around (if you're not familiar with them).

Speculation has abounded. Fortunes gained and lost. The Vegas oddmakers have closed the betting.

Herewith, the official set times for Coachella.

Timothy Norris

My Bloody Valentine last year at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium

That's what Scenestar is reporting.

Vivian Girls

When Brooklyn's fuzz-pop queens Vivian Girls bring their grungy West Coast surf and girl-group sound to the desert, lead singer Cassie Ramone will probably utter her lyrics with the disaffected look of someone simultaneously bored and saddened by the fact that she has to be singing at all.