Reykjavík Grapevine - 18.05.2007, Qupperneq 9

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Students at the Iceland Academy of the
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On day one of the 2007 Coachella Valley Music
Festival, Jarvis Cocker offered the weekend’s
most touching, politically poignant observa-
tion: “This is very different than England. I’m
going to sing a song about rain, but this is the
desert and it doesn’t even rain here.”
Yes, the Coachella polo grounds were not rainy.
And this astounded the former Pulp frontman.
He spent the better part of thirty minutes trying
to wrap his head around that.
A few days later, driving away from the
desert site of the ultimate preview for the rock
royalty here in America, I suffered a moment
of Cockeresque confusion—if Coachella was
a decidedly American setting, bigger than life,
surrounded by gated communities and then
freeway, with an audience full of American film
stars including Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore,
Ron Jeremy and Jason Lee (Earl J. Hickey from
My Name is Earl), it was a little surprising to
realize that most of the best received artists
were from across the pond. The future of criti-
cally acclaimed commercial rock in America
looks to be British.
I should explain what Coachella is and
why it is so important, but I’m having trouble
coming to grips with it. Originally, Coachella
was just a bad idea come to fruition, a concert
held in a desert oasis in the summer offering
25,000 fans a chance to get sunstroke while
watching Rage Against the Machine—which
may still be the recommended manner in which
to take in a Rage concert. Slowly, the festival
has grown in influence, as bands like Iggy and
the Stooges and the Pixies chose it as the site
for their reunion concerts. Then, last year,
Gnarls Barkley used the venue to step into the
nationwide spotlight and it seemed pretty clear
that this was the kingmaker among festivals:
CMJ could get a band a write up in Pitchfork
and blogs, but Coachella gets radio, TV and
newspaper coverage.
And before I describe the festival, it’s worth
describing the coverage. In years past, there
was mention of reunions and revelry. This
year, one act garnered nationwide attention:
Björk. She offered an energetic, enigmatic live
introduction of Volta to thousands of fans and
she got bewildered but mostly positive praise…
for her wardrobe. Beyond Björk, bands weren’t
mentioned nearly as much as the celebrities in
the crowd.
Listening to a Clear Channel station on
my way out of LA after the festival, I got the
summary that mass media was using to sum-
marize the festival in the curious fragment from
a pleased DJ: “Yes, and this year at Coachella,
Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore were danc-
ing in the grass. That’s a memory.”
Friday
My festival experience began with two hours
of waiting to park and get in—due to traffic
mishaps in LA before that, this meant missing
Of Montreal, the indie sensation from Athens
Georgia, and Nickel Creek, a young bluegrass
outfit that has redefined the genre. When I
got in, the Arctic Monkeys were on the main
stage, which one might think would be the
worst of possible omens. The Arctic Monkeys
may be the least original and most over-hyped
of the Brit pop scene. It is one thing to dislike
teenagers for by-the-numbers rock with lyrics
that confuse sneer for wit, syllables for intel-
lectualism, but it is another to see these kids
get up before thousands and play these songs
with a sense of humour, and tighter than any
band I’ve seen. Had I never seen them on a
magazine cover, or in the New York Times, had
I never listened closely to the lyrics, I would
have been a fan for life.
Rufus Wainwright presented a bewildering
performance. From the start, with a peculiar
wardrobe malfunction involving a to-die-for
butterfly broach, he offered causal quips be-
tween his smooth, honest and awkward songs.
Here’s an explanation of how bewildering the
show was: the self-described “Gay Sinatra”
joked, nightclub style, “It’s great to be here in
the desert where all the rejects have to go…
you know, the gays the homosexuals…” to
hoots and hollers, and then jumped into Go-
ing to a Town (That has Been Burnt Down),
with the refrain “I’m so tired of America”, a
performance that would bring a theatre crowd
to their feet and, having captured our attention
and intellect, he declared he was hot. Taking
off his clothes he pulled off a robe to reveal
a red, white and blue striped shirt and shorts
combo.
Among other remarkable moments Friday:
the Mexican act Felix the Kat getting a sing-
along going from a small but vocal following;
Jarvis Cocker’s aforementioned rambling show
that delayed the whole evening a little—he not
only felt like talkin’, but he was also about 45
minutes late; and Interpol getting on stage and
getting the best response of the festival.
That should come as a shock Interpol being
a festival favourite. Yes, all dressed in black,
their singer kind of looked like Mark Hamill
in Return of the Jedi, which is neat, and their
songs sounded like they did on the radio only
a little more full. It was an odd moment, for
all the eclectic performances of the night,
Interpol’s straight-faced, straight-laced show,
with no antics save the bass player growing a
moustache, was the show of the night.
Later, Sonic Youth would play to an older
crowd and Björk would play the main stage,
drawing adoration but also more than a little
frustration. Björk’s visual performance was
stunning, but as she ain’t exactly tall. The video
monitors that helped the crowd of upwards
of 25,000 get a guess as to what was going
on were focused on the motions of her DJs
hands, not too much of the crowd saw more
than the singer’s bobbing head. Her material
from her forthcoming album, Volta, was mostly
in minor keys and a little more laid back than
her stage antics suggested, or than the crowd
probably wanted.
Saturday
On day two of the festival, heat became an
issue. Late in the afternoon I was rammed
into a packed tent watching Hot Chip blare
through The Warning, with 4,000 20-some-
thing shirtless kids bouncing next to me,
when the room spun in a bad way and I had
to crawl out. The temperature outside of the
non-air conditioned tent at 5 pm: 103 degrees
(about 40 degrees Celsius).
It had been difficult earlier in the day.
When I saw the Icelandic band the Fields
play the same tent at noon, their conven-
tional takes on the pop song and their laid
back manner had been virtues, perfect for
lazy viewing in the heat. I had abandoned
The Cribs, who played so hard you sweated
just looking at them, and headed out to
the open air to see New Jersey’s once great
hope Fountains of Wayne. And I had been
grateful, somehow, to Regina Spektor for
apologizing to the crowd for the ridiculous
heat. Spektor’s presence on recordings can
be a little sentimental—she can be breathy
and overly cute. But live, from a somewhat
daring opening a cappella number through
her next six numbers from Begin to Hope,
her skill, her perfect pitch and rhythm, made
for a charming performance, even when her
sometimes slightly overly precious and cute
Standing in the Desert, Thinking of Rain
Text by Bart Cameron Photos by Brian Romero
Later, Björk would play
the main stage, drawing
adoration but also more
than a little frustration.