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The photos below were IM’d to me Saturday by filthy Croat genius, 2001 Brooklyn Karaoke Grammy runner-up, and Buchla tech supreme Mark Verbos during the course of a V.O. session I was attempting to direct (from L.A. via IM) and he was supposed to be recording (in NYC) for the super awesome Butcher’s Daughter pilot we shot recently.
In addition to the steady flow of cocks and monstrosities that Mark dropped in my IM receptacle, Julia (on the NYC side) also discovered as she re-entered the studio (kitchen) from the sound booth (bathroom?), that Mark, while conducting the recording, and plying me with photos of awesome weird shit, had somehow also been engaged in foreplay with a young lady on yet another open IM conversation.
According to eye witness accounts, the conversation with the anonymous co-ed actually began with the classic “What are you wearing?”
No, really.
Anyway, here’s the pix…
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Pushy people.
Rude, ugly, mean, sweaty, angry, retarded people.
Everywhere.
Shouting and spitting.
Laughing and crying.
Pushing and shoving.
Some dressed up like Indians and Amsterdam whores.
Wearing tribal tattoos and navel suns.
Stepping on people and calling them names.
This is what we’ve come to.
This is us…
and we’re fucked.
This is a version of the loop that swirled in my head all weekend long in the midst of the oversold (by more than 15,000 tickets, not counting illegal entries, according to press reports), and poorly organized, clusterfuckfest AEG sold us as Coachella.
Lines for hours. Garbage everywhere. They ran out of wristbands. They ran out of water. According to reports, 65 people were carried out on Friday alone due to heat exhaustion and security guards were allegedly manhandling festival-goers in the campground.
The term of the weekend “Periodic table” which I defined with the help of Lawbreaker and Nate Doughnut as “exposing a hired prostitute to ALL the elements” (not Ununnilium or Califnornium, nor the wind, rain or snow, but other wet, nasty things if you catch my drift), instead became a term to describe perfectly what Coachella had exposed me to.
That being said, I somehow managed, between dodging full water bottles, Red Bulls cans, shoves and the scissor elbows of angry meatheads, to enjoy a pocketful of moments for my $300 throughout the weekend.
The Specials. B+
Living in L.A. (aka dangerously close to the OC) as a rule I avoid ska, but these guys are legends for a reason. Just one more example of the old guys running it, and in fucking suits! In 90 degree heat! Nuts…
Passion Pit C –
Singer Michael Angelakos is really just El Debarge with laryngitis and a beard. Catchy tunes, but not sure why the singer chose to sing an entire album in an unreachable register. Sounds like: Somebody needs a vocal coach.
Don’t believe me? Check it out…
Is it just me or do you feel like you’re watching a junior high talent show?
Them Crooked Vultures. B+
Relief. If anything, a perfect anecdote to El Debarge. Sounds like: Jumbo’s Clown Room capacity 50,000.
LCD. A
Big boner. By the end I was levitating.
Vampire Weekend. A –
These guys are dicks. Once I got over the fact that these Ivy League pussies are smarter, more charming, handsome and talented than I ever was, I had a great time.
Fever Ray. C –
Battlestar Horrorlactica. Drug sex. Nap time.
PIL. ?
Apparently we’re both too old for the revolution because he was sucking and I left early.
Jay Z. ?
Sounds like: 80,000 white kids in sports sandals rapping about shit they can’t afford.
SATURDAY
Gossip. A+
The band killed it and the most charismatic front man at the festival was a woman.
The XX. D
Snoozefest. This is music to make out to, not to perform for 750 thousand million people in 100 degree desert heat.
Hot Chip. B-
Snore. Think it might just be that they’ve gotten better and I’ve gotten bored. Maybe a roof, more volume and a better light show would help?
MGMT. A
Pleasant surprise. I feel like everybody I’ve ever spoken to about MGMT before this told me they sucked live. The only song they seemed to have trouble with was the big one, the catchy one all the kids were dancing to — but not “Kids” the song — the other one, the one that’s supposedly a tribute to, or about, Andrew Wood of Mother Love Bone or something (or so I read somewhere). They killed it on everything else, especially new shit. Voice found.
Major Lazer. F
Did I really spend money to watch some retard in a yellow Mohawk climb and jump off of a ladder and scream “We party ever day!” into a mic over Benny Benassi tracks? Or is this his “thing” and I just wasn’t informed? Guess I expected too much from the man who gave us the booty-quaking greatness that is “Pon De Floor.”
SUNDAY
Julia Casablancas. C
Saw him at the Downtown Palace Theater and he was amazing. Guess I was too busy berating the 15 year old that clocked my friend square in the face with empty can of Red Bull to enjoy it much this time. Good times…
Spoon. B
Lots of leg room. Sounded great. Kinda boring.
Phoenix. A+
Killer sound. Great performance. Their enthusiasm was contagious. Flawless execution of new stuff as well as classics made it easier to ignore the flying water bottles and scissor elbows.
Thom Yorke. A
Before he went on I wasn’t sure if I was in the right place. Bros were pushing through. A fight broke out. I had to check my GPS to make sure I hadn’t fallen through some wormhole and ended up at the Woodstock ’99 Limp Bizkit set. But then Mr. dancing machine came on and blew my mind. Again.
Thank you, Mr. Yorke for sending me home on the verge of good tears instead of bad ones.
Gorillaz. D
This year’s answer to Paul McCartney and Roger Waters, from the back of the crowd (aka Pomona), looked like a snail-paced, budget sucking snore.
Fuck you very much Coachella,
Kostrzak
(Found in sidewalk outside 719 N. Formosa Avenue)
