Enjoy Yourselves, Coachella Ants

(The following was written a little under a year ago, based on my experiences in Los Angeles, California and Indio, California, the latter during the 2009 Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival. I hope no one goes through what we did, even though I'm sure thousands will. Hopefully they still have as much fun.)





A decent man with an honest profession has no need for a disguise. No poor soul has ever received the paralyzing news they were dying of cancer from a doctor wearing a fisherman's hat and curly blond wig. James Madison, despite the urban legend, did not wear one during his "Veto Act on Incorporating the Alexandria Protestant Episcopal Church" in 1811, and curiously no other sitting president has donned the prestigious hat/wig combo either, for any diplomatic appearance of any kind. (John Adams did sport a majestic, albeit bold, do-rag atop his powdered white wig for Washington's inauguration, if that counts. What a ruffian!) Pilots don't wear them, nor do priests. Would they appear too unprofessional? Impossible to take seriously? Perhaps centuries of abuse by bank robbers, comic book villains, and Kubrick-style orgies have simply taken their toll on the disguise, creating an irreversible stereotype of debauchery and deceit.

Luckily for myself and my desperate cohorts Steve, Callahan, and Anne, we were willing to look past one man's (hero's?) chosen facade for his particular line of "employment", and that man walked out of a sushi bar in Los Angeles with $460 of my party's money in exchange for four tickets to the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival.

"Jim" had the body of a taller Kevin Pollak, and never once made eye contact through his beautiful, synthetic blond locks. Steve had found him that morning on Craigslist by misspelling "Coachella" (with one "L", hoping to capitalize on the rube's spelling error for a cheaper, buried deal) and the transaction was underway. Jim was sitting in the Ra's Al Ghul lair/opium den section of a sushi bar (not the adjacent pizza joint like he said he'd be), the sunlight barely peeking in through the blinds. He claimed he was late due to "wiring money to (his) mother". Oh, Hollywood! You sure didn't let down a naive Midwesterner like myself with your kooky native sons! I had always seen pathetic weirdos like him with their bizarre, deadbeat excuses in the movies, and now here's a real one! Only for Sir Paul McCartney and Morrissey would we go through such a questionable debacle, and on the day before the show, the reward was worth the risk.

Needless to say, when the scanners didn't properly work the next day and we were rejected at the entrance, left with nothing but our incredibly realistic counterfeit Ticketmaster tickets in our left hand and our dicks in the other, our veiled Craigslist saviour was long gone. Did we know they were fake? Let's just say we didn't exactly shit our pants and fall off the rocker. Did I mention the fucking guy who sold them to us wore a goddamn disguise? More on this later...

Police sketch of "Jim".

Friday the 17th, the day of the show, kicked off as would any other day, only if "any other day" was spent in a reality show-style house with good folks cooking you breakfast while you had drug and booze-induced ejaculatory water-gun battles with your friends in a pool for four hours beside the mountains in the desert of California. Normally my German skin endures a merciless rape at the hands of the sun, but today was different. I was being spared for a particular reason, and that reason was Paul Fucking McCartney. Some might say it was the lotion Anne brought and the constant retreat into shadows, but my heart knows it was the Beatles. After eating a brownie and temporarily losing my ticket without ever really losing it, the gang was off for Indio.

After parking probably closer to Indianapolis than the actual venue, the long and winding walk was littered with optimistic faces for an historic night. We were all sure Morrissey would be an egotistical dick, probably playing two or three Smiths songs begrudgingly wedged in with his entire catalog of solo material. Paul would definitely be his stage-stealing, charismatic goober self, bobbing his head while belting out songs the entire world wanted to fuck him for. A few others were excited for some of the up-and-coming bands (Crystal Castles had a huge following at their tent, and some new young guy named Leonard Cohen came on after Conor Oberst) but the four of us were predominately eager to simply cross some of the biggest names in music off our list. Which made the following exchange that much harder to hear:

Coachella Ticket Woman:

Where did you get these?


Callahan: (trying to blow past her, very matter-of-fact)

Ticketmaster


Coachella Ticket Woman:

These are counterfeit tickets. It's happened to like a thousand people today. Can you step aside?

This wouldn't be as surprising if Steve hadn't just blown by his guy a second earlier in a different line. Apparently that guard/person/ticket taker was too timid to absolutely crush his counterfeit victims' days with the horrible truth. Ours was not. Her male partner walked over to speak with us, so Steve did what any honorable man would do in our deplorable situation:

Steve:

What would you say if you had $100 in your pocket right now? Would you let us through?


Coachella Ticket Man:

No. I make way more than that here.

Apparently Morrisey and McCartney are opening up for this guy. He makes "way more than" $100. The four of us proceeded to his monument of worship and forgot all about the festival. The End.

Fortunately for us, this was nowhere near the end. Anne (Callahan's lovely actress girlfriend) gave her best performance, photographing the tickets and pretending to frantically search her bag for something. Steve walked up to Anne and the guard to create more confusion, and Callahan and I locked eyes. Stockton had the ball while Malone set the pick. Darting towards one of the bigger crowds about fifteen yards apart, we saw freedom. Surprisingly enough, no walkies alerted other walkies that a couple of no-good punks were on the loose, and no jheri-curled men with Ricky Henderson sunglasses on golf carts were instructed to take us down. Steve and Anne, unfortunately, had to foot the bill for two more tickets, but it was well worth it. After about an hour of cell phone-less confusion and paranoia, the four of us reunited in all our glory in time for the Black Keys to perform on the main stage.

Indio, California is simply breathtaking. The festival is laid out on a sprawling golf fairway surrounded by mountains with stages and tents set up everywhere. There was even one of those big metal T-Rex type machines that's only purpose is to pick up cars and eat them for everyone's barbaric enjoyment. It's amazing to me that we live in a world where a group sits around and tries to tackle all of the world's problems and one guy says, "Well, I'm currently working on stopping the drug cartels of Mexico, so the world definitely needs better trained law enforcement and a true understanding of the war on drugs." Another woman says, "Well, miscarriages affect many families every year, and it's a heartbreaking situation when two loving adults cannot have a baby. I will not stop until I find a resolution." Then the last guy says, "Well, I'm currently working on a giant T-Rex mechanical replica that can pick up cars and blow fire while destroying them." I'm glad everyone's priorities are in the right place.

(Editor's Comment: Thanks for reading this sports blog today!)



I've always heard the Black Keys were a phenomenal live band, and they certainly did not disappoint. Unfortunately, I only own Attack & Release, but watching them perform officially put to rest any idea I ever had of playing in front of that many people. Seeing Dan Auerbach masterfully stroke his ax while growling into the mic was certainly a joy I would prefer writing a paragraph about then actually doing, assuming no one enjoys the shakes and slurred speech. Along with drummer Patrick Carney, they've been compared to the White Stripes, and I definitely hear that, but they have a dirty Akron style all of their own (I have no idea what that means). I recognized most of their songs, but the rush of everything put together at that point was nowhere near its unforgiving climax. The excitement was building. A Beatle would be on this very stage in a matter of hours.

After the band from LeBron Land was finished, we had a decision to make: Do we stay at the main stage for Franz Ferdinand or go to the second stage for Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band? I had already devoured the Bright Eyes phase of my life and spit it out, so it was no big deal, and Callahan and I had seen him before, including the disastrous Chicago Trip of '03 where my truck was towed for foolishly parking in a Wrigleyville Burger King lot for the entire show.

Steve had seen Conor play at Coachella a few years earlier and hated his guts, but was equally less interested in the delicious fag-pop dance rock of Franz Ferdinand. After a few moments of discussion (and everyone getting some sort of pizza sandwich but me; I chose the $13 chicken on a stick with rice) we marched towards Conor simply because Leonard Cohen was coming up next. Another titan of music was but a few minutes from taking the stage.

Lenny came out looking sharp as always in a black suit and fedora, not to be confused with all the douches in the audience with Pac Sun or Target fedoras. He referred to everyone in the audience as "friends", and at certain moments I thought I came to LA for a Christian convention. A good bulk of Cohen's songs have always dealt with God and faith, and I certainly never felt uncomfortable, but hearing that voice coming from a 74-year old man was almost an astonishing religious experience in itself. Callahan thought he sounded like a drunk old man doing Cohen karaoke, and I couldn't disagree, but if I sound that good at that age I'll be the most egotistical womanizer around.

Put the rumors to bed: John Wooden's still got it.

On a random note, another incredibly famous 74-year old in the same area? Everyone's favorite kid who got traded by his own mother for a pitcher of beer, Charlie Manson! Being my first trip to California, I was eager to get my serial killer groove on. Where's Sharon Tate's house? Where did Richard Ramirez hang out? How long would the car trip be to blood sucker Richard Chase's place in Sacramento? That Edmund Kemper's a wack job, eh? My next trip will have these answers and more, except the last question, because it's rhetorical. I couldn't help but imagining Manson sitting in a prison cell, probably masturbating, while Cohen performed pretty much the exact set list ("Hallelujah", "I'm Your Man", etc.) I would have guessed. It was a beautiful night to not be locked in prison.

While walking back to the main stage, we heard the unmistakable androgynous pipes of Steven Patrick Morrissey. He started his set before we got settled in, but "This Charming Man" was the perfect soundtrack for finding our place in the crowd. Yes, it's on every greatest hits album, but I fucking love it without shame. "First of the Gang to Die" was up next, much to the delight of my dazed crew, and then the hilarity took hold. "Girlfriend in a Coma"? "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others"? Check and glorious check. However, he played some solo material with, how should I put this to spare the feelings of the delicate Steven Morrissey, fucking hilarious lyrics. Like, even for Smiths songs. "How Could Anyone Possibly Know How I Feel?" has this delicious quip:

I've had my face dragged in fifteen miles of shit and I do not like it / So how can anybody say they know how I feel? / The only one around here who is me is me

Right on, Morrissey. Nobody in the audience right now is you, and that lyric looks passable on paper but is fucking hilarious to hear. I was planning on typing every line like that, but I have no experience in writing a book.

You heard me! If I don't play in front of a weird fucking sailor man, I don't play at all!

The Morrissey political parade then took over the night. After apparently smelling any type of food in the air (I ate chicken, my friends had pig) Morrisey became enraged: "I can smell burning flesh ... and I hope to God it's human," was one remark, followed by, "The smell of burning animals is making me sick. I just couldn't bear it." What couldn't he bear, exactly? Being on the stage! He walked out in the middle of "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others" and let the band fend for themselves. He did return later, and even removed his shirt in easily the most awkward moment of the night (even after being prepared by several YouTube videos displaying a barechested Steven). He left the stage again, only to return with a different shirt on. The whole time he acted like the festival was beneath him, like he was playing at the Hendricks County Fairgrounds where I saw Hacksaw Jim Duggan once. You're playing in one of the biggest festivals on earth! I think there's a considerable difference between telling an artist to play his hits and telling an artist to stop being a pompous queef.

Ladies? Gentlemen?

Almost on cue, "How Soon Is Now?" was predictably belted out and he was gone. My guess was his ego couldn't handle the fact that Paul McCartney, arguably one of the ten most famous people alive, wasn't opening up for him. If Morrissey can forgive Jesus, though, Matt Strosnider can forgive Morrissey.

While watching Morrissey leave the stage was a somber sight, knowing McCartney was coming instantly erased it. I remember being really young and sitting in the backseat of my dad's '80s Cadillac when I first heard "Eleanor Rigby". He always listened to the '60s radio station, so in between girl group pop and cheesy dance crazes you'd get a Beatles song. I think it was my first particular go-round with the Fab Four, and I was floored. The string arrangement was infinitely better just by itself than my Jon B & Babyface cassette tape.

Then we could hear it! We could hear Paul's voice...

...coming from a DJ. For easily forty minutes Paul made us wait and listen to all these shitty remixes of Beatles songs while his smoke machine got us "pumped". Of course by "pumped" I mean claustrophobic and squished amongst thousands of people crunching in to get as close as physically possible.

I lost my shit. The anticipation was too much, and I certainly was not in the right state of mind to wait any longer. Anne graciously made a big enough hole for me to sit down and ponder my life, contemplate booing Paul for this agonizing delay, and watch people swallow me up as if I died right there.

Then the lights came on, Callahan helped me up, and I could see one of the two living Beatles right there, thirty yards in front of me. To lamely use a common English expression, the only word I could think of when looking at Paul's face was "cheeky". He was so damn cheeky. He knew how fucking awesome he was, everyone there knew how fucking awesome he was and now it was time to just enjoy it.

You thought that was a cute little improv riff, did you? Play it like it sounds on the FUCKING record, Rusty.

By the end of the night he played 35 songs. 35 songs!

Paul McCartney's Coachella Set List

Jet / Drive My Car / Only Mama Knows / Flaming Pie / Got to Get You Into My Life / Let Me Roll It (with a coda of Purple Haze) / Honey Hush / Highway / The Long and Winding Road / My Love / Blackbird / Here Today / Dance Tonight / Calico Skies / Mrs. Vanderbilt / Eleanor Rigby / Sing the Changes / Band on the Run / Back in the U.S.S.R. / Something / I’ve Got a Feeling / Paperback Writer / A Day in the Life > Give Peace a Chance / Let It Be / Live and Let Die / Hey Jude

First encore: Birthday / Can’t Buy Me Love / Lady Madonna
Second encore: Yesterday / Helter Skelter / Get Back / Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise) > The End

Cheek City!

Unbelievable. Un-goddamn-believable. I was actually worried because "Live and Let Die" had such a spectacular fireworks display that I thought the show was over. I thought I would be the only person in the last 40 years to attend a McCartney show without hearing "Hey Jude" until he included the audience in an immortal sing-a-long. However, that was not the highlight of the night, as expected. Paul became incredibly intimate, almost teary, when discussing the almost exact 11 year reunion of his wife Linda's death. He played "A Day in the Life", one of John Lennon's best songs, followed by "Give Peace a Chance". He played George Harrison's "Something" on ukulele for George's wife in the audience.




For someone as notoriously controlling and spotlight-hogging as McCartney (from what I've read), it was amazing to me to see him give so much love and time to his fellow Beatles. It wasn't all about him, it was a celebration of everything he's ever done with everyone he's ever worked with. He was gracious, appreciative and unreal. He did still love to soak up that applause though, seemingly bathing in it for two minutes after every song. I could have cared less. After all, I was one of the 166,000 people there worshipping at the altar of McCartney.