I entered the Coachella grounds giddy from the knowledge that I had managed to finagle myself entry to the festival without payment for another year running. That euphoria wore off a few minutes after I got in as I realized that I was already drenched in my own sweat. This year's line up was polarizing but ultimately acceptable for the array of indie hipsters, bassheads, those curious neo-gypsies that only seem to turn up at festivals, aging mainstream music fans looking for their nostalgia fix, droves of fresh-faced high schoolers, and people just looking for a fun weekend out.

The weekend started with a bang. Battles were the second band to play in the Gobi tent (which is the smallest stage at the festival) but arguably the best act of the first day. Their brand of experimental, almost-robotic mix of post-dance and rock music had the crowd bobbing their heads in time signatures they didn't even know existed. Really, they are one of the most exciting acts around and their live performance does them justice. They were immediately followed by Dan Deacon, whose hyper-pop-roving-dance-party had the crowd in a frenzy before the sweltering sun had even thought about setting. Undoing the divide between artist and fan, Deacon performs in the thick of the crowd and his good-times vibe was felt by most as the entire tent was transformed into a circulating mélange of bodies while a dance competition was held in the middle per his request. Literally, it was like hipster day camp for adults. His performance lacks the pretension that most DJ's exhibit and the crowd that attends his performances seems to echo this. They're all just looking to dance like idiots and have some fun as opposed to being present for the new hippest thing (of which there was plenty at Coachella). I exited the Gobi tent two hours after entry, dripping with the bodily secretions of countless others and twiddling with the curious idea that my day had already peaked before nighttime.

I spent the rest of the evening bouncing between sets, as none really captured my imagination. Jens Lekman was unequivocally okay. His songs are all pleasant and the performance of them wasn't disappointing but his crooning couldn't hold my attention for long enough. I went from there to The Breeders. The past-it post-Pixies Kim Deal led band moseyed through a set punctuated by, of course, their smash hit ‘Cannonball' and a cover of The Beatles' ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun'. The Pitchfork crowd had camped themselves at the outdoor theatre by this point for the double header of Vampire Weekend and The National. Both bands are massively overrated and an example of unabashed indie hype at it's worse. Vampire Weekend sound like an amateur regurgitation of Paul Simon dressed up in hip clothing and The National are every boring trope of indie music rolled up into one convenient band.

The Verve weren't really worth watching. Their whole ‘Isn't this an Oasis b-side?' aesthetic lost me pretty quickly, especially with Richard Ashcroft's pompous gesturing, culminating in the proclamation that ‘this is music'. Well, this, Richard, is me leaving your set until you play ‘Bittersweet Symphony'. In fact, the crowd at the main stage must have doubled in the proceeding seconds after the memorable violin sample kicked in. It was a pleasant sing-along before I made my first real excursion into the heart of the Sahara Tent to see Fatboy Slim. His set was a lot of fun. His DJ setup was elevated at least twenty feet and in front of massive video screens with visual stimulation matching the music. Most people probably equate him with his commercial releases, but the man can really make a party as a DJ. We all left after a good while at Fatboy, only to be stuck in the traffic of the droves of people leaving Jack Johnson early. The one unifying factor of the festival this year was that everybody was absolutely clueless as to how he managed to headline a day.

An honorable mention must be made to the massive amount of underage kids at the festival this year. I have never seen so many fifteen year old girls with braces clad in bikinis and rolling on ecstacy in the same space ever before. Coachella this year was like watching the movie ‘Lolita' for 72 hours straight. Somebody should tell these kids' parents that they are doing a lot of drugs.

Verdict for Friday:

The Best: Battles
The Worst: Spank Rock (for being too fucked up to even be able to play a set)
The Most Amusing: That one dude I saw who had totally passed out from doing too many drugs before 5 PM. Way to go, man.

By Jemayel Khawaja
 

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