Coachella was once magic. A warm and dry de-thawing station in the desert where all of California (and a shit-ton of Australians) could go put pigment and beer and drugs in their cold, winter-white bodies and listen to good music and lay in so much grass. It started as the perennial hipster gathering, with reunion and modern acts like Rage Against the Machine, Radiohead, Refused, At The Drive-in, and Tupac! Bands that would make anyone with a taste for good music flock to the desert long enough for the drugs to take hold and wear off. And I will tell you: there really is nothing like watching the sun dip across a desert sky as Modest Mouse play the first chord of “Dramamine” with a cold $20 dollar beer in your hand. But the romance is waning Coachella. I don’t even have FOMO. Thats’ how you know you’re slipping.
Perhaps it’s gained a little too much mainstream appeal to be the romantic romp in the desert it once was — and they’ve gotten very cocky in their growth (what do you mean we don’t get Press Passes!). And the crowds aren’t exactly young and hipster and influential anymore either — instead of young, hot hipsters and youth littering the crowd you’ll actually find many people you wouldn’t be shocked to run into at Lego Land the following weekend. That and a pretty significant amount of clueless frat boys and girls who have no idea what is playing on stage. And let’s not even open the can of worms that is banking on Guns ‘n’ Roses as being a reason to go…(God, did you see the sloppy mess they were at the Troubadour? eww).
But, if you are going anyway and refuse to sell your ticket as I have advised and are not buying round trip tickets to Barbados with the money, then will you please have some of the incredible pizza for me and make sure you watch Sheer Mag. —Travis