In a display of breadth of pop music, Coachella threw together generations of wordsmiths, arguably some of the best of each generation.
To hear them side by side was fascinating, inspiring and in some cases perplexing. Morrisey, representing England of the 80’s, created an undeniably pitiful performance. Setting the stage, a piano solo of Memories, from the Broadway show Cats. The song of the mangy cat as she comes to terms with her imminent death. The song itself is a masterpiece of nostalgic misery. The dejected loneliness of The Smiths has become a one man farce. A man soaked in his own impotence and hateful of his own shadow. Failing at everything, including the role of silver haired crooner. His age and self loathing compound song after song. With a political jab or an anti-police rant mixed in just to show you that he once had aspirations of being a socially important artist, he comes back to the theme of how far away he is now from where he wanted to be as a youth. It is an amazing act. Worthy of Rodney Dangerfield. Or, at least I hope it is an act. If it isn’t, then that is truly pitiful.
Stepping back through predecessors, you have Leonard Cohen. The romantic other side of the coin to the surrealism of Tom Waits. His craft of words is nonpareil. He dances you away through a complex human condition of desires and organized religion. Honed arrangements that tickle the fringes of this rich persian rug, tied with the tiniest of fingers. He bounces you through a black velvet sea-side motel. Often dark and seedy, but always soft with a beautiful view.
The finale of this wordfest was supposed to be Sir Paul McCartney, representing the 60’s. Arguably one of the most important pop music song writers, when including the work he did with John Lennon. They brought wordy song writing to rock and roll. And some of those lyrics pound out of the speakers. A nostalgic promise. It’s a DJ remixing Beatles songs and Beatles covers. As Paul takes the stage, that promise turns bland. While his best songs were in his years with The Beatles, he still wrote dozens of great songs in the decades that followed. The sparkling pop crown jewels we had just heard are usurped with the mediocrity that convinced the world of the genius of John Lennon. The fresh is swapped out for the machined pop that betrays Sir Paul’s taste, apparently better left in the hands of young DJ’s. Rumor has it that the set got better and better as it went on, but some times sweet deserts can’t cover for a relatively generic meal. As the set rolls on, the meat is put in the grinder. Finishing on old highs as more of a walk down memory lane than communing with the prince of pop idolatry.
But that is not the end of the story. There we were, more than once wandering the grounds. A hundred foot long iron snake breathing flames, protecting her egg. 30 foot tall metal hand crushing a car and flipping us the bird. What were the DJ’s playing? It was from the 90’s. The beats were strobe lights and glow sticks, but it was Kurt Cobain bringing the message. It was 20 years ago today. Nirvana would seem to have no place in the mix, but hey Mr. DJ, put a record on. Nevermind
The new generation putting pen to paper was represented by Conor Oberst. His brilliance makes him the target of envy and derision. He is too much of this or not enough that, depending on what review you read. Seeing him live convinces you that this venom is wrought of jealousy. Falling short of Dylan is no crime. Singing those “tear gas riot songs.” Jeering at Hunter S. Thompson or Hemingway’s ghost. He offers up new generation anthems that sound old and fresh the first time you hear them. And it’s the words. The words roll out in a rippled stream of nuance and violence. The shapes of the letters leaving the impression of a new era.
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