The Haute Critique

Chained to my pillow. A three day party. By the time dawn breaks on Sunday, most revelers have donated the better part of their spirit to the festival. Even as a two day event, Sunday was always much more mellow than Saturday.

Feeling a bit fatigued and with the thermometer striving towards triple digits, I waited until closer to sunset to hit the grounds. The first target is the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I saw them at an earlier Coachella, at about the same time of day. That show was promoting Show Your Bones. A fairly mediocre album save the hit Gold Lion. It was still a very good performance. The YYY’s were hindered mainly by their lack of quality songs. The new album, It’s Blitz!, goes out like a lamb, but it comes in like a lion. Surely this influx of material would elevate the set.

On stage, there is a giant eyeball. Kind of like a blue-eyed Sauron. They are running late, but the pounding starts and they take the stage. The guitarist still looks like Neal from Freaks and Geeks and the drummer has that Max Wienberg air about him. Then there is Karen O. The Edith Piaf of the hipster set. Glittering gold in the last rays of sun. As the second song reaches a climax she spreads her wings on stage. I could feel the crowd exhale.

The new material truly allows the front-woman to expand her voice. And she is a star on stage. The songs themselves do elevate the show, but the sound. Where is the danger that filled their early eps? Or the polish from the new record? As tiny inflated eyeballs bounce through the crowd, you see that this show is almost there. The progression is apparent, and the performance is special. With a little more thought and style from those not holding the mic, these guys will be headliners everywhere they go.

After the set, I wander through the gothic burlesque show. While the show is top notch, watching the audience is almost as much fun. I find a Cobb salad and hear the final bits of the Paul Weller set. I know that means that My Bloody Valentine will be hitting the main stage.

Loveless put My Bloody Valentine on the map. It is an album everyone can point to and say, that is a crown jewel of the shoe gazer catalog. A reclusive front man. Rumors of legendary live performances. The sonic tsunami hits. And it is fucking loud. Ears just stop working and the only way to take it in is orally. Jaws drop and tonsils buzz. Is this for real, or is it a trick making my brain release endorphins? Am I enjoying this? My heart says yes, but my feet say no.

As I walk for greener pastures, I realize that it is so loud, the organizers haven’t scheduled anything else during their set. A wise move, but it makes the outskirts of the grounds feel like a refugee camp.

Next I hit The Orb, another legend from days past. They have video screens and a thumping beat. I assume, because of their age, that every other cheesy trance wannabe ripped it off from them, and not vice versa. Wherever the culpability lies, it sounds dated.

Door number two is The Kills. I’ve long been obsessed with their song, Rodeo Town. And the set starts with a kick. The setup is boy meets girl meets drum machine. They milk it effectively, and often with genius. A dark spirit moves. They fit right in where the sex meets the asphalt, but sometimes the drum loops crimp the lasciviousness. While much of the set sparkles, there are a few sex by numbers moments, that we can do without.

And by the numbers, it is past the mind bending light cube to Groove Armada. Another DJ Set, but these are the guys that brought us the Shakin’ That Ass song. And their Ibiza style DJ set has all the elements. Throughout the set they drop a few bars from Daft Punk and the crowd goes wild. Back to the club DJ music and the tent deflates. They do it again… and again. If they don’t play some Daft Punk the crowd is going to get all Francis fucking Drake on this Armada. Truce. Around the World. Finale.

The DJ set is clearly the realm of MDMA. two nights in a row and THC had wished for better.

But more was to come. Etienne de Crecy… but he will get his own review.

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