CoacHELLa

The premier US festival of the last 10 years, Coachella, begins today, having expanded beyond the weekend into a 3 day fight for survival. Out on the Empire Polo Fields in Indio, over 100,000 attendees will try and outlast exposure to severe elements, overpriced sundries, mediocre indie music, and annoying people next to them. What an amazingly awful challenge to undertake. When I was a babe, I had a few encounters with Lollapalooza, so I understand how these mega-festivals operate, and that’s reason enough to avoid this desert clusterfuck.

First off, there’s the bill. Perhaps the grab all is that after you’ve spent $250 to get in you’ve got over 110 bands to choose from. I scan the multitude of acts and barely see a handful I would pay money to see, even breaking down the per band cost to about $0.45 each. I may have CDs of some of the artists, but I wouldn’t drive out to the desert to bake all day even at standard concert pricing. Two of the headliners, Rage Inside The Mansion and the Red Hot Junkie Peppers are enough to keep me away, period. And sorry if the likes of Tokyo Police Club, CocoRosie, and Junior Boys don’t quite compel me to haul ass out towards the venue.

I mentioned the cost already, but have you looked at the rules and regulations? Here are some suspicious items from the banned list – outside food and beverages, camelpacks, blankets. You can bring sunglasses, lip balm, and sunscreen – c’mon, they’re not evil. But they will provide them for you…for a fee, of course. They may pride themselves on maintaining a $2 price on a little bottle of water, but how many of those are you going to go through while you’re there? And at least two overpriced meals for the three days? Have no illusions about it…this is not the legacy of Woodstock and free love. It is a corporate event, promoted by Goldenvoice, sold though Ticketmaster, and sponsored by AT&T, and if they didn’t turn a pretty penny there’d be no event to go to. I don’t like the idea of voluntarily submitting to 3 days in the desert without food or water, relying on their gouged supply line if I want to survive. Because dying of exposure and starvation would totally kill my buzz.

Looking at the sheer number of people that will be there is another dealbreaker. We’re not Battlestar Galactica, forced to band together to survive. I don’t want to be surrounded by that many people in that much space unless I’m in Manhattan, and even then I’d have my reservations. I don’t want to deal with tens of thousands of drunk, stoned, ecstasied idiots bumping into me. I don’t want to overhear countless lame comments or insight into social circles I avoid. I don’t want to deal with passed out, vomiting, crying, or rowdy folks who pushed it too hard. I don’t want the body odor, the patchouli, the porta-potty scent. Do. Not. Want.

I say you’re welcome to the 22 year old girl from Silverlake who was able to get that ticket I didn’t buy. I’ve been there and done that, and if it’s not going to be standing on the stage, I’m not doing it again.