Coachella, Day 3: A philosophical question

Here’s a philosophical scenario for you to chew on: Imagine you’re at a music festival, such as, say, Coachella, and you’re handed a pass allowing you access to the photographers’ row for any and all acts on the bill. Great, right? But this pass comes with a caveat — you’re only granted access for the first three songs.

Let’s take it a step further: No matter how much you are enjoying any particular band, upon the end of the third song you must move on to any of a number of the next bands playing different stages.

Conversely, even if you find yourself hating a certain band, you must stick around for all three songs before moving on. (This is just what-if scenario, so stick with me.)

The potential is there for this situation to be both a dream and a curse. Question is — would you do it?

In some respects that was my situation for Day 3 of Coachella. The photographer’s pass around my wrist allowed me into the hallowed ground between the artists and the crowd barriers, however security routinely cleared us out after three songs. (Sometimes after four, or even — gasp! — five songs.)

And Sunday was the only day of the festival I was untethered from my traveling companion, allowing me to roam freely for the first time.

No, there was no one telling me I couldn’t leave the front row any time during a set, just like no one was telling me I couldn’t drift back into the crowd after the third song of an act I was enjoying, to experience the show just like the rest of the crowd.

Perhaps it was because I had been spoiled by this roomy vantage point on a hot crowded, day. Or maybe it was because, after two days of missing far too many bands, I was simply on a mission to see as many acts as I could. But I quickly realized that I was doing just what this imaginary scenario entails — sticking around for all three songs of each act, and then moving on to the next.

There were a few exceptions, primarily for The Gaslight Anthem, arguably the surprise of the weekend for me. I stuck around for a few extra songs of theirs, as I did for Okkervil River. But for the most part, I stuck to this program — three songs and move on.

At the very least, this philosophical debate lets you in on just what sort of day it was for me.

HEAT OF THE DAY

My day started with Friendly Fires, just one of many electronic acts that drew massive crowds to the electro-specific Sahara Tent, even though their sound is much better suited to after-dark hours.

The British band’s 2:10 start time didn’t do them any favors, and after a lively version of “Jump in the Pool” — something just about everyone there would have gladly done — a sweaty singer Ed Macfarlane told the massive crowd “Pardon how English I am. I just can’t take the heat.”

Next up on my hit list was six-piece Austin-based intelli-rockers Okkervil River — two guitars, a bass, two keyboards and a drummer. The band was predictably, great, however perhaps a bit stifled by their shade-free main Coachella Stage set at 2:30 pm, indisputably the heat of the day, decked out in suits that looked as if they might combust at any moment.

Their set included “Black,” from their breakthrough 2005 record Black Sheep Boy, as well as the standout “Lost Coastlines” from the 2008 release The Stand Ins, and “A Girl In Port,” leaving the memorable lyric “She don't who she wants to be?. And if I knew, I'd tell Marie” reverberating in my head.

It’s a surreal experience to see a band perform in this type of heat, as both artists and audience members gauge their energies between experiencing — nay, creating — the energy of the moment, and straight-up survival. However Okkervil’s lead singer Will Sheff gutted it out, newly grown beard, button-down shirt, vest and all.

The highlight of my day, and perhaps even the weekend, was New Jersey band The Gaslight Anthem. I’ll admit to having known very little about the band, other than they are from Jersey and have been compared (rightfully so) to Bruce Springsteen. My interest was piqued by the heavy prevalence of tattoos among the crowd, and it grew when the band walked out to large cheers.

With the band clearly haven take a page from the Mike Ness stylebook — full-sleeve tattoos, plain white t-shirts and blue jeans were plentiful — I was expecting a Social Distortion sound to match.

What I heard was original, heartfelt rock and roll, something sorely missing from the musical landscape these days. The crowd of Gaslight diehards ate it up, singing along, word for word, in the dead heat.

After opening with “Great Expectations” from its 2008 release “The ’59 Sound,” the four-piece tore into “High Lonesome,” “Old White Lincoln” abd “Even Cowgirls Get The Blues,” before visiting “We Came to Dance” from the 2007 LP Sink or Swim. Sandwiched in the middle of the set were the band’s two best songs, “The ’59 Sound” and “Miles Davis & The Cool.” And while I realize Coachella is a festival built around catering to different tastes, I couldn’t help but think if this set didn’t get you going, you probably just don’t like music.

Before ending with “Angry Jonny and the Radio” and “Backseats,” vocalist Brian Fallon instructed the crowd to “drink water, and don’t take the blue pill, and you’ll be okay.” However for the majority of the crowd, myself included, it was Gaslight’s surprisingly powerful set that had made everything much more than okay. There might be a bit of Springsteen idolatry in Gaslight’s sound, but there’s also a bit of Replacements influence, mixed with a Social D aesthetic to produce something both original and inspiring. Go see this band.

After Gaslight Anthem I headed over to see Canadian punk act F*cked Up at the Mojave Tent, their set well underway. Again, I had no idea what to expect.

I was further confused when, after bypassing the photo pit in favor of a mid-crowd vantage point, I heard howling vocals from an absent lead singer. Turns out vocalist Damian Abraham — a heavy, bald and bearded shirtless man whose bleeding head completed his pro-wrestler look — was using the emptied photo pit to mix it up with a very enthused mosh pit.

During that second half of the set I never saw Damien, as he prefers to be called, on stage. However at various points the bloodied singer carried a young fan over the railing to join him, shared the microphone with any audience member within reach, pounded water from a 5-gallon jug, and thanked security for allowing the raucous — and electrifying — show to continue.

“Thank you for being so cool,” he said to the hired security. “I can't tell you how many times we've been shut down.”

He went on to thank the fans, saying, “You’re cool kids, and by ‘cool,’ I don't mean douchebags in Ed Hardy t-shirts. I mean punk-rock kids who hated high school, play Dungeons and Dragons, collect records, play video games and hate sports — except professional wrestling, ‘cause that's cool."

(I knew it — professional wrestling!)

The band closed the set with a cover of Black Flag's “Nervous Breakdown” with guest vocals by No Age singer Randy Randall. Afterwards, Damien used the microphone to reunite the owner of a Subaru with his or her lost keys, and hung around signing autographs and administering large, sweaty hugs. Very cool.

F*cked Up was going to be a tough act to follow, and although they played on larger, outdoor stages, Swedish acts Lykke Li and Peter Bjorn and John weren’t up for the challenge.

Lykke Li came out late, substituted a grand entrance for a half-hearted sound check, and in her black shorts, knee socks with boots and black boa, attempted to get the crowd going with tunes such as “Dance Dance Dance,” “I’m Good I’m Gone,” and her biggest hit, “Little Bit.” She even did a quirky cover of Kings of Leon's “Knocked Up.” But perhaps at age 23, with only one record to her name, Li just isn’t ready to hold the interest of a festival crowd.

Five minutes after Li’s set ended it was time for Swedish indie darlings Peter Bjorn and John — all the more interesting considering that Björn Yttling of PBJ had produced Li’s 2008 debut, Youth Novels.

PBJ caught my interest with their breakthrough 2006 release Writer’s Block and the whistle-along hit “Young Folks,” but just as their follow-up CDs have failed to meet expectations, the same could be said for their uninspired set, which was hardly deserving of the main stage.

When, in between songs, singer Peter Morén spoke about standing on a stage where Paul McCartney had spoken less than 48 hours earlier, he should have stopped short of saying “I wouldn’t know, I was in Stockholm walking my dog.” Unfortunately, PBJ’s set felt as if perhaps they would have preferred to still be in Stockholm.

I quickly meandered over to the neighboring Outdoor Stage to see Antony & the Johnsons, and while I was curious to finally experience the soft-voiced, androgynous British Nina Simone sound-alike Antony Hegarty in the flesh, the shade-free Outdoor Stage did him no favors. Ballads such as “The Crying Light,” which I can only imagine would be spellbinding on a candlelit stage, seemed to melt at the same rate as Hegarty’s pancake makeup. Again, nothing against the music, but perhaps it was not ideal listening when it’s still scorching hot at 5:30 p.m.

If sets such as those by Gaslight Anthem and F*cked Up had taught me anything, it’s that the heat of the day at Coachella calls for high-energy music rather than the sleepier sets.

INTO THE EVENING

I think it was fair to say Yeah Yeah Yeahs were the most anticipated band on the main Coachella Stage, and they enjoyed that golden set time as the heat broke and the day turned to evening. And while I enjoyed Yeah Yeah Yeahs, the trio did nothing to dissuade my belief that they are both fun and highly overrated. Not as overrated as The Killers, the band that headlined Saturday’s bill, but overrated nonetheless. 

Positioned in front of a giant floating eyeball and decked out in long strands of giant gold sequins, lead singer Karen O clearly enjoyed herself as she busted out several identifiable yoga poses while performing. She flubbed the start to “Gold Lion,” perhaps inadvertently sprayed beer out of her mouth, and pretended to fellate the microphone. Songs from the set included “Softshock,” “Skeleton,” “Heads Will Roll,” “Zero” and “Y Control,” with the crowd’s boisterous singing along to “Maps” clearly the show’s most memorable moment.

The audience of thousands devoured Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ set, happy no doubt the day was finally cooling off while a band worthy of the main stage had given its all.

The disappointment of the evening, albeit highly amusing, was the British synth-dance band Late of the Pier, another act I knew little about, although a friend — whose musical tastes I usually respect — recommended them highly.

After fighting my way against the flow of fans walking out of X’s set at the Mojave Tent, I finally arrived at a packed Sahara Tent. A row of teenagers kids in the front were psyched, telling me this would be the best band of the entire festival. When Late of the Pier took the stage, I swear I saw one of the 16-year-old girls in the front row mouthing the words “Oh. My. God.” I thought I was in store for a Beatles-land-on-American-soil moment.

Instead, the first 15 minutes of Late of the Pier’s set was reminiscent of the Stonehenge scene from “This is Spinal Tap.” The four-piece from Castle Donington, England, took the stage amid sheets of dry-ice fog, decked out in glittery, sci-fi sparkle-suits.

Resembling 1985-era Roland Orzabal from Tears for Fears, it took two songs for me to figure out if the keyboardist’s aggressive, Townsend-style windmilling was intended to be ironic or not. It wasn’t. Likewise, not sure about the band members’ names, which include Samuel Dust, Francis Dudley Dance, Jack Paradise and Red Dog Consuela.

I don’t know the names of the songs the band performed, but considering their debut album, Fantasy Black Channel, was released in August 2008, I think it’s a safe bet they didn’t stray too far from their entire body of work.

Ironically, the opening song of that CD is titled “Hot Tent Blues,” which you could say I had after their set. Then again, I was clearly in the minority, as a crowd of high-school-aged kids was losing their collective minds amidst the dry ice and glitter suits.

Clearly I was missing something, but hey, more power to ‘em.

While I’d been looking forward to My Bloody Valentine, a band I’ve been listening to since college, I was somewhat nonplussed with their set. For one thing, the volume and distortion was ridiculous. Even several hundred yards away from the stage, I couldn’t stomach their wall-of-sound set without earplugs. I don’t think I was alone, as the crowd was almost eerily quiet in between songs. And while I’m sure the 15-minute blast of noise that closed out the set might be considered artistic, it more or less blasted me out of the Polo Grounds.

Surprising even myself, I took off before The Cure took the main stage to close out the weekend. I’d seen them at Red Rocks less than a year earlier, and though good, they hadn’t lived up to the image I’d constructed over the 20 years since they were in their heyday.

Also surprising, given my mobility and motivation, was the number of acts I’d hoped to see on the day but missed, ranging from Groove Armada to Vivian Girls to… well, actually, there weren’t all that many.

Which, in some ways, is a victory within itself.