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Music

Coachella Day Two: Desert Storm Grilled Cheese

It is not Spring Break times a million anymore: it’s the apocalypse.

Photos by Jason MacDonald

It is not Spring Break times a million anymore: it’s the apocalypse. Now no one is wearing sunglasses at night because they’re shielding dilated pupils. They’re wearing glasses because all the sand in Palm Springs is trying to set up a tundra ecosystem in everyone’s eyeballs. Bandanas are no longer a fashion accessory; they’re a necessity. Medical masks are also de rigueur, which only adds the sense that life as we know it is ending. People are on the ground, but not because they’re tired or high: They’re crouched down and folded in on themselves. It’s like that scene in Alien when Kane walks in and sees thousands of alien pods. Either that or it just looks like everyone’s a super-emo teenager having a collective breakdown, hugging their hoodies because no one understands. We’re all waiting for Pharrell (no last name needed), and this a test of endurance.

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I blame the weather change on the dual effects of Queens of the Stone Age’s muscular riffage and the testosterone that shoots out of Josh Homme’s hair. That, combined with Sleigh Bells’ stacked noise-pop—the best part of which was watching a graying 50-something dude head bang and sing along to “A/B Machines.” He said: “I’ve had Treats since it was released. They’re so good. They’re so hard.”

But back to Pharrell. Although I’m still mad at him for “Blurred Lines,” Skateboard P gets a free pass for his services to sculpting the past 15 years of modern pop music. Granted there was a few year dry spell just before the release of “Get Lucky,” but irrespective of whether you’re feeling G I R L, when you condense his career into a 57-minute set, you cannot deny his talent. His power was undiminished by his hat, undiminished by the sand dune accumulating in his throat, his clout and power amplified by his roll call of guests: Gwen Stefani (the clear highlight), Tyler, the Creator, Snoop Dogg, Diplo, Diddy, and Busta Rhymes. Despite having a tough time of it, Pharrell battled on, pulling up friends from the crowd to dance during “Happy” (Este from Haim was first in line). Mosh to “Lapdance” from the privacy of your living room here.

Rewind to earlier that day, to BANKS. She dances like a sexy witch going skiing and in the sticky heat of the day she makes everyone want to strip off and mate. Everyone’s singing along. She’s going be huge and she deserves to be.

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Julian Casablancas: I have a bone to pick with you. Your time keeping is appalling and right now tinnitus is very real. Onstage, you are, as ever, a mix of lovably awkward and angsty cool, and your drummer Alex is a diamond, a powerhouse, and a joy to watch, but because you were tardy, your set was cut early and thus you didn’t play “Instant Crush,” as promised. You didn’t even play “11th Dimension.” The new stuff sounds raw and ragey and I like it, but I know your pop roots. Throw us a bone. Coachella crowd: better luck next weekend.

Warpaint. I was really not feeling this new album. It was too nebulous, too jammy, apart from “Love is to Die” which is made of magically eerie grooves. Nevertheless, Warpaint are locked in live. If this was a spooning championship, they’d come first every time—such is the perfectly natural, sensual way the quintet fit together. That descending guitar line on “Bees”: goosebumps in the desert. Special shouts out to Theresa who dressed as an extra in The Craft. Strong look.

Right now Future Islands are cresting a wave, even if their bassist appears to be comatose on said wave. (Seriously is that guy awake onstage?) Thanks to that Letterman performance of “Seasons (Waiting For You)” last month, neon bros are throwing their arms in the air and balefully shouting “I’ve been waiting on you!” along with “serious music fans.” I don’t care. I’m not a snob. They’re going mainstream and this is a good thing. We should want brilliant bands to thrive, not suffocate and sequester them away. "This song is for you young 'uns out there. It's gonna be okay, it's gonna be alright. Just take a deep breath." And they rip into "Balance."

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Samuel Herring: you dress like you work in Home Depot, and dance like the most enthusiastic drunk uncle at a middle-of-nowhere wedding. You do the 80s sidestep and white man’s overbite. You are wonderful.

MGMT: Pretty sure someone was playing a panpipe when I walked by.

I know I’m not in LA, and when I went to the Grammys earlier this year I joked a lot about LA stereotypes and perceptions, but there are a lot of people from LA at Coachella. The most depressing, most LA thing I saw yesterday went like this: I was waiting in line to get some lobster tacos and watching a skinny girl with a Celine bag (at a festival, really?) and skanky white, squared off acrylics gingerly pinch and lift plain spinach leaves into her mouth. This already bummed me out, but she was waiting for lobster too, so I felt a bit better. But then her boyfriend got to the front and said this: “I’d like to order a Maine lobster roll, and then I’d also like to order some Maine lobster, just the meat, no dressing, no bread, nothing, just plain.” It made me SO SAD. It was at this point that my tacos arrived along with my friend who I had sent to the grilled cheese truck to get—wait for it—a grilled cheese sandwich stuffed with macaroni and pulled pork. Can you believe that shit? There is a god. Carbs are good ladies. And there is no better place to eat junk food than at a festival. Like, what else are you gonna eat? I’m eating a corndog every single day I’m here.

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After that I thought I was waiting to see Lorde on the main stage, but then Foster the People came on and I ran fast. Faster than a bullet, if you will (FTP fans: are you getting the reference? Oh no one reading this is a FTP fan. NVM.) It was a very upsetting moment, so to cleanse my soul I skipped Lorde and went straight to Solange. The tent was half empty because everyone was at Lorde. Weird. Her performance was top-to-bottom amazing: her vocal runs on point; her Kate Bush “Cloudbusting” cover unexpected. She insisted everyone grind up on each other like it was a middle school dance and we all obliged, because she provided a soundtrack that was so slamming. "Camera on my crotch! Get low with it!" smiles Solange. Girl is just charming, but accessible and those songs… magic like a modern Janet J.

Best of all was the bit when she climbed down to sing to her fans up close by the barrier. She left two dudes—one older, one extremely nerdy—at the front utterly slack-jawed, stiff as a board, too scared to touch the vision before them. The girls at the front were less bashful. Oh and did you hear Bey jumped onstage during the final bars of “Losing You”? Of course you did. Curls shaking, booties bouncing as they skipped out a dance routine. Beautiful.

Bonus indie blind item: Spotted side of stage, super cute levels of PDA between one member of a girl band and the lanky frontman of a leather-clad indie rock band who resides on the opposite coast. Who is this hot new couple?

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GZA plays the Heineken House!

The last time I went to Coachella it was 2004. Pixies had just reformed and they were headlining the main stage and this was OFFICIALLY THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD EVER. Ten years later, they’re playing the Mojave tent, and you suspect at least 35% of the people here are sheltering from the sandstorm. As I mentioned in my recap of the first day at Coachella, the pull of rock bands is sadly on the wane. Compare the crowd reaction to the Pixies to that of Dillon Francis and the evidence couldn’t be more stark.

“It’s Saturday night and we’re at Coachella so FUCK IT!” shouts Skrillex.

WOMP.

If aliens arrived at this exact moment they’d be convinced Skrillex was the divine ruler of Planet Earth, controlling every movement of his followers with hypnotic womps and carefully orchestrated drops. Sonny the All Powerful: melting minds; improving muscle tone.

I’d heard that Jay-Z was going to jump up onstage with Nas, but by this point I’d ingested too much sand and I wanted to see Major Lazer. So I dipped out and went to some strange, carpeted party space where H&M and Alexander Wang were announcing their upcoming collaboration with free drinks, sick strobes, and free food. Can you sense the theme of the day? Fashion parties are awesome because they’re always full of models and hor d'oeuvres and never the two shall meet. This means that my friends and I stocked up on yet more grilled cheese, prawns, and chicken wings. There was also a fridge full of Twinkies, but I’m always suspicious of food that’s been sweating in cellophane, so I refrained.

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Haim were also very interested in the food situation, which makes me like them even more. They spent some time catching up with Lorde before disappearing into the night with Florence Welch—just as the booze was shut off. (Seriously, though: Why can’t you serve liquor after 2AM?) At this point I went inside to grind up on (dance politely near) Alexander Wang who was in very high spirits. I danced the dirt out of my pores and I got unnaturally excited every single time they used a confetti canon (yeah, easily pleased), and marveled at the way Major Lazer’s take on dancehall is specially tooled to make you shake your ass. At one point Dillon Francis hopped up onstage to top help Diplo direct the crowd in some sort of synchronized Zumba-like group dance. Everyone was far to drunk and uncoordinated to follow instructions. I left before Iggy Azalea performed, because it's Iggy Azalea. And I needed some more grilled cheese.

Kim is looking forward to her daily corndog and she’s on Twitter - @theKTB

Want more Coachella? Check these out:

The Basic Bitches' Guide to Coachella 2014

Watch Outkast's Coachella Set from Last Night

Coachella Day One: SPRING BREAK BITCHES!