Coachella 2008: Purple reign
Day 2, April 26, 2008, in Indio, California
By Melissa Bobbitt
Published: April 27th, 2008 | 4:20pm
“This (may) be the most awesome moment of Coachella history, and we’re here.”
My friend texted me with that message moments after His Purple Highness, Prince, broke out into a sexed up cover of Radiohead’s “Creep.” And it was no exaggeration. As Saturday night’s audience swooned over the R&B legend’s set (which featured “Little Red Corvette,” “Let’s Go Crazy,” “1999,” and cameos from Morris Day and Sheila E.) we were exasperated to see him sashay offstage too early. Was he about to pull a Madonna, as she only eked out four songs when she bombarded Coachella in 2006?
No, as he put it later. “I just can’t leave!” And with that, he graced us with a song that brought expectations of Coachella 2008 full-circle; though Thom Yorke and his mates were long hoped to be one of this year’s headliners, having The Artist Formerly Known As The Artist do his own interpretation of their biggest hit was comfort enough.
“You are at the coolest place on Earth right now!” Prince exclaimed. What he spoke was undeniable. Saturday’s lineup was teeming with cool kids (well, not the actual Cool Kids — they’re on Sunday's bill). MGMT tore things up in the Mojave tent, as its fans proceeded to tear holes in the fabric to get a better view. Brazilian dance fiends Bonde do Rolê encouraged revelers to “get greased” in the sweltering Gobi tent, as stray members of Architecture in Helsinki bounced around onstage. All this joy and debauchery, and it was only 5 p.m.!
The ladies of the afternoon cooled things off: Kate Nash, a saucy Brit similar to Lily Allen (but way more adorable, if you can imagine that) bashed away at her keyboards like an insolent child pouting about wanting a toy. She retooled familiar tunes such as “Pumpkin Soup” to resounding success. I found St. Vincent to be a little tepid, but Annie Clark’s orchestral kookiness provided an opportunity to sit down and reapply sunscreen.
During downtime, I ambled over to the VIP section for some decent Thai food and celebrity sightings (alas, my unobservant self only caught a glimpse of Rilo Kiley’s Blake Sennett — you know, the former child actor from “Salute Your Shorts.” Hardly qualifies as a celeb sighting when my associates were bragging about seeing David Hasselhoff rocking out to Death Cab for Cutie — who was absolutely exquisite, by the way. The band culled heavily from its back catalogue, but the new epic “I Will Possess Your Heart” came off brilliantly. The only hitch was falling lighting equipment. No one was hurt during the wind-blamed accident, but from my perspective, it looked as though some rogue guy who darted backstage might have pushed the rig over intentionally. OK, emo may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but an assassination attempt on Ben Gibbard is not kosher.)
As the sun went down, spirits were up. Rilo Kiley shot confetti and T-shirts out of cannons during the porn-tastic tune “The Moneymaker.” The group's cohesiveness and intention of letting everyone shine onstage alleviated suspicions from the past year that its ravishing redheaded singer, Jenny Lewis, was seeking to escape her boys for good.
Onward to the Sahara tent for the fabulous M.I.A. I had secured a spot near the front early on because Maya Arulpragasam has my heart. What artist so effortlessly combines political passion with frenetic world beats? Her set was laced with hip-hop braggadocio and DayGlo fashions … and chaos. After inviting any and all fans onstage that could make the climb for “Bird Flu,” many refused to budge once the song ended. The security guards were helpless, so they committed a dance tent sin by turning on the house lights, exposing us all as the sweaty, petulant roustabouts we were. This infuriated the performer, forcing her to eventually zoom through otherwise slamming takes on “Paper Planes” and “Hussel,” both off her critically acclaimed Kala (Interscope).
Desperately needing to refuel, I hit the beer garden and peered at Portishead between swigs. Beth Gibbons is such a chameleon; she can sound like three different singers in a matter of stanzas. But I had to break my trance in time for my favorite band on Saturday’s bill, Flogging Molly. I’ll do my best to describe an indescribable feeling, one of camaraderie you can’t find at any other band’s shows. Everyone in the pit is your immediate buddy, and everyone knows all the words.
Wearing a slim, strappy green dress, I probably had no business moshing, but I did anyway. You almost have to when these Celtic-tinged punks play — the jovial thrashing will swallow you, and you’d be lame to resist. Head honcho Dave King enraptured the fans by announcing he and multi-instrumentalist Bridget (née Regan) had recently married. Guinness flowed and fists pumped as the band raged through its radio hit “Requiem for a Dying Song” and perennial favorites like “What’s Left of the Flag.”
“I’d never thought I’d say this, but Prince is playing over there,” King said with a laugh as the set ended. I, like so many other Flogging Molly fans, clung to the Outdoor Theatre stage in hopes of one more song. Prince could wait. This was business. But the house lights gleamed and shooed us hooligans over to the main vector. I’m now thankful for the push, though, because the Purple One, at 49, is as punk as they come.
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