Below are the things we’ve posted to Twitter recently. In reverse chronological order, just like Twitter… We’re reposting 206 tweets this time with a total of 146 links to stuff that (mostly) didn’t end up on GLONO.
# “Benchley had hit bottom. I had reached the mythical state of total anti-rock, which I call ‘Train,’ after the band.” http://ow.ly/1Clou 16 minutes ago
# “C-listers are considerably cheaper than hiring the bigger-name musicians who used to pack clubs.” http://ow.ly/1Ck4G via @Lefsetz about 1 hour ago
# “When he leans down to pick it up, the weight of his backpack and his overall wastedness prevent him from doing so.” http://ow.ly/1CiwB about 2 hours ago
# But don’t say “leaked” in your tweet or 4ad will dmca your ass! RT @tipsheet: Stream THE NATIONAL’s New Album Now http://bit.ly/bX44Lg about 4 hours ago
# Twitter deletes dude’s tweet after bogus DMCA takedown notice. #national #highviolet #4ad RT @TartyTart: http://bit.ly/aui6KA about 4 hours ago
Lots more below, and you might consider following us on Twitter if you want to keep up with this stuff as it happens…
THIS summer’s not even over yet and the NME is already hyping rumors for next summer’s Coachella fest headliners. The festival has recently served a community service by luring dormant great acts out of retirement—most recently rage Against the Machine and The Jesus and Mary Chain—and is now rumored to be pulling at Kevin Shields’ ear…or pocket book.
Today’s NME reports that My Bloody Valentine is next year’s candidate to reunite in the desert. True to form, they cite no actual evidence but if it’s journalistic integrity you’re after, then you’re not reading the NME anyway.
Countdown to the next Stone Roses or Smiths reunion: 10…9…8…7…
I was somewhere around Indio, in the apex of the desert, when Tommy Lee kicked in. As I walked through the manicured grass, happily eating corn on the cob, the thin and dust-caked Motley Crue drummer ran up to me, weaving his arms and torso in a spastic model of the Axl Rose snake dance. I continued gnawing on the corn, and flicked my eyes upward in annoyance. He chuckled and regrouped with his bleached-blonde entourage to continue down the field, toward the throbbing bass of Daft Punk.
Even without the icky hair-metal run-ins, this year’s Coachella Festival still would have been the strangest one yet. The cultural oasis of the Colorado Desert (held May 29-30) featured a predictably strong lineup of eclectic indie artists but, pivotally, an additional interest in capturing the mainstream crowd. From Kanye West’s shining ego on Saturday to Madonna’s short-and-skanky dance tent appearance Sunday, the indie snob’s once-safe haven was taken over by squealing strangers – and two sold-out days later, it’s hard to tell whether Coachella will continue down the beaten pop path.
Whatever. For the most part, Coachella still retained its joyous communal atmosphere, a kaleidoscopic place where alternative art reigns and nobody knows your name. (And there are celebrities under every rock.) For me, it was The End: the final fling before graduation, the last irresponsible trip with my best friends. But it was also the beginning, as I discovered thanks to some artists, some new opportunities, and a chance meeting with my very own Yoda, though taller and with some ketchup in his beard.
It’s the Coachella Curse, and it strikes every year. But we should all be lucky enough to have it.
Last year, halfway to the forsaken strand of cacti called Indio, California (where the arts and music festival is held), two of my travelmates realized they had left their tickets at home. Two panicked hours later, we were also lost in West Hollywood, eventually adding about five hours to our drive time. This year, my Amtrak to the pre-concert press party ran maddeningly late, a train experiment with hot soup resulted in second-degree burns, and I had a wild incident at the aforementioned gathering (at the Viper Room in Los Angeles) that resulted in bruises to my nose, lips, and legs. And no, I’m not committing it to print, because I wasn’t even legally supposed to be there.
But details, details. The sixth annual Coachella celebration was the hottest thing to hit the Southern California desert in ages. Held April 30 and May 1, it delivered musicians of big names and big promise, art with a purpose, some serious partying, and a few realized dreams thrown in for fun.
Never start a road trip by questioning the existence of God. With just a handful of miles traveled, the innocent road trip of five freshly-scrubbed college students had already exploded into a fervent religious debate and an assortment of problems that would steadily snowball into a true-life illustration of Murphy’s Law. The anticipated five-hour drive to Indio, California, and its long-awaited Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival was dotted with wrong turns, lost Frappuccinos, unintentional drives through seedy Los Angeles neighborhoods, and the individual realizations that two pairs of tickets had been left in bedrooms 200 miles away. Eleven hours after crying a jubilant farewell to coed drudgery, we arrived at our destination surly and sleepy. Did God hate us? Or did God hate our pilgrimage towards Radiohead?