Yes, I went to Coachella this year. And yes, I wrote about it. In fact, I reviewed it for two publications, with two different word count requirements. See below the short, tight, economical version in the SB Independent, or scroll down for the longer version in the alt weekly where I used to be a senior arts writer and editor, the VC Reporter. (Or, of course, just click the links and read 'em on line.)
Photo Envy of the Week
Santa Barbara Independent, 5/4/06
Capturing Coachella
I’ve always envied concert photographers: Not only do they go to shows for free, but they get the best seats. So when I realized my photographer boyfriend wasn’t coming to Coachella with me, and therefore his photo pass was up for grabs, I jumped at the chance to see how the other half lives. After years of festival frustration made up of heat and crowds and distance from the stage, I’d finally have the Coachella experience I’d always wanted.
Or so I thought. As it turns out, the other half doesn’t live quite as glamorously as I’d thought. The pit between the stage and the barrier is a strange place. For starters, it’s mostly men. And those men have really big cameras with even bigger lenses. Cowering there with my $100 Canon, I felt a little like the only boy in the junior high locker room who hasn’t hit puberty.
By the time Cat Power started, though, I wasn’t worried about the size of my equipment. I was too busy maneuvering around other photographer’s heads and arms and cameras to get a good shot, all the while trying not to get in the way of anyone else’s photographs. It was even worse at Depeche Mode, where videographers were on risers in front of me. I was lucky if I could see David Gahan’s foot, much less get an in-focus photo of him doing something interesting.
It was so distracting I hardly heard the music at all. And by the time three songs had passed and I was forced back out the chute and into the field, I was exhausted from all the striving and concentrating and fighting off testosterone. Maybe Coachella is best left to the professionals: those with the newest driver’s licenses, those with VIP passes, and those with the longest lenses. Next year I think I’ll stay home and watch the DVD.
(Two of my favorite of the photos I took - the left because it's Chan Marshall and she rocks. And the other because that's JUST what my view was like during Depeche Mode. Plus, I have a thing for gothic fairy industrial rockers.)
Or if you didn't like that version, try this one...
A Snapshot of Coachella
Ventura County Reporter, 5/4/06
And
after three years at Coachella, I can say it’s no different than most
music festivals, except the stakes are higher: higher temperatures,
better bands, more expensive beer, more innovative art. With a lineup
reading like a list of this year’s critically acclaimed commercial hits
and new cult favorites — it spanned multi-platinum icon Madonna to
myspace phenomenon Octopus Project — Coachella sets up expectations
that are pretty hard to meet.
Which is why, every year, I debate whether or not I’m going to go. On the con side? It’s hot and sweaty and crowded and exhausting. It’s almost a four-hour drive, not including the hour waiting to get into the parking lot. With big bands, you’re so far away from the stage you can’t see them. And while you’re busy checking out a band sure to be next year’s White Stripes in the Gobi tent, you’re probably missing the actual White Stripes on the Main Stage.
But on the other side, there’s Nine Inch Nails. The Pixies. Radiohead? Or, this year, Depeche Mode and Cat Power and Tool and The Walkmen. So I went.
It was just as Coachella always is. Beautiful. Picturesque. A cultural moment. But still, after three years of attending, just a festival. And as such, I was getting bored, which was too pathetic for me to accept. So I decided to entertain myself by making use of the photo pass I’d snagged when my photographer boyfriend decided not to come with me. I’d always envied concert photographers, not only for the glamour factor but for the fact that they could get close to the stage without actually touching anyone else’s sweat.
But it turns out that being a photographer was a lot more work than I’d thought. First of all, I was one of the only women in the photo pit. And while every photographer seemed to have a larger lens protruding from his dangling camera than the next, I was carrying my dinky $100 Canon. I felt a little like the only boy in the locker room who hadn’t hit puberty — or, at least, how I’d imagine it to be.
Once the music started, the pit filled up with other photographers. I was glad to see more women, until I realized that there were so many photographers that I couldn’t get a decent shot without a head or hand or camera in the way. It was even worse for Depeche Mode, where a row of photographers were on risers in front of me. I was lucky if I could see David Gahan’s foot, much less get a powerful photo of him.
By the time three songs had passed and I was forced back out the chute and into the field, I was exhausted from all the striving and concentrating and fighting off testosterone.
So I went home. Halfway through the Depeche Mode set, I decided it was more important to beat the traffic than to see Daft Punk close out the Sahara tent. Maybe I’m too old for this. Maybe I didn’t plan well enough. Or maybe Coachella is best left to the professionals: those with the newest driver’s licenses, those with VIP passes not connected to actually working the event, and those with the biggest lenses. Don’t get me wrong — I still love Coachella. I just think I like the DVD better than the real thing.
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