Ode to Coachella

"Eighty-four continuous hours of Heaven it was not."

There were a few rough spots in our trek at Coachella. The Virgin Mega Store tent, for instance, almost broke an ankle of mine. (Mine were more fortunate than others'.) Being a hipster in a corporate record shop, I should have had my defenses up, but alas, to attend this music festival is to be cradled by God, and as such, I thought nothing could hurt me.
 
Not so much.
 
My Morning Jacket sounded like it'd be a good show, so I wanted to get a quick grounding before they played Sunday. The girl who rang me up for MMJ's "Z" also sold me on the idea of being a VIP member of the tent. I asked her what that would get me. It would get me in front of those suckers waiting in line to have their favorite artist sign the CDs that they bought for the sole purpose of getting it signed.
 
And so, I had a genuine smile on my face when she ran my credit card. I was going to get free, on-demand access to Coachella bands - more specifically, a list of bands that Virgin Records' marketing people knew would pique my interest and cause me to give my money to Virgin Records:
 
a.     Friday
                                              
i.     Vampire Weekend
                                            
ii.     Les Savy Fav
                                           
iii.     Tegan & Sara
                                           
iv.     Black Lips
                                            
v.     Spank Rock
                                           
vi.     Rogue Wave
                                         
vii.     Cut Copy

b.     Saturday
                                              
i.     Kate Nash
                                            
ii.     Hot Chip
                                           
iii.     MGMT
                                           
iv.     VHS or Beta
                                            
v.     Devotchka
                                           
vi.     Flogging Molly
                                         
vii.     The Teenagers
                                        
viii.     Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks
                                           
ix.     Animal Collective
                                            
x.     Minus the Bear
                                           
xi.     St. Vincent
                                         
xii.     Santogold
                                        
xiii.     Yoav
                                        
xiv.     Yelle

c.     Sunday
                                              
i.     Booka Shade
                                            
ii.     Duffy
                                           
iii.     SIA
                                           
iv.     Manchester Orchestra
                                            
v.     Annuals
                                           
vi.     Dimitri from Paris
                                         
vii.     Gogol Bordello
                                        
viii.     Holy (expletive)

 
Really, I only needed to see one of those bands: Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks. Malkmus had fronted '90s lo-fi legends Pavement before the band fizzled out of existence in 2000.
 
That blond demon, hiding her horns beneath thoughtfully positioned braids, took my money and handed me a pass. Of course, I was smiling ear to ear when I left the Virgin tent. My corporate experience at the rock-snob festival hadn't left me the least bit conflicted. I gave money to a major label that is responsible for a lot of the crappy music that rots out the young ears of this country. But I'd done it with the indie-est intentions.
 
If something seems too good be true, you're ignoring something. When I walked out of the tent, I was ignoring the dry erase board. It was a few hours later that I noticed the acts that were supposed to appear Friday (according to the festival's mini-program pamphlet) didn't match the acts on the dry erase board, which, according to the Virgin people, was who would really be there.
 
So the next day rolled around, and I'd spent a day thinking what I could tell Malkmus during an autograph signing to spark a conversation that might lead to an invitation to join his crew on the road and maybe audition for his band. It was kind of a tall order, so I went through a lot of lines. They all sucked. (If they didn't I'd print them here.)
 
When I got to the Virgin Records tent, guess whose names was not on the dry erase board.
 
...
 
Heck.
 
Aw, heck. Why would you print a program that promised musical cult members a crack at an autograph their cult's deity? What other reason than to make me, specifically, cry?
 
No. No reason. No reason save that Virgin Records is evil.