I think if I could describe my festival personality in two words, it would be “Masochist-Aspergers.” I can attribute this feeling of estrangement to a particular OzzFest in my youth, when a gentleman of questionable genetic inheritance staggered over to me in the blistering heat, wife/girlfriend/sister in tow, and grabbed me by the head. He slobbered something like “GREAT CONTHERT JHESHKEBBOBTPPPTH”, and planted a big wet kiss on my goddamn cheek. Had we not been in an open amphitheater, I have no doubt he’d have made me his cell-mate.

Nonetheless, it’s safe to say the two crowds which populate these completely different festivals are completely different themselves. And Coachella is an altogether different animal from the Paloozas and Warped stuff: starting with, uh, more diverse income groups. These are people (everything from girls with flower dresses to chicks with Louis Vitton handbags, guys in sensible slacks to jeans and presumably nothing else) that wouldn’t be caught dead together now anymore than in the grade-school cafeteria. But from the check-in point at a Best Western some 5 miles from the campgrounds, it took us all about 4 hours to get there. This is where we bonded.

It helped that almost each vehicle had its own pot cloud hanging overtop. Others wandered the streets, hoping for a break and holding cardboard signs with the words ‘NEED TICKET’ scrawled in their Charlie Manson handwriting. One poor/lucky soul was beckoned forth by what seemed like a pretty young lady hanging her foot out the door. Thinking he’d hit the jackpot, the poor shmo got hit in the face with an audible fart. That sticky heat must’ve made it even worse. Alas, he was only heckled by other assers-by, while the offender snorted at him as he shuffled back to his place on the sidewalk. Soon I’d collide with an intrepid photographer, JP Croswhite, a festival fence-jumper who journeyed with me some of the way, and whose story can best be explained only in pictures you see above and below.

He wasn’t the only one: it’s probably accurate to say maybe 10 % of Coachella attendees are kids who don’t even have tickets. They straggle the festival perimeter or form small mobs, if only to bob their heads to the bands they’re missing, live vicariously through us lucky bastards or even just prostitute themselves for spares. “Hey, can you get us in?” asked a blonde girl to no one in particular. A mere second passed before one creepy-looking opportunist responded.
“How much?”
“I got $700,” she offered.
My cerebellum almost blew a gasket. I began to ponder (even more difficult this late and tired): how far has Coachella come? Or maybe, how far has it sunk in the pantheon of festivals? Did it grow from something small and respectable and indie into something big and retarded, like most festivals? This being my first time, it didn’t really matter, even if some veterans kept shaking their heads in disappointment. With so much to do, I didn’t have time to think negatively…it was only Friday, and the debacle had just begun…

Read more here for coverage on MGMT, Faith No More and the Global Inheritance display…Plus the dirt on DoLab.

Words by Jeff Nau, Photos by JP Croswhite