This is what my idea of heaven in the desert looks like (cold beer not pictured). Photo: © tablehopper.com.
Why, hello there. How you durrin’? I’m back from my fabulous desert adventure at Coachella. I can’t even tell you how much a weekend packed with sun and insane music and dear friends and family and warm nights charges my jets. Me, my sis, and dear friend Hilary (just call us the Three Musketeers) ended up catching 55 acts over the three days, not too shabby.
It’s awesome to see so many women rock it out with such panache (Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Bat for Lashes, Janelle Monáe), and many acts were just so damn fun (like Phoenix, Franz Ferdinand, Pretty Lights, Local Natives, and Tame Impala—and Father John Misty is one hell of an entertainer). Legends like Johnny Marr and Lee Scratch Perry? Epic style. And I now have a pocketful of music to explore more deeply—Disclosure, James Blake, C2C, Alt-J, and FOALS delivered. Of course many of the DJs rocked my sox (DJ Harvey, Jason Bentley, Julio Bashmore, Seth Troxler)—I could have spent far too much time getting my moves on in the Yuma tent. And Major Lazer was as insane as their name. Yeah, I hit it hard.
Monday was spent recovering poolside (thank God for cold beverages) and we had an old-school dinner at Melvyn’s in Palm Springs, where we had a starlet sighting of our own (Tanlines was dining at an adjoining table). Although based on my sister’s bout of food poisoning very early Tuesday morning, we sadly won’t be returning. Seafood in the desert, don’t do it.
It feels like a small miracle that I’m even in your inbox today, but thankfully I have some serious backup, thanks to my 707 and wino writers. I have an overdue review of Capo’s for you (to partner up with the wino piece), and a few other tidbits. And in case you’d like some serious pasta p*rn, hop on over to my guide on Citysearch about the city’s best pastas—I just uploaded that bad boy with a bunch of pics for you.