Palm Desert, CA
There's a certain inevitability in the air, a cloud of doubt and confusion hanging above us, a mixture of frustration and volcanic ash that's conspiring to take the best laid plans and turn them to dust.
Today I was meant to be picking up a car and driving myself and Johnny to Santa Monica. The plan was to hang out with Corinne Bailey Rae as she performs a session at Yahoo's headquarters and then do an interview with her over dinner that evening. This would complete a feature we've been working on with Q for two months.
With Johnny still stuck in England we're doing everything we can to get him here, booking any flights that still have seats and hoping they'll make it into the air. The new plan is for him to fly to NY tomorrow, on to LA first thing Sun morning, have a driver meet him at the airport and drive him down to the Coachella festival where I'll meet him and we'll do the interview on site before Corinne leaves for Dallas that night. Johnny will also have to do a piece with Gorillaz straight after Corinne as Q's original writer for that can't get a booking on any flight.
Additionally Paul's return flight is cancelled so instead of waving him off to the airport I have to extend his hotel booking for another 5 days and hold him a place on a flight back to the UK on Weds. To complicate matters I hear from Lois who, having stayed on for a couple of days in Chicago to do some sightseeing, had been on a plane home which got diverted in midair and returned to Chicago. She's been stuck for 2 days in an airport hotel waiting for BA to inform her what's going on. They've now told her they can do nothing and booted her out of the hotel so our travel team swing into action on her behalf too.
What fun we're having. I pack my bags in amongst the slew of emails and phone calls and at 11.30 take delivery of the hire car. With no need to go to Santa Monica I've decided to head down to Coachella early. Somewhat nervous of driving all that way by myself Jacqui is going to come with me, and with Duff stranded here, he'll come too. We'll work out what the hell we do about hotels as we go.
Jacqui comes to my hotel to add her driver's details to the rental agreement so we can share the driving duties. She offers to drive first to get a taste of the car and so off we go to the Sunset Marquis to pick up Duff and we head out on Highway 10 towards San Bernadino.
The Los Angeles traffic is as atrocious as ever so we crawl along in six lanes of misery going nowhere fast and after two hours, in need of a break and some food we stop at Chopsticks House by the freeway to get some hot and sour soup, a crispy wonton and a beef stir fry. Suitably fortified we battle past the trucks and bikers and crank up the stereo. Rock radio pumps out, Zeppelin's 'Misty Mountain Hop', The Who's 'You Better You Bet', Twisted Sister's 'We're Not Going To Take It', The. Doors' 'LA Woman' and AC/DC's 'Shoot To Thrill' get us singing along.
Another hour passes and then Jacqui's foot goes to sleep on the gas pedal so we pull over and swap. On we go into the desert past enormous wind farms, snow-covered mountains and the turn off to Palm Springs, home to golf, gays and geriatrics.
Eventually at 6pm we arrive at Comfort Suites in Palm Desert, a motel which has an air of The Shining about it. Jacqui is being put up there by Warners so she can bag an interview with Jack White tomorrow. Fortunately with so many UK journos stranded we learn there's a spare room which Duff is able to have for the weekend. Result!! Even better, there's a spare bed so I'm his room-mate for the night.
Before heading to the festival site, we walk across a parking lot filled with golf buggies, past a nail parlour, pharmacy, hearing aid store and a dentists to the only bar/eaterie in the vicinity. Mario's Italian Cafe is full of old people in leisure wear, sporting bermuda shorts and pastel tops. Above us is a badly-painted ceiling in a strange homage to the Sistene Chapel and it, like Dee Dee our waitress, has seen better days. However years of service means she's unfailingly helpful and hospitable, taking away from the slightly sinister air that seems to pervade this little part of the desert; God's rather shabby waiting room.
Back at the hotel we try and order a cab to the festival but are told there's a two hour wait which means we'd miss the first of our acts to play - LCD Soundsystem. But fortunately at that moment one of Duff's friends, Charlie, calls to say she's just arrived at the VIP wristband pick-up at the Best Western hotel. Figuring we'll hook up with them and see if we can buy a parking pass and drive the few miles to the site.
Charlie, who works for a gig booking agency, has a friend with her and in that small-world-way, it transpires it's Katherine Parrott, ex-colleague of mine and now at Warners. Hurrah. The five of us drive on site, through heavy traffic, and arrive as LCD are pumping out on the main stage. We walk up to the entrance as huge lasers frame palm trees against the night sky. Inside the hospitality area, it's wonderful - tents, fairy lights, palm trees, fountains, gardens, bars, sofas, ferris wheels and so on.
On the giant video screens we watch LCD Soundsystem deliver a great set, with an enormous crowd going ballistic in the arena enclosure in front of us. Around the hospitality area there are hundreds of LA hipsters, beautiful well-groomed, sun-kissed people partying hard. It's a mix of chilled people and wankers, with the latter tending to be groups of bare-chested, drunken men who think they're god's gift.
But it's not just American idiots in evidence. There's a strong British C-list celebrity presence - we walk past Pixie Geldof, Alexa Chung, Jaime Winstone and others, and it's like we're at a party for some horrible low-rent gossip rag. But then excitingly I spot a familiar face. I do a double-take and the man spots me too. For a second I think I know him and almost wave but then it clicks. "Bloody hell, it's Doctor Who!!" I shout at Katherine.
Yep, Matt Smith, the new Doctor, looking strangely hot with his floppy hair and beads around his neck is wandering round. How very weird. The air is perfumed by strong weed and it's not hallucinations, just random encounters. A short while after LCD finish I turn round and see James Murphy giving Jacqui a hug - he's so chuffed at how his performance went.
Next on the main stage is Jay Z entering to a wealth of bombastic, Bond themes. He pulls off another massive show, bulldozing the crowd with charisma, great songs and really slick production. He's one of the only hip hop artists who can really command a festival crowd and he does it with massive confidence. And as a finale he wheels the wife out. Beyonce beams with pride as she belts out 'Forever Young'.
By this point it's gone midnight and we wander over to the Sahara stage and watch PiL. Their deep psychotic, metallic dub with Lydon's scabrous howl over it is a refreshingly modern sound still. 'Death Disco' is ferocious and Johnny even gets a singalong going with 'Flowers of Romance'.
The night climaxes with fireworks over Jay Z and Beyonce and then the long arduous trek off site continues. Katherine and Charlie have nowhere to stay so come back with us and we spend two hours in gridlock, inching slowly forward. Finally we are off the site but still in horrific traffic so it's gone 3am before we reach our hotel.
Jacqui has to be up early to write a feature and prepare for her Jack White interview so Duff, Charlie, Katherine and I share one room. I take the sofa sinking into tortured slumber at 4am. 22 hours straight. And there's two more days to go!!
