Yes, everyone’s talking about epic indie love-in Coachella 2012. But no one’s paying much to the all important, subtextual events of this weekend. Except Wonderland.
Ask any composer/band member/philosopher worth their salt and they’ll tell you that the spaces in between the music are just important as the music itself. Seeing as all of us who couldn’t make it to Coachella this weekend (<3 u, recession!!!) we've been reduced to watching multitudes of sweaty haters grind about to our ex-favourite bands via grainy videos on YouTube, Wonderland decided to take this musical precept to its logical extreme. So, here they are, the dramatic (and entirely speculative) moments you may have missed if you were actually there… Thank God for us!
Laura Marling’s much-tested guitarist – let’s call him Clive – has been touring with the blond folkshell all summer. He plays the same chords as her but she gets all the credit. Cue burning, hateful fantasies of a hostile takeover that, when you look closely, become painfully visible as she raises her eyes to the ceiling for a soulful moment and he glowers over her gut-wrenchingly perfect, pretty little shaky strumming shoulders. The correct internet meme caption here is “SOON”.
So poor old St Vincent never got the memo that when you go to the chocolate factory, you do what you’re told and avoid the three-course-dinner bubblegum. Otherwise you end up turning into a blueberry, which is bad enough when you’re just a spoiled 12-year-old girl with doting parents to watch over you while you get juiced – but even worse when you’re a hooting indie goddess that has to subsequently play a show to thousands of screaming fans at the summer’s Kewlest Festival ®. Props to Annie Clark though for styling it out though, as if turning bright purple is something she does every day.
After dolefully trudging through “I Predict a Riot” for the seven-millionth fucking time, the Kaiser Chiefs’ Ricky Wilson finally loses it, Jack-Nicholson style, and does what he’s always wanted to do anyway: scream really loud, long fly fishing anecdotes until his vocal chords finally give up and indie rock music (and student bar playlists) are destroyed for ever.
Crowds defy the central imperative of britpoppers James’ 90s hit, “Sit Down”, instead clambering on stage to take part in an impromptu Zumba session, replete with bizarro Jazzercise costumes. Or is this just what James fans wear?
Naturally, the obvious thing to do here is to rag on this super-into-it Korn fan because, hah!, he’s got glasses and reddish hair. But we can see much deeper than that. Of course many have been wondering for a long time how the dreadlocked nu-metallers (now with a dubstep flavour, courtesy of a few farty basslines strapped by Skrillex to the tracks on their latest, pretty vile album) continue to produce such emotive, pain-filled music despite all the money dribbling into their current accounts. And we can now reveal that this little guy is key – think of him as a sort of angsty antenna that’s beaming hateful vibes and misery to the bored fat cats on stage. Kind of like a reverse Care Bear.