Childish Gambino guides the global sound survey for the lucky and wealthy patrons at the USs premier music festival

At Glastonbury, you pray for the dirt to dry out; at Coachella, tractors scatter the desert flooring with irrigate to dampen it down. It’s one of the many moments of weirdness at America’s premiere music gala, set on the lush grass of a polo province in a baking California desert- the kind of thing that resource-scarce future generations will shake their fists at.

The urinals are porcelain and the mozzarella is buffalo. The ethnically diverse, homogenously young audience is exceedingly polite, beautiful and sober; everywhere you turn, someone is doing a performatively #blessed laugh for Instagram, though the frivolity is a lot more honest and attractiveness than you might think. The 1975 perform with a glowing rectangle behind them- a totemic idol for this portrait-format generation- and is gently, lovingly satiric: frontman Matt Healy is clearly as beholden to ego as much as anyone here.

Earlier on the main stage, Kacey Musgraves has a slit at gilded hour, reflecting the name of her Grammy winning album. She’s at her best when channelling the mournful soft rock of Nicolette Larson or Carly Simon, as on the gorgeous Lonely Weekend- but as a showperson she contends. A part of back-and-forth chanting with the crowd is flub, and her tepid political banter about us living in a” crazy ass world” is cowardly in its lack of specificity.

No such problem for Janelle Monae later on, who proudly announces her queerness and tells us not to” give a fuck about pissing off the authorities concerned “. With the periodic breaches in her songwriting papered over with majestically ponderous arrangements and Janet Jackson-channelling dance relocates, she lives up to her bombastic opening: Likewise Sprach Zarathustra followed by the Declaration of Independence.

There is more high quality at every turn, including two concurrent spices of Eurasian hauteur: Russian DJ Nina Kraviz delivers a pounding live present, defined amid a dreamlike motion-captured living room, while in the next tent over, actress and vocalist Charlotte Gainsbourg toy riveting, emotionally unreadable coldwave. And with big hip-hop honours like YG set to perform later in the weekend, the genre’s outer reaches are also explored.

” I get space too high before I get up now ,” agonizes J pegmafia , who likewise complains of being” sizzling and age-old”- but his brilliant adjusted, somewhere between Sheck Wes and Death Grips, is full of lunging energy.

Even better is Tierra Whack , whose bitesize roads mourn everything from dead pups to cholesterol; her wonky bravado is matched by a melancholic, easily hurt temperament.

Performing on the tunnel-format Sahara stage, girl radical Blackpink are Coachella’s first ever K-pop performers. The farmers, with their papa reggae, reggaeton and EDM medications, are following rather than contributing, but different groups themselves are charismatic- peculiarly Jennie Kim, whose pornographic knock rightfully pays her a beings solo multitude in … Solo.

Headlining the central stage is Childish Gambino , the melodic forearm of ethnic polymath Donald Glover. It’s a little rich to tell everyone to put their cameraphones away and then have person follow you with a camera the entire display, but it creates a sense of theatre on the big screens. That theater continues as a seam is shared with a humankind in the crowd to subvert the “introducing the band” division( and perhaps apply a middle paw to Philip Anschutz, CEO of Coachella’s promoter AEG, who has campaigned against law dope ).

These japes are much needed in the first half, when his roads shift between intentionally ersatz bait and sub-Sly Stone funk quests. A abound of Gnarls Barkley’s Crazy shows up his lack of songwriting chops, and is accompanied by bug-eyed jitterbugging. These underwritten moves can seem like an sardonic constitute, the work of someone dancing through quotation marks. But this feeling meltings away as his -Agrade material arrives. A brand-new way, a hard electropop digit about reflecting in the dark, sounds like a surefire punched, and it’s followed by the malevolently perky This is America, the verbally dextrous V. 3005, and the eternally classic Redbone, whose chorus of “stay woke” remains the core political credo for Coachella’s millennials.

With its $425 tickets- $999 for VIPs- countless will wail that Coachella is a playground for the rich, but you can at least check where the money is depleted: an Olafur Eliasson-aping spiraling rainbow walkway, a monstrous spaceship staffed by hippos and, crucially, a relative deficiency of the soul-sapping branding the plagues many British galas. Coachella remains the world’s most sought after selfie destination- but also takes stock of the world dad background in a way that few of its peers manage.

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