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TThe morning of the second day of a music festival is usually a good way to look at people, because everyone tends to be over excited and take all of their drugs the first night, leaving them as delicately fragile as an egg. Kinder the next morning. Except at Coachella, in the heart of middle-class California, where everyone is so sober or so permanent and so generous that the only dog hair needed is a matcha smoothie or organic kombucha.
All this means that Ty Segall and White Fence's The sound of noisy psychic guitars arouses more joy than appalling moans, the jocks forming a slow and happy circle – a kind of Ring to Ring o 'Broses. A long figure of the super-group looks like a hot sirocco coming from the desert, with Tim Presley's beautifully impulsive solos.
It follows from other types with guitars. shame are the antithesis of coachella's poke-bowl cleanliness, a private gang of South London's privately owned Vitamin D herberts which, led by impresario leader Charlie Steen, rips around the stage the roles of post-punk and Britpop, including the new song brilliantly focused Human for a minute. In the end, Steen is kept in the air by a band of maize-fed superfans. Mac DeMarco's Deadhead-bozo schtick has not quite aged, and although his board is so soft that it has almost fallen apart, his soft rock and his ruminative ballad Steely Dan are perfect for a nap in the late afternoon. midday. Closing the main scene later are the Australian psych rock Tame Impala: their new songs are unadorned disco shimmies, and their penetrating bass lines have something of a pedestrian feel, even if their epic visuals invite the psychic fusion brought about by the shroom. But Kevin Parker's croon dopon is still soothing, like a stoned head massage.
With Blackpink in South Korea on Friday and bands like Perfume in Japan and Bad Bunny in Puerto Rico this Sunday, Coachella is as cosmopolitan as its audience, and records its first reggaeton number on the main stage in Colombia J. Balvin. It's undeniable that the rhythm of reggaeton is immutable, but Balvin draws more than most, from hectic EDM to sensuality midtempo. The stage production is massive, with agitated clouds, a giant duck on wheels and other nonsense kidult; The Spanish singer of neo-flamenco Rosalía turns her hips in the Con Altura duet. It ends up being a technicolor celebration of reggaeton's journey, including a remake of Gasolina by Daddy Yankee who broke the style by ear in 2005.
There are big spots for British dance stars Four tet and Twin aphex, the latter on a masterful form. With sassy bass lines and Detroit squirrelly effects, his style is undeniable and he is enhanced by incorporating pieces from other producers. This hybrid format has recently caused online dismay for the not-insignificant part of the unintelligent pedants that make up the dance culture, but it is a generous and generous gesture that places it in a wider lineage of raves.
It's a performance that only a veteran can offer, but it's ultimately the kids who run on Saturday. Twenty one years Bazzi why not: his pop-rap songs look like Drake without alpha magnetism or at Post Malone without the charisma of Grotbag. His voice is so devoid of impression that it's as if a microphone technician had a chance to try his luck. Just as cool Maggie Rogers one of the hottest receptions of the weekend. "I clearly have a lot of feelings," she admits – these are the inarticulate and impassive feelings of adolescence, and her gift is to wrap them in melodies as beautiful as those of Alaska . She puts the Z'rs Genius seriously and emotionally.
But the star of the day is 17 Billie Eilish, whose first album is currently No. 1 in the United Kingdom and the United States. Dressed in a white hooded sweatshirt and cargo pants, she bounces through her Bad Guy opener as if she had a particularly invigorating tantrum (eerily reminiscent of the meticulous new Fred Durst) . This and her other masterpieces, you should see me in a wreath and bury a friend, attach to her greatest strength: songs that use melodic strength and the latent lightness of nursery rhymes. The freaky vibrates intensifies with the arrival of a troop of trembling and bedridden dancers; later, Eilish takes the bed levitation, in the manner of exorcist. These are brilliant American miniature horror stories, as only Eilish tempts him, but there is also a deep and plangent beauty in simpler ballads such as When the Party's and Ocean Eyes. As Coachella's party-goers also show, the American youth is obviously in poor health.
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