May 9, 2007
post-Stagecoach Music Festival
HOME, finally (San Francisco, CA)
For two days, we’ve been trying to think of good things to say. So far we’re having trouble recapping the post-Coachella country-music adventures at Stagecoach in a concise and entertaining fashion. Even though WILLIE NELSON IS THE CLOSEST THING TO GOD WALKING THIS EARTH. And this one guy in the Riders in the Sky can do the hambone on his face. That was awesome.
To sum up: Cyclecide wowed hundreds of kids and their parents at Stagecoach, this 20,000+ country music festival in the Mojave Desert. We tried our best to be the scary, dirty, heavy-metal ride-running, funnel-cake-eating, county-fair carnival workers that we ourselves feared and awed in our collective youth.
We think we succeeded. And sold lots of T-shirts.
Cyclecide is now officially overstimulated from two months of constant adrenaline rushes… and we’ve got kind of a poor attitude at the moment. We still can’t get over the flies.
So many flies everywhere at that god-forsaken hellhole called Artists’ Camping. Flies covering the bus ceiling, flies dotting the tent ceiling, flies in the kitchen, flies in the bathroom. Flies flies flies. We still itch when we think about it. Two epsom salt baths and a shower have yet not been enough for us.
This line of thinking/ranting leads to us not being able to get over how “artists” are treated in general in America. At Coachella, even the opening-opening bands who play at noon get styled way more than we do. Consistently.
We’re talking shade, and their own bar, and air-conditioned trailers and ornate communal areas and crafts-service meals and handmade gifts from the promoters … and they’re not even there for one whole day most of the time. They’ve got hotels and whatnot.
Us, we could probably be consultants when the U.S. government decides to privatize refugee camps in Darfur.
Maybe the promoters assume we’re used to squalor because, well, we ARE used to it … but for an event that rumoredly makes a $23 million dollar profit, you’d think that we artists, providers of ALL the eye-candy on that giant field out there in Indio, could get our own shower trailer, or maybe a sink and a bar of soap.
Whether because of cost-cutting or oversight, the promoters saved on portajohn-cleaning fees, and then spent more on the hospital bills for those who got treated for staph infections as a result of blah blah bitch bitch bitch. See? Not funny.
HOWEVER! We’re exceedingly proud that many of our good friends, and good friends once removed, were pretty much solely responsible for the visual entertainment at America’s biggest rock’n’roll festival. GO TEAM!
Now. We’re going out to dinner in the misty California night to have someone else make us food and take care of the dishes.
And if there’s a fly in our soup, we’ll just eat it. Whatever.
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