Joshua Tree Music Festival – Day One

Despite the fact that I was leaving for the festival later than I had planned, I am unhurried. Cruise control set, I’d get there when I did. Besides, there’s something strangely peaceful about long desert drives and I love the stretch of  I-10 at the 62 turnoff where miles of nothing suddenly opens up into sprawling windmill fields.

I was still two hours away when The Evaro Family took the stage. The write-up promised a “groovacious dance experience” but I would have plenty of time for that. I was slightly more disappointed when I realized I was going to miss Jef Stott’s set. Studied in ancient Middle Eastern musical traditions, Jef fuses the Oud with the new, blending everything together with “breaks, dub, and electro.” Still in my car, I roll down my windows, put in Jef’s CD, and continue at a relaxed pace.

“Reality leaves nothing to the imagination.”  –John Lennon

Passing a large brontosaurus and its offspring as I near the turnoff, I knew it was going to be a great weekend. Now on the long road into the high desert I pass a sculpture field, literally, (well, okay, technically it’s the artist’s yard but it stretches for what seems like forever.) I stop to take it all in, appreciating the scale of it, which I do again as the 40-acre campground appears in the distance. In the parking lot I drive past a vaguely fly-ish looking creature on stilts. I guess monsters have to get there somehow too. Pulling into the perfect parking spot, I grab my pen, paper, and water and am off.

A political spoken word piece being performed by Ari Lesser floats in the air but my attention is drawn first to the surreal inflatable fabric archway then, further on to a large cross, emblazoned with the word “War” and a Wrong Way sign, the whole piece anchored down by a large ball and chain. A sign at the entrance reads, “Dance like you mean it,” and, “Remember the Golden Rule.” Walking further down the one-acre pond the sun shines through two etched glass sculptures, illuminating a family of ducks wandering aimlessly in place. Spoken word turned to soft soul singing, I’m stopped in my tracks by the sight of a gigantic metal horse welded together from truck bodies and other auto parts. A steel horse I ride, indeed.

As I arrive at the “music bowl” I notice that almost the entire area between the two kiddie-corner stages is shaded, a welcome improvement and a necessity at a venue where the sunned sand burns bare feet. With perfect timing, I arrive just as Ocote Soul Sounds takes the stage. The creation of Antibalas founder, Martin Perna, the group features nine musicians including flute and trumpet players. The music spans from the shamanic and experimental to songs with a sexy Latin feel. Having been stuck in the same position for the past five hours I dance, opening up my body. A fellow dancer off to the side reminds me by example to stretch.

“Take it easy but take it.” –Woody Guthrie

Feeling thirsty I stroll to the Hydration Station to fill my water bottle, taking a moment to flirt with the attractive attendant. There’s no shortage of hot women at this festival (or men depending on your orientation) should you be looking for a distraction between dancing. The sweltering sun ensures minimal clothing and the misting sprinklers provide garnish.  Many are of the look but don’t touch variety, but looking’s better than going blind.

Directly across from the Hydration Station is the dehydration station, otherwise known as the Sierra Nevada sponsored bar. Looking strangely like an old west stockade from the outside with its rough hewn wood stake fence and drunks hanging over the edge, the place is well designed and the beer bottle windows framing the bar add a touch of art. I don’t drink but should I decide to over the weekend, I now have an age-identifying bracelet.

“When you have little money it is best to spend it on the unnecessary-the emotional dividends are higher.”

Walking around the vendor booths that line the music area, Ocote’s music makes it impossible to keep my hips still. From the bar my eye catches on a unique, 3-D sacred-geometry picture. Pulled in, I contemplate it meditatively for a moment and then flirt with the attractive vendor (did I mention the hot women?) Clothing and jewelry are heavily represented but there are also sellers of crystals, knick knacks, leathercraft, and crazy glow-in-the-dark items for your drug-fueled impulsive purchasing needs.

As I stroll the bowl, Ocote leaves the stage. Soon, Ari’s voice echoes, filling the crisp but cooling night air, sending his positive political rap across the grounds. He would return again and again between sets with work that ranged from hip hop to just hip. Sometimes political, sometimes spiritual, always insightful and playful, Ari’s between set pieces (at least the ones that I saw) kept the crowd entertained while the next band prepared to rock it.

Dressed like they just came in from wrasslin gators, The Zydepunks take the stage. For those wondering what they sound like, I direct you back to their name. Dueling accordions and violins, sometimes two of one, sometimes two of the other, fuel the aggressive but playful set. A graffiti artist in back of the band spray paints a scene between a monster and a skull. It remains on stage for the remainder of the weekend.

Cajun punk, I decide, is the best soundtrack for Death By Garlic, by which I mean a large slice of heavily garlic-salted pizza with three or four cloves on top, not some form of culinary hari-kari. Good thing I’m just looking and not touching with the kind of garlic breath I have tonight. The pizza vendor makes top-notch nosh, gives you a choice of eight styles, and is reasonably priced. While I eat, I wander through the large tent housing a conglomeration of local artists. I do not flirt with the attractive attendant.

Returning to my car for some brief R&R, I re-return just in time for Ganga Giri’s set. Entering the music bowl I walk past several sheriffs out for a Friday night stroll. The sign at the entry (amongst other things) reads: “Illegal drugs are illegal” and “The Sheriffs are here for your protection.” That being said, adults are prone to do grown up things and, as long as you are being an adult, you are fine. In other words, imbibe responsibly. A strangely sparkly disco Santa walks past nonchalantly.

This is Ganga Giri’s third time at Joshua Tree. Talking about how Australian visa problems almost made him miss “one of my favorite festivals to play in the U.S.,” he announces that he has chosen the festival as the premier of his new album. Using his didge as an extension of self, he speaks through it like an aboriginal (the original) vocoder, making it sing. Layering in flute and aboriginal vocals, the music is deep, earthy, and trance-inducing. I spend most of his set lost between the dance and the starfield. At one point a group of people start dancing on the speaker. At songs end, Ganga says, “That was really beautiful for the song but I want to connect with every one.” Connection would prove to be a theme throughout the weekend. His set closes with one of his band mates belting out an a cappella “Redemption Song.”

Taking the stage not long after, Boombox begins booming. The band consists of Zion Godchaux (yes, that Godchaux) on guitar and vocals and Russ Randolph on effects and production. Their set turning the place into an outdoor club, Zion’s feathery hat and boa enhancing the illusion. Ranging from soul and house to techno, the high point of the set (as someone offers me a drag from a tobacco pipe) is a house remix of “Shakedown Street.” Again, there is a painter working the whole time in the background, creating abstract splashes of color that are surely influenced by the sound surrounding them. After settling into a deep groove, the band ends at 2:00 am and so do I. Refusing to be lured in by the after hours fun at the Lux Lounge I slink back to my car to sleep, smiling. Sleep comes slowly thanks to party bus central raging down the row.

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