hans zimmer at coachella

Goldenvoice (AEG)

The Coachella Music and Arts Festival, a.k.a. "Coachella Fest" has hands-down become one of the most influential bulwarks of Southern California's ethno-music culture scene as of late, cultivating headlining (and up-and-coming acts) from the deepest recesses of obscurity and panoramic ubiquity. Now in its record-setting 18th year, Goldenvoice and AEG have expanded the fest's daily attendance from 99,000 visitors per day to a whopping 126,000, marking a claustrophobic, yet financially solvent, turning point for Coachella's oft-forgotten beleaguered past (AEG at one point suffered such financial losses from 1999-2005, that it didn't even fetch a profit until 2006 — when Daft Punk, Madonna, and Depeche Mode rescued the concert giants from the pits of financial ruination) — packing another impressive array of thirsty hipsters, E.D.M. fanatics, rap aficionados, and scenester goddesses into what can only be described as the nation's preeminent spotlight of must-see artists, drug-induced spectacles, and jejune pleasure spaces.

2017's headlining act, Radiohead, returned for another layered, tour-de-force two-hour set, loaded with their signature stellar sounds, matched at every turn with their wacky, melancholic behavior, rounding things out with some rather nostalgic acoustic compositions (jockeying between preferred 8-bit, synthetic disc sounds). Yet it was perhaps the most unusual addition to Coachella's lineup which drew the most adulation and praise, in the form of German film composer Hans Zimmer, a towering creative force in his field of course, yet a relative novice of the dust blankets and smoky lasers which hang over the arid, Southern California desert. What could only be described as an LSD trip show to end all LSD trip shows, Zimmer and Co. (along with his 50-piece orchestra) relished the arena like only bright-eyed newcomers could, shutting off the stage's side screens in favor of a more dedicated tube, located in the middle of the stage, flashing feverishly like an iMac in hibernation mode, only sped up a thousand times faster and looking a million times cooler. The percussions shaped and informed the visual's behavior, while lights shone brightly on the desert dust as loose bits of particles invaded his loyal stewards' instruments —clogging them intermittently throughout the show, yet rendering the beautiful sounds with an earthier, if not courser, cruder, more down to earth touch. If only Zimmer's actual scoring sessions were this much fun. 

Short of showing us any actual clips from his beloved body of work, every piece of music he and his bandmates performed left some kind of indelible mark, or at least, wistful lump in the audience's throat —everything from a pitch-perfect rendition of "The Lion King" intro, to the Enya-esque anguish flowing through his "Gladiator" theme song... Even the ghastly horn blows of "Inception" and the "Dark Knight" trilogy made for a welcome respite from the usual, commercial fluff emanating from the Sahara, Mojave, or Gobi tents. Coachella's roll-of-the-dice attempt to bridge genres made for one hell of a visionary opus, so much so, that it may have even blown away the likes of Lady Gaga, Kendrick Lamar, and Radiohead's powerhouse performances. By simply refusing to fall in line with the usual bubblegum pop acts of past underwhelming headliners (think Drake, Jack Johnson, or Kings of Leon), Zimmer's act offered up a livelier, wilder, wholly engaging forum dedicated to his most moving and memorable harmonies. Proving once again, that kids will listen to just about anything if you charge them thousands of dollars to do so.

With rumors of a Weekend 3 on the horizon for Coachella 2018, those overpriced $8 smoothies, 700% Uber surge charges, and hordes of pop loving teens avoiding bouts of cardiac arrest, might not seem so fun (or at least novel) as they once were so many years ago. For this admirably caustic, Disneyland-for-adults loaded with enough drums, dreams, dread and drugs to cover the length of a small island nation, things will inevitably only get more heated, more cramped, and more axenic as the years drag on. Gone are the days when dirty teenagers flocked to a music festival to see some actual live music, instead of posting millions of photos and selfies while their favorite DJs hit play, pause and fast forward. Perhaps next year, the festival will become so massive it'll finally implode like a reverse supernova — then, and only then, will Coachella finally be forced to figure out what it is truly about, who it is really for, and whether we'll be saved from their corporate scions pushing ersatz artists, musicians, DJ's, rappers, hype men, and whatever DJ Khaled is on us like heroin in Appalachia. And if it doesn't, then shit, at least we all get to go see Beyoncé.