Allen Stone.

Get this man to Coachella.

Best. Cover. Ever.

I am writing this in sweat pants, slippers, and a sweatshirt. No, loyal readers (all two of you) - I am not home sick. I work in an office where this is acceptable, and encouraged. I will also be wearing this in three days time, as I sit on my mom's couch, watch James Bond, and hear this glorious tune. Well, not this version. But this song nonetheless.

St. Vincent - Marrow

Is liking this Annie Erin Clark's makeup and finding her really pretty in a Maria Bamford meets Regina Spektor sort of way reason enough to post this video? Alright, I'm interpreting your silence as tacit compliance.

The Head and the Heart - Sounds Like Hallelujah

Sometime last winter one of my oldest and loveliest friends, Katelyn Mashburn, invited me to see a band whose name I cannot remember at Neumo's. She had seem them while living in London the year prior and tickets were maybe $10, so we figured we'd have a couple of beers in the balcony and catch up between sets. The second band of four that night wasn't immediately memorable, honestly. A six-piece without gimmick or schtick, the Head and the Heart came onstage and just started playing (if you can count, you've probably realized that not all members are present in the video above, so I'd encourage you to explore other fine performances and tunes). I think for a few minutes me and Kate kept chatting, but as soon as "Sounds Like Hallelujah" picked up and already-dedicated THATH fans began singing along, "I'm not walking away / I'm just hearing what you're saying for the fiiiiiiiiiiiiirst time," we both set down our beers and made room for dancing. We danced about for the rest of their set, and I downloaded their self-titled debut as soon as I got home. Legally, by the way - which is how you know I was really in love.

In the proceeding months there was no purpose in trying to listen to anything but the Head and the Heart. For neurotics such as myself, there is always some sort of life crisis to sort through (manufactured or otherwise), and for that distinct period this band and this song in particular were the only therapist I could afford. I've revisited the entire record today in the hopes of explaining how each track aided my deep contemplation about career paths, temporarily soothed my wanderlust, and gave some dignity to my melodramatic inner monologue about being 22 and having no idea who I was or what the hell I was doing with my life. For the record I've yet to understand either of those things, but I'm decidedly calmer about it now and I think that's due largely to The Head and the Heart allowing me to dance [and on occasion cry] it out. Thanks, dudes.

Equally of note, during this period I would send YouTube video after YouTube video of THATH to my dear friend Patrick, who would always respond with some variation of "zzzZZZzzz." There are ostensibly three reasons for this reaction:

1. You can lead a horse to water, but Pat is an asshole.
2. Irritating the fuck out of me is reason enough for Pat to do anything.
3. All of the above.

(Love you, peej)

The Head and the Heart signed with Sup Pop this Spring and subsequently released a remastered version of their album in April. Miraculously, Pat also came to his senses and spends most days thanking me for introducing him to this glorious band. Now, we can only hope to enjoy them together at Coachella.

King of Convenience - Misread

If it isn't clear already, I absolutely love Erlend Oye. I don't see why it would be, there are only four posts on this blog, but whatever. Everything the man touches turns to gold. He's like a frail, nerdy, Norwegian, Bill Gates-looking Midas. Are we sure that Midas was something other than Norwegian? I can see no proof for such an assertion. Anyway. This is a brilliant song by Kings of Convenience. Enjoy as Erlend's dulcet tones wash over you. And then (hopefully) see them at Coachella.



Swoon.

How do you feel about churros?

An Introduction to Yours Truly

My first Coachella was 2006. I remember the night the lineup dropped - I was probably stoned, in the dining hall at Western eating ice cream or something. I decided immediately that I had to go. I made all the necessary plans with my friends, who of course all dropped out with a few weeks to go. So I did what any person would do - I acquired a ride off a stranger.

Turns out this was one of the best moves I've ever made. Wade, I know you'll never read this in a million years, but you're a fucking star. You are the tits, my friend.

Anyway, we picked up a junkie somewhere in Oregon (shock) who never paid his share. Fuck that guy. But ANYWAY. A 24 hour journey and a busted up tent later, there I was. And I've never looked back.

Muslims have Hajj. I have Coachella. Every year. Here's to 2012. Hopefully with more huge moments like this:

While We Wait...

I'll just leave this here...



As an addendum, I would just like to say that if you don't like this song, you are probably a Communist, or Jerry Sandusky or something.

Welcome to Beth's Churro Haus

By the grace of Beth, so many of us have been privileged enough to savor the sweet, lingering beauty that is the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival. We've named this blog in her honor (and, well, as reference to a culturally significant survey regarding festival-goers feelings about the Latin American delicacy, churros, conducted by one Patrick Danner, PhD), and its purpose is to share any and all things related to our beloved Coachelly, including but not limited to records from 2012's potential lineup.

2011 was my first Coachella, so I concede I'm a relative newbie. For months before the festival, my most esteemed Peejus went on and on about the rumored acts, and I must admit that at the time I didn't fully appreciate the hype. But that was a different time and a different Elizabeth - from the moment I stepped onto those impeccably groomed polo fields, the beating sun baptized me anew. From the Mojave Tent to the Mainstage, I walked those grounds with a big, stupid grin, captivated as much by the palm trees and picturesque backdrop as the troves of ridiculous hipsters (remember those fucking headdresses? Dammit). I can't isolate too many distinct memories from those three days now, it's just a blur of heat and happiness. All I know for sure is that as long as I'm physically capable, you'll find me wandering the musical neverland that is Coachella.

This one's for you, Beth (and you too, Provenzano). I cannot wait for 2012.