Chromeo at Coachella

By Chris Martins

Roger Waters was neck-deep in pyrotechnics and paisley. The Gobi Tent was done, abandoned 'til next year, and the grass 'round second stage was given up to sleepers, trippers and young love. Black Mountain was beardily spinning country-fried psychedelia to a small but appreciative camp. Coachella was winding down. Then an odd chant, coming from the last tent: “Chro-MEE-oh, OOOOOOoooo,” followed by a blast of light that revealed a solid third of festival population, crammed together under dust, smoke and stage-fog, nervously shuffling their feet and waiting for the dance fix that would carry them onward to Justice (the band, but quite possibly the concept as well). It was packed and as the curtain was pulled, a shot of crunchy synthetic bass blew the hordes back a step. For all of their cheeky bullshit, Dave 1 and P-Thugg blasted their Prince-biting electrofunk to the metal rafters, earning their billing for the night, and leaving no question that they weren't just fluffers for the act to follow. One young lady hit the ground, eyes rolling back. She'd have to be carried out. Even in 2008, disco is still destroying lives.

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