Everyone saddled up and ready for a photo-heavy post? I'll again break my self-imposed rule of self-editing in favor of blatant self-indulgence. So join me, friends, crack open a beer before noon, settle in with a vice or two or maybe just some Mickey D's (don't lie. You love it). This one's a doozy, but I'd say a visual maelstrom of imagery really befits an event like Fauxchella, itself an aural hurricane packed into a too-short weekend.
New to the blog? Not savvy to the Fauxchella vibe just yet? You can read about Fauxchella 2008, 2009, and 2010, and if you're really jiving, you can also see some of the video teasers for the upcoming documentary here. All caught up? Good. Too lazy or distracted or uninterested to click through my gauntlet of hyperlinks? Well, to summarize, this isn't the blog for you and you're a miserable person. But to summarize further, Fauxchella is a music festival I started with some friends in 2008 as a way to showcase the incredible talents of the people I'm privileged to know, as well as a place to come together and collaborate musically to the common end of creating something together. With three past events under our belts, we blazed a new trail to the desert this year for what will go down likely as one of the greatest weekends of 2011 (for me, anyway. I can't speak for anyone else, though I'll hazard a guess that I'm not the only one who might claim the past weekend as a favorite come the year's end).
I won't belabor the point any further, though. The thing is, words are my weapon of choice, but as with most years, when I get around to describing some of the magic (yes, I went there) of a Fauxchella weekend, I come up frustratingly short. So I'll simply provide the following anecdote because unlike most other aspects of the weekend, it wasn't documented, so before it slips into the collective ether, here's a mental pin I'll drop so I can navigate back someday when I'm senile and living in Florida:
Following three hours of performances at Hicksville, we set out to take our annual celebratory dance party further into the middle of nowhere because even our beloved trailer park palace was too localized for us. Basically, our only requirement was that we be able to crank it up to 11 without fear of police intervention, crabby neighbor judgements, or anyone formally associated with The Man getting on our cases. Seems easy enough, right? Surprisingly harder than you'd think, considering we Southern California folk essentially live in a basin governed by ghetto birds and interlocking freeways. Even when you think you've finally escaped the urbanities of life and have transitioned fully into renegade status, oh - there's a house. Right there. With cranky neighbors and sound ordinance issues. I'm intimately familiar with aggravating the neighbs in a fit of unfiltered exuberance, so I found it utterly imperative that we be able to dance our asses off to Iggy Pop in ABSOLUTE PEACE.
Adam location scouted an empty lot in 29 Palms' hinterlands that seemed perfect for a dance party. So armed with a massive iPod amp and our dancing shoes, we circled the wagons and began busting out the kinds of moves that would make John Travolta weep with trenchant feelings of unworthiness. The stars splayed across the sky too numerous to count (considering I can usually count them on one hand), heavy and expressionless. Constellations were present and accounted for: Scorpio! The Big Dipper! Orion and his belt!
The music just kept playing and we just kept dancing, not really noticing the approaching headlights of a car nearing our location. The headlights were snuffed and the horizon was empty for a moment. Then I noticed a curly-haired stranger in a track jacket come ambling up to our group, give us a cursory glance, and immediately begin busting a move along with us. The police arriving to shut us down in the middle of Cee-Lo? Nope. Just some affable fellow who saw our flailing bodies from the road and thought he'd join in. Turns out, he facilitates UFO sightings and was told that our location was prime alien-spotting territory.
As the music waned, we gathered in a clump, threw our heads back, and howled at the moon. And what would you know--no one called the cops on us.