Coach Ella Karey Dornetto

WHISTLE BLOW!

My name is Ella, but everyone calls me Coach Ella. I’ve been asked by Paul Tollett to speak with you before the festivities in the desert begin – a pep talk if you will.

Now everyone gather up. Don’t be shy, I’m talking to you Modest Mouse. I know it’s hot, it’s always hot. It’s the desert, dummies! By the way, if I pass out it’s probably not from the heat, Nope, It’s because I’m missing part of my kidney – I had an Exicison about a month ago. Felt like they dug it out with Shovels and Rope. Guess that’s what I get for being the size of a Grizzly Bear or should I say, 2 Bears. Oh, Birdy Nam Nam, what am I babbling about. OK, line up! Show me three lines. Move it!

First of all, you all look Four Tet, that’s French for great. As do I, might I add. Full Discloser, I went to The Colorist, my guy is Jules Bushmore, funny enough – not gay. I even put on Make-Up, Bat for Lashes and all. This hot red lipstick I’m wearing is called Vintage Trouble. Makes me feel sassy like my cousin Cassy. But let’s not digress.

WHISTLE BLOW! I hear giggles. Titters too. Did you come here to giggle and titter or did you come here to have a nice, good-willed music and arts festival under the clear, starlit skies of the Coachella Valley? I’ll wait! I get paid either way. I got nothing but time!

I’d like to lay some ground rules. In years past we’ve had some problems– that Tupac hologram was way out of line. What we don’t need is bands getting all “Polica” on stage ensighting all The Bad Seeds in the crowd to go all Pussy Riot and Loco Dice.

I can hear all the “Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs” right now. “We don’t need a pep talk, we’re grown Men, Local Natives, Wombats – we own this desert for the XX’s sakes. I get it. I know your type. You wake up all in a Blur at The Three O’clock hour outside a strangers tent surrounded by Red Hot Chili Peppers and you’re looking at me saying, “Where’s my Earl Sweatshirt?” I have no idea what you are talking about. I gotta Kill The Noise. You’re only cheating yourselves. No skin of my back. You know what I’m sayin’?

Descendants of The Neighborhood like Father Johan Misty, The Wu-Tang Clan and The Raider Klan don’t want to hear The Shouting Matches. Some folks in Indio work for The Postal Service and need what we call in this town, a Vampire Weekend (meaning a weekend with tons of sleep). We don’t have a fancy Two Door Cinema Club or a cool Beach House like you LA kids. We need New Order. We can’t have this music festival turn into a Knife Party. This isn’t Freaknik. Or a Passion Pit. This ain’t Burning Man neither.

I see some of you Savages with 2 Chainz wanting to Trash Talk. Well not this year – no Social Distortion allowed. Only Pretty Lights, Stars and one Major Lazor for you TNight. Am I clear? Good. OK, huddle up. Let us pray…

Everyone raise your Mimosa to me, Coach Ella for keeping the Violent Femmes out, to all of The Guards for keeping The Violators in check, and to the one and only Phoenix. Glass up so I can see them.
[here it comes... finally]

You’re all The Lumineers of this Gaslight Anthem. Play hard. Play fast.

P.S. After the concert if any of you are Bingo Players, come to Fedde Le Grand Casino up on Theophilus London drive. It’s Ladies Night. Girls drink free all night, unless you have a Purity Ring –you Spiritualized ladies are not welcome. I’m talking to you Tegan and Sara.

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