A Rolling Stones Choir, The Smell Of Dope & The Newest Nobel Prize Winner: We're At Desert Trip

Bryget Chrisfield, Melbourne editor of The Music has packed herself off to California for the second weekend of heritage rock festival Desert Trip. She battled heat, dust and the realisation that last-minute tickets were selling for much less than what she paid to attend the event dubbed 'Oldchella' (it shares a founder with Coachella).

Booking a vacation rental in Palms Springs (with swimming pool, of course) proves a savvy move as we float around on inflatables in 34-degree heat, pitying the campers who would've woken up onsite at sunrise, sweating. With Desert Trip's full sets not kicking off until sunset, our heads will definitely thank us for maximising daily recovery time in comfy beds. There's a lot of activity on the festival's Facebook page, with tickets being sold at a fraction of cost price and punters begging for couch surfing opps since hotel prices average $US500 a night. 

After rushing to get our shit together, we hit the road and curse the lack of decent coffee around here. Mistakenly believing the festival site to be the same as where we collected tickets the previous day, we start off heading in the wrong direction - all a bit flustered - but then Platinum parking privileges mean our car can be parked relatively close to the action. The Indio dust brings a trippy glow to magic hour and many workers wear bandannas across their nose to protect breathing apparatus. After a smooth entry process we're directed towards a golf buggy that will transport us straight to the action (for Platinum ticketholders only, of course). Once inside, lush lawn underfoot is a treat and flip flops are rapidly removed. An usher tells us "brown is the new green" regarding the grass since apparently it's usually even more lush. Still, dancing barefoot on grass can't be beaten.

Speaking of grass, we smell a few wafts en route to our seats with only a couple of minutes to spare before Bob Dylan hits the stage, opening with the raucous brass of Rainy Day Women #12 & 35 (with its apt "Everybody must get stoned" chorus). The width of the screen behind the performers is insane, like three giant movie screens joined together (although there's a glitch in one screen during Dylan's set, which annoyingly pulls focus). It's all black-and-white footage for Dylan, with simple amber wash on stage. Dylan is so lean! He sports black pants with white embroidery down each outside leg and is bare chested under a black suit jacket. He still has cool hair and Dylan's harmonica playing raises early cheers. We delightedly discover our seats have inbuilt beverage holders. Tangled Up In Blue is another crowd favourite that raises punters to their feet, but mainly we sit in awed silence; this band is ridiculously tight and the sound mix is dead-on. Couples slow dance, manoeuvring their cowboy-hatted heads like wrestling elk. He's never been one for banter and stays true to his modus operandi this evening. Dylan's Nobel Prize for Literature makes all kinds of sense and his careful diction showcases that trademark poetic turn of phrase: "I got something in my pocket make your eyeballs swim." 

We score an encore that fittingly kicks off with Like A Rolling Stone (a nod to The Rolling Stones playing next on the stage, perhaps?). Closing with Why Try To Change Me Now, featuring some superb slide guitar, we're reminded that Dylan invented swag.

After a break that's long enough to factor in libations and ablutions, a flash of red visuals dance across the screens and The Rolling Stones commence with their opening barnstormer, Jumpin' Jack Flash. Reverting back to black-and-white visuals for the first song, footage bursts into full, vibrant colour for song two Get Off Of My Cloud, which inspires a chorus of enthusiastic, "Hey! HEY!/You! YOU!"s throughout the crowd. The Stones have a colour palette that utilises reds and cobalt blues in their outfits with Keith Richards sporting red platform trainers a la Spice Girls. "Welcome to Desert Trip Two," Mick Jagger enthuses. There are a few dodgy riffs during It's Only Rock'n'Roll (But I Like It) and we admire Charlie Watts' metronomic precision, drumming with perfectly still posture and straight back. After claiming he refuses to do any "age gags", Jagger follows with, "Welcome to the 'catch 'em before they croak' festival" then we score Tumbling Dice. 

"We have never shared a stage with a Nobel Prize winner before," Jagger points out, congratulating Dylan and commending him on an excellent opening set. Jagger's legs are thin as matchsticks! If you dropped a (desert) trip, the visuals during Angie would certainly make you flip out. Two killer saxophonists elevate the already-killer compositions. A dude near us repeatedly calls out for Brown Sugar, but must wait a while before he's given a dose. Paint It, Black is so perfect it brings tears to the eyes and then cowbells usher in Honky Tonk Women. That bass solo during Miss You is everything! Richards speaks and we all wonder what he's on tonight. Then the backing vocalist is given her time to shine during Gimme Shelter. Start Me Up does just that and then in comes all the "WOO/WOO!" goodness of Sympathy For The Devil. On the screens, red hieroglyphics morph from smiley faces into pentagrams and we enviously ogle Jagger's sparkly red coat with panels of pleated black fabric in the back. There's no other band in the world with so many universally recognised hits at their disposal. 

A choir (complete with conductor) sings the familiar strains of You Can't Always Get What You Want to commence The Rolling Stones' encore and we start to feel sad that it's all coming to an end. Jagger struts down the long catwalk, his red-and-cerise silk shirt flapping in the desert breeze. Ronnie Woods' guitar solo during this song stops us in our tracks. The choir is smiling and so are we. Closer Satisfaction is delivered as pyros explode into the desert sky. Satisfied? Absobloodylutely.