Coachella published their 2018 lineup, and besides listing two strange acts — Jamaroqui and Los Ángeles Azules — it’s completely unsurprising.
Frankly, I don’t give a shit about modern music festivals. Mingling with thousands of fans of horrible bands — or even good bands — is the worst. One has to listen to comments such as “OMG, Lizzie! Remember when you got shit-faced at Danna’s house party, and you gang-banged her stepbrothers to this song? You were so liberal with your body back then. THANK GOD you came around and voted for Trump.”
Still, I like to gawk at festival lineups. Mostly so that I can keep track of how out of touch I’ve become with the general populace. And looking at Coachella’s 2018 lineup, I might as well be from another dimension because I don’t understand any of it:
I don’t understand any of it because I thought music festivals were supposed to be about youth, counterculture, and freaking about your parents, and not about booking lame top 40 artists as filler, getting positive coverage in Cosmopolitan, and hanging out with weird-ass parents who try to “indoctrinate” their children.
But I don’t know anything anymore. For example, I didn’t know Jamaroqui, that silly MTV band band from the ’90s, had made a comeback (apparently neither did most people).
I also never imagined Los Ángeles Azules, a hardcore cumbia band from Mexico, would get booked to play in what is now the most well-known music festival on earth. Coachella has been booking Spanish-singing rock and electronic artists for years (Café Tacvba, Babasónicos, Zoé, Bomba Estéreo, etc), but Los Ángeles Azules are a work-class favorite, not a hipster’s fixation.
Well, sort of. These last couple of years Mexican fresas really took to the band. In 2014, possibly 2015, the band released a re-recording of their biggest hits with guest vocals by tons of rockeros, most of whom played Coachella before:
This record made it safe for bougie Latinos to get into the Los Ángeles Azules.
What’s truly surprising is that no reggaeton artist has been booked yet. Calle 13 performed in 2010, if memory serves me well, but by then they were more Manu Chau than Daddy Yankee. Many of last year’s darlings, such Bad Bunny or even Maluma, should have made Coachella’s 2018 lineup. They seem a bit more relevant during this reggaeton-crazed year.
Alright, I’m done writing about this.
Lizzie, let’s get shit-faced and go after some siblings. I know you still have it in you.
It’s a thankless job, but would you like to rant for Rictus?
Are you Latino, Latina, or Latinx? If you’re not, it doesn’t matter. Maybe you lived in Latin America, or know Latino culture well. More importantly, do you have a funny, witty, dumb, eye-opening, or virgen María-blessed insight about something? A personal story, a political view, groundbreaking analysis, or dissenting review about a movie, record, city, art show, or something nobody cares about?
Maybe nobody cares about whatever you’re interested in because you haven’t written about it. Share your thoughts with strangers! You may get even some virtual likes on social media, and that’s how people count happiness in 2018, right?
José and I have a lot of fun here at Rictus, but it’s fun to publish contrasting voices. We don’t make any money, so neither will you. This is really just about you loving the written word, as we do.
Some shit to consider:
- Can be as short as 300 words, or as long as you think you can hold people’s attention with your awesome wordsmithery.
- It’s a lot more important — to us, anyway — that you’re funny, insightful, or engaging about whateverthefuckyouwriteabout than a being a super professional writer, so don’t be shy.
- In English, please. We may add a Spanish section later, but, yeah, English werds, for now.
- You can use a pen name. Maybe you work at some conservative think tank and and don’t want to be found out. That’s fine. Use your superhero name.
- You should already have a good pitch. What do you know, or have strong opinions about, that others don’t? Are you mad about something you recently saw in the news? Does your aunt drive you crazy? Have you noticed an interesting pattern in penis owners? Are you a media geek? Do you love celebrities, but hate their dumb looks?
Broke, youthful & repressed: Things you’re too dumb to appreciate in your 20s
Are you trying to get through your 20s gracefully? Then you’ve come to the wrong place — and I don’t mean this website, I mean this planet. But this website too, maybe.
Listen, you will make horrible mistakes during your existence because #youth. But pay attention because, even if you don’t get past your 20s with some grace, you may be able to get by with some dignity.
1) You poor, endearing bastard
Ah, to be young, dumb, and full of cumulative social issues. As a broke twentysomething, you’re usually too self-conscious to realize that your youth, in a strange way, sanctions your destitution. You realize you’re poor — that’s obviously not the issue — but instead of making it your warcry, and finding strength in a nothing-to-lose attitude, you burden yourself attempting to portray the opposite.
Maybe you’re still trying to prove to society — and your parents, most of all — that you’re an independent, responsible, adult-ass person. You really want that vindication, especially if you spent tons of money on getting edumacated. Yet, you’re between a precious little window of time when society is still willing to forgive your poverty, access to influence, and lack of experience.
Ah, but once you reach your 30s? Let’s just say the Eye of Sauron has nothing on people’s judgemental gaze.
There are exceptions, of course, and if you come from money, none of what I just wrote will make sense to you. But in short, youngsters tend to misuse the grace period their youth affords them.
2) Foooreeever young. You’re gonna be, foooreeever dumb.
So you’re a young blood under the impression that your physical and mental machinations will go on forever because you can, like, totally wake up in the middle of the night with tons of ideas and inspiration, even if you got wasted at a party the day before.
And, whatever — you still have a baggie full of coke in your coat, even if it’s 60% baby formula. You can snort it at any point to get an extra kick, but why not save it for the next party? Because your work ethic is just unstoppable, and the thought of physical deterioration seems incredibly foreign.
Little do you know that nature is maniacally cackling behind a crystal ball in a deep lair within your body. It’s waiting to play a cruel joke on your dumbass, and when it’s time — in your 30s — it will begin by sabotaging your stamina.
That’s only the first part of nature’s cruel plan. The second phase is a lot more sinister because, although you’re left with a portion of the physical energy you used to have, a psychological hangup will turn all of your unfinished, half-realized ideas into regrets.
Suddenly, when you’re in the middle of a Netflix ‘n chill session, half-watching the 25th episode of some stupid show you don’t even like, nature will bitingly turn to your formally unstoppable will to say: “Where’s your messiah now?”
Its grim, I know. The point is, if you come to terms with the fact that age will physically slow you down, and you do so when you’re still young, it may push you focus on whatever you think is truly important.
3) Unlike complicated emotional bonds, sex stupid, but fun.
Sex is fun, but incredibly stupid. Stripped of all of the symbolism polite society instills on copulation, either through romcoms, music, books, or coming of age parties (see quinceañeras), the physical act of rubbing genitals with another person is messy and mundane. Conceptually, cooking chilaquiles is a lot more complicated than getting your gross body to secrete fluids.
I hate to go all Sex at Dawn on you, but modern culture has done a number on everybody. Current social taboos still conflate sex with all emotional sensations. A person can be sexually attracted to another while not being intellectually stimulated by them, and that’s fine. But most people still expect every sexual partner to be a perfectly-matched significant other, and that’s dumb.
Very few youngsters internalize a sexually-positive outlook. Their hormones are out of control, just like their clouded, repressed judgement, and too much emotional stock is placed on what could be a fun, pleasing, but ultimately near-meaningless experience — just like cooking chilaquiles.
Deep, rewarding, emotional, or enlightening bonds can be had with just about anyone — your aunt, a garbage man, or even a piece of clothing. You probably can’t have rewarding sex with any of those three — maybe the garbage man, if he’s hot — but you can have good sex with a dumb stranger.
Do it, and don’t feel guilty about it.
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