daiana feuer

Daiana Feuer braved the frigid desert night at Clean Air Clear Stars to take these pictures. Check out the rest of our photo archive at larecord.com/photos!

Climb aboard a one-way ticket to face paint. Don’t wear paint, you may still enjoy the cold weather, the bands, the desert fashion, attractive, tall people you’ve maybe seen at a secret party downtown or a coffee shop in Echo Park. But, put on a little glitter and Pioneertown opens its gates and plugs in the jukebox. It was freezing at the Clean Air Clear Stars fest. People wore blankets as dresses. Fur wrapped heads and lined clothing. One guy had a turducken of fur on his head—two rabbits and a coyote, he said.

Here are a few postcard moments from Saturday at Pappy and Harriet’s. Jeff Davies and some friends filled in for Warpaint around 6 pm. I like his Burburry hat and Nightmare Before Christmas sweatshirt. The band taught each other parts along the way, their chillness a good background for bar-b-q eating (spicey coleslaw galore), the bean bag toss supervised by Spin Drift guitarist Dave Koenig. On Friday night, another Spindrift member, Henry Evans, worked the fog machine for Dead Meadows. I noticed at least two other band mates…but, alas, they never played, not even by accident.

Right after sunset, Restavrant roused the shivering audience, teaching us how to kick up dirt. A few shards flying off J State’s drumsticks landed in my drink. Guitarist Troy Olaf knocked over a speaker and ran right off stage, forgetting he’d unplug. They turned the heat up some degrees.

The cold had good moments, though. Frosty weather enhanced Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s acoustic set, resonating windy, melancholic catharsis. The two guitarists turned shivers into roomy romances wrapping around our shoulders. I introspected. Pretty sure others did, too.

Black Angels came on last. They led us marching to heavy drums behind the maraca’s guiding light. Their take on weather revealed erosion’s oversaturated colors, the heat that grinds pebble to psychedelic dust. I had lost my car clicker momentarily, but hoped the moon bunny dug the drummer’s pounding so good luck would just leak from her armpits. It worked, or else I’d still be listening to Jou Jou Ka in the Pioneertown saloon and you wouldn’t be reading about it.

I saw this bug Sunday morning.

—Daiana Feuer