After eating the crowd’s food and smoking their weed, Bronson crossed the photo pit barrier and led a mass of mostly onlookers liberated from their shirts across the desert polo fields, like the fat, bearded, hard-rapping Moses of Indio. Topics of conversation: weed and women. (Female genitalia was likened to a salted soft baked Bravarian treat and a popular men’s haircut. I didn’t see any Tegan and Sara fans around.) Action Bronson is a merely competent emcee but a divine showman. After having to pause the show — quote: “I was about to throw-up, I’m sorry” — he passed the mic to wannabe emcees in the crowd to spit a few verses. (Hey Coachella organizers, why not book an hour of open-mic freestyle?) Tons of old skool fun, if you could get past the large crowd of grown men cheering-on disgusting sexist remarks.
The Chef sure as hell knows how to cook up a good show.
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