At 7.55pm on Saturday evening, a tent overwhelmingly full of millennials waited in the dark for Jai Paul. Judging by the buzz and the frisson of cheers every time his set seemed to begin, the majority of those in attendance understood the importance of the occasion.
It had been over a decade since the reclusive West London-bred singer and producer released two era-defining demos, BTSTU and Jasmine, influencing underground and mainstream music for years to come. Ten years since his still unfinished album leaked online, prompting his withdrawal from music and disappearance from an already minimal public life.
Now he was to perform his first-ever live set at Coachella’s Mojave stage, an announcement that triggered a joyous meltdown in certain corners of the millennial internet. He was also 15 minutes late. Would he show? How were his nerves? A minute spent with the whole tent in near-darkness before his band took the stage only added to the mystique.
Paul’s eventual arrival did not clear anything up. Dressed in a tan track jacket and some combination of pants and a long skirt (it was, fittingly, difficult to tell and appeared to be both), wearing blue ski glasses with tiger-streaked hair, he emerged a cipher in the middle of the stage. No introduction, no stage banter, just straight into the music.
And it was music, more than singing, for his 45-minute set. It was, unfortunately, difficult to hear Paul during most of his 11 songs, including covers of Big Boi’s Higher Res and Jennifer Paige’s Crush. Which may or may not have been intentional – Paul’s voice, a diffident falsetto, was not the essential part of his tracks. On BTSTU, for example, his gauzy vocals land like falling snow on a tectonic, juddering bass synth. In person, the magnetic discordance of Paul’s production rendered live all but drowned out his voice, to the point where it was hard to know, at times, if he was even singing. Was the mic not turned up enough? Was he not singing loud enough? Did he want it to sound this way? It’s impossible to say. Another point for mystique.
Still, Paul’s set and self-evidently brilliant music was vibey enough for the crowd, who sang along to every track. The staging – a single rock promontory, from which Paul sang Jasmine – was appropriately alien and serious. The visuals were shuddering and elemental – never-ending water ripples, never-ending caverns, and what I imagine it looks like to be a mineralogist on drugs. The singing may not have been there, but the music’s translation to stage had enough edge to it to keep people entranced.
Paul seemed to gain confidence by the final three numbers – Jasmine, BTSTU and the still current-sounding Str8 Outta Mumbai – his voice more legible, his stage movements a touch more commanding. His debut, which drew enthusiastic cheers with each number, was perhaps ironically a testament to his music. The actual performance was secondary to the fact that there was a public appearance at all, for unfinished tracks that still hold up. And there would be no word on them. Paul wrapped his set with a prayer-hands gesture to the crowd, then walked straight into a tight hug from a friend offstage, one that I hope was more relief than regret.
