Offensive T-shirt watch, vol. 5.

[Nope, just our Kenny Chesney post. That pic is as close as we could get to the guy.]

There's little to add to the Kenny Chesney conversation at this point. Either you're the type of country fan who's down with his mercilessly optimistic brand of rum-soaked Jimmy Buffett-core or you're not. Most folks at Stagecoach seem to be okay with that.

The strains of "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy" are currently wafting through the desert night and I think I might have figured him out. Kenny Chesney is country's version of Diddy. Neither have any discernable charisma beyond good-times opulence and the generic tropes of island revelry: booze, good-looking ladies and a sense of exotica bleached clean of any actual sense of local lifestyle or attachment to the roots of one's given terrain. Which is, obviously, totally contrary to the values of country music. But still ...

For the auteur behind "Beer in Mexico," the actual country to our immediate south is a set piece for his maxin' and relaxin' worldview, as opposed to a place where real people live and work. But it's probably asking too much to expect more, because Chesney is, like Diddy, more of an idea than an actual artist, or even a person at this point. They exist solely to embody the spoils of the successful entertainer's life with none of the trappings of actually maintaining a dangerous public persona. All of that would be too messy, and would interfere with the on-message image of oily pecs, frothy Coronas and a respite from the grind whom so many actual Mexican citizens help make so much easier through selfless labor.

Chesney is all that is wrong with modern Nashville, yet also the archetype of the post-9/11 country music mentality. Namely, that fans want to curl up under a palm tree and sip fruity drinks while the busy, ugly world washes by.

Not so fast, buddy. This genre has some explaining to do first.

[Guest blogger August Brown is ready for some pizza deliverance.]

Drive-By Truckers represent everything right about the impulse but bad about the execution behind Stagecoach's mix of alternative and mainstream country. The band is closest thing we have to a modern-day Skynyrd (they wrote a double album, "Southern Rock Opera" about them, after all), and their filthy, witty roughneck tunes should have destroyed the Palomino Stage, even if they were competing with the former Mr. Zellweger on the Mane Stage (and more on him in a bit).

But like Neko Case last night, the Truckers had the dubious honor of being having the most skewed talent-to-audience ratio of the day. We're all about hyperbole here, but there honestly could not have been more than 200 people watching their set. And that is just unacceptable for such a relentlessly awesome rock group that by all rights should have packed the place. The only conclusion is that Stagecoach needs to de-ghettoize the alt-country groups from the Palomino Stage and have more back-and forth across the field between mainstream and underground groups.

But given the attendance atrocity, the Truckers kept their chins up and delivered as best they could. "Shut Up and Get On The Plane" was a worthy travellin' song that swung like a sackful of bricks, and the laid-bare fears on closer "Angels and Fuselage" withstood the boozy affirmations of a dude screaming "Truckers!" after every line, even if he drove guitarist Mike Cooley to gulp from a handle of Jack Daniel's onstage.

I'd like to think that Stagecoach can accommodate bands like the Truckers and win them a new audience of mainstream country fans. But until Stagecoach figures out how to introduce the two, the bad habit of a great band being criminally ignored by a whole festival will probably continue. And that's a shame.

Hmmm ...

[Guest blogger August Brown is putting on another pot o' tea when he gets back from this.]

Emmylou Harris is the Helen Mirren of country music. Dashing silver fox? Absolutely. Been around forever yet achieved hipster cachet in recent years? Ryan Adams, Conor Oberst and even Mark Knopfler ("A nice country boy") would say so.

Harris' voice is, and has alway been, one of the genre's most visible yet its most adaptable to others' idiosyncrasies. But her set on the Palomino Stage was all about her and the graceful mother-to-the-world she's become late in her career.

With a mostly all-female backing band, Harris staples like the hard-bitten "Red Dirt Girl" and newer, more ethereal cuts like "Orphan Girl" resonated with her wispy vibrato and proved that the best instruments only improve with time.

Though the set was astonishingly under-attended at first (curse you, Brooks & Dunn), the crowd filled out with every tune until the field was rapt. Mothers' Day is next week, and Harris, who turned 60 last month, dedicated a song to her daughter to note the occasion. Should every daughter and mother be so lucky to have that voice, in this valley, do the same. 

[August Brown doesn't want to guest blog if you don't want to guest blog.]

If nothing else comes out of this weekend, I finally understand Sugarland now. The band's chipper country-pop never seemed to have legs outside the usual CMT retinue, and the duo of Jennifer Nettles and Kristian Bush didn't exactly radiate boisterous charisma or roughshod authenticity.

But taken as a pure pop band shooting for summertime fun, the duo's upbeat romps through a teenagedom full of drinking by rivers and figuring out the right time to smooch was just what the afternoon called for. "County Line" is one of those universal coming-of-age-and-misbehaving numbers that actual teenagers have lapped up for decades, full of the same detailed-yet-accessible imagery of driving too fast and dodging cops that anyone who's ever been 16 can get behind. Especially sloshed early-twentysomething ladies having a girls'-only weekend. They loved this band.

"Want To" flips the occasion, where a young couple is tentatively navigating the line between kissing and being rejected, and the band backs it up with a cheerfully expert swagger that perfectly suited the occasion. Nettles was a firebrand on stage, and call me crazy, but it didn't seem wrong that they had today's Arcade Fire late-afternoon-anthem set time.   

[The last time guest blogger August Brown owed Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson a favor, he wound up in the Norman, Okla., clink for six days.]

There's seriously no excuse as to why we didn't spend more time with Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson this weekend. The tail end of Kristofferson's set (which he performed with just his bad self, a guitar and the odd harmonica) was dusty and earnest, full of Biblical metaphors and the hard-bitten charisma that earned him an unlikely film career. His voice is as ragged, barely tonal and welcome as ever in these heady Cashville days. Wish we caught more of it.

And Willie! Jeez, we passed on Willie twice in two weekends! Inexcusable, I tell you. Hope he won't be a red-headed stranger for too much longer. There's a handle of George Dickel waiting for you if you let us make it up to you, Willie.

Brooks & Dunn are playing right now and I'm trying to care more than I do.

[Guest blogger August Brown can't wait to be 70 and just not care anymore.]

Part of being a country-influenced musician is that you have to be crotchety before your time. Scamps like Conor Oberst, Jeff Tweedy and Ryan Adams put on airs that a life of hopping trains, slugging Old Granddad and chasing black-hearted women left them beaten into the dust by the age of, what, 24? Sorry dudes, dating Winona Ryder and/or Parker Posey is a pretty instant disqualification from playing that card.

Maybe when you get to be Ramblin' Jack Elliott's age (born 1931, natch), you'll have earned the right to sit by your lonesome on a stool in the Mustang Stage and tell meandering stories about Spanish gambling and kicking it with Woody Guthrie. Among old-guard folkies still living, there is Elliott and there is everyone else. His work influenced everyone from Dylan to Springsteen to Pete Seeger, but today his songs are almost beside the point compared to his treasure trove of stories and happily haggard charisma. Elliott can stop a song mid-verse to say "now this song is where that song came from" and start a whole new tune without losing a beat or the audience. He even kicked out an obnoxious photographer who lingered to long at the front of the stage. A singer who doesn't like his picture taken? Youth sure is wasted on the young pearl-button crowd.

 

Hey! We didn't know Catharine MacKinnon was selling shirts at Stagecoach!

[Guest blogger August Brown has lived in China, but was not the subject of any naughty local folk songs.]

As jingoistic as country artists can seem sometimes (word, Darryl Worley), it's easy to forget that it's essentially acoustic folk music, which comes from a long line of music from other far-flung ethnicities. Abigail Washburn is out to right that wrong, trekking all the way to the Sichuan province of China and the feminist mythologies of Tori Amos to make a wholly unique folk music of her own.

The short version of Washburn's biography is that she plays hill-country music while writing and singing lyrics in, oh, fluent Mandarin Chinese. It's not as crazy as it sounds; Asian instruments like the pipa and koto are distant cousins of her preferred banjo, and the sing-songy phonetics of Mandarin are an unlikely but apt fit for the melodies and cadences of bluegrass.

With backing band the Sparrow Quartet (banjo god Bela Fleck was her sideman), Washburn stomped and skipped through firey Appalachian takes on the local songs of Sichuan. Her bilingualism's no gimmick; she nails the dips and peaks of pitch while leading her band in scorching variations on simple, repetitive traditional melodies.

But anyone who stops at the gosh-wow factor of a pretty white banjo player singing in Chinese misses the nuance of her English tunes. "Red & Blazing" and "Eve Stole The Apple" are slow-burning torch songs, steeped in subtle but powerful feminism that only deepens the folkloric and storytelling qualities of her songs. But she knows from bluesy 'sugar-in-my-bowl' double entendres as well; she ended one Chinese song about the pan-ethnic subject of baby-making by saying "That's some hot stuff from the Sichuan province there." Her album "Song of the Traveling Daughter" is just as hot, and you'd do well to search it out.

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Drive-By Truckers: Get on the plane ... anyone?

[Guest blogger August Brown is ready for some pizza deliverance.]

Drive-By Truckers represent everything right about the impulse but bad about the execution behind Stagecoach's mix of alternative and mainstream country. The band is closest thing we have to a modern-day Skynyrd (they wrote a double album, "Southern Rock Opera" about them, after all), and their filthy, witty roughneck tunes should have destroyed the Palomino Stage, even if they were competing with the former Mr. Zellweger on the Mane Stage (and more on him in a bit).

But like Neko Case last night, the Truckers had the dubious honor of being having the most skewed talent-to-audience ratio of the day. We're all about hyperbole here, but there honestly could not have been more than 200 people watching their set. And that is just unacceptable for such a relentlessly awesome rock group that by all rights should have packed the place. The only conclusion is that Stagecoach needs to de-ghettoize the alt-country groups from the Palomino Stage and have more back-and forth across the field between mainstream and underground groups.

But given the attendance atrocity, the Truckers kept their chins up and delivered as best they could. "Shut Up and Get On The Plane" was a worthy travellin' song that swung like a sackful of bricks, and the laid-bare fears on closer "Angels and Fuselage" withstood the boozy affirmations of a dude screaming "Truckers!" after every line, even if he drove guitarist Mike Cooley to gulp from a handle of Jack Daniel's onstage.

I'd like to think that Stagecoach can accommodate bands like the Truckers and win them a new audience of mainstream country fans. But until Stagecoach figures out how to introduce the two, the bad habit of a great band being criminally ignored by a whole festival will probably continue. And that's a shame.

Hmmm ...

[Guest blogger August Brown is putting on another pot o' tea when he gets back from this.]

Emmylou Harris is the Helen Mirren of country music. Dashing silver fox? Absolutely. Been around forever yet achieved hipster cachet in recent years? Ryan Adams, Conor Oberst and even Mark Knopfler ("A nice country boy") would say so.

Harris' voice is, and has alway been, one of the genre's most visible yet its most adaptable to others' idiosyncrasies. But her set on the Palomino Stage was all about her and the graceful mother-to-the-world she's become late in her career.

With a mostly all-female backing band, Harris staples like the hard-bitten "Red Dirt Girl" and newer, more ethereal cuts like "Orphan Girl" resonated with her wispy vibrato and proved that the best instruments only improve with time.

Though the set was astonishingly under-attended at first (curse you, Brooks & Dunn), the crowd filled out with every tune until the field was rapt. Mothers' Day is next week, and Harris, who turned 60 last month, dedicated a song to her daughter to note the occasion. Should every daughter and mother be so lucky to have that voice, in this valley, do the same. 

[August Brown doesn't want to guest blog if you don't want to guest blog.]

If nothing else comes out of this weekend, I finally understand Sugarland now. The band's chipper country-pop never seemed to have legs outside the usual CMT retinue, and the duo of Jennifer Nettles and Kristian Bush didn't exactly radiate boisterous charisma or roughshod authenticity.

But taken as a pure pop band shooting for summertime fun, the duo's upbeat romps through a teenagedom full of drinking by rivers and figuring out the right time to smooch was just what the afternoon called for. "County Line" is one of those universal coming-of-age-and-misbehaving numbers that actual teenagers have lapped up for decades, full of the same detailed-yet-accessible imagery of driving too fast and dodging cops that anyone who's ever been 16 can get behind. Especially sloshed early-twentysomething ladies having a girls'-only weekend. They loved this band.

"Want To" flips the occasion, where a young couple is tentatively navigating the line between kissing and being rejected, and the band backs it up with a cheerfully expert swagger that perfectly suited the occasion. Nettles was a firebrand on stage, and call me crazy, but it didn't seem wrong that they had today's Arcade Fire late-afternoon-anthem set time.   

[The last time guest blogger August Brown owed Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson a favor, he wound up in the Norman, Okla., clink for six days.]

There's seriously no excuse as to why we didn't spend more time with Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson this weekend. The tail end of Kristofferson's set (which he performed with just his bad self, a guitar and the odd harmonica) was dusty and earnest, full of Biblical metaphors and the hard-bitten charisma that earned him an unlikely film career. His voice is as ragged, barely tonal and welcome as ever in these heady Cashville days. Wish we caught more of it.

And Willie! Jeez, we passed on Willie twice in two weekends! Inexcusable, I tell you. Hope he won't be a red-headed stranger for too much longer. There's a handle of George Dickel waiting for you if you let us make it up to you, Willie.

Brooks & Dunn are playing right now and I'm trying to care more than I do.

[Guest blogger August Brown can't wait to be 70 and just not care anymore.]

Part of being a country-influenced musician is that you have to be crotchety before your time. Scamps like Conor Oberst, Jeff Tweedy and Ryan Adams put on airs that a life of hopping trains, slugging Old Granddad and chasing black-hearted women left them beaten into the dust by the age of, what, 24? Sorry dudes, dating Winona Ryder and/or Parker Posey is a pretty instant disqualification from playing that card.

Maybe when you get to be Ramblin' Jack Elliott's age (born 1931, natch), you'll have earned the right to sit by your lonesome on a stool in the Mustang Stage and tell meandering stories about Spanish gambling and kicking it with Woody Guthrie. Among old-guard folkies still living, there is Elliott and there is everyone else. His work influenced everyone from Dylan to Springsteen to Pete Seeger, but today his songs are almost beside the point compared to his treasure trove of stories and happily haggard charisma. Elliott can stop a song mid-verse to say "now this song is where that song came from" and start a whole new tune without losing a beat or the audience. He even kicked out an obnoxious photographer who lingered to long at the front of the stage. A singer who doesn't like his picture taken? Youth sure is wasted on the young pearl-button crowd.

 

Hey! We didn't know Catharine MacKinnon was selling shirts at Stagecoach!

[Guest blogger August Brown has lived in China, but was not the subject of any naughty local folk songs.]

As jingoistic as country artists can seem sometimes (word, Darryl Worley), it's easy to forget that it's essentially acoustic folk music, which comes from a long line of music from other far-flung ethnicities. Abigail Washburn is out to right that wrong, trekking all the way to the Sichuan province of China and the feminist mythologies of Tori Amos to make a wholly unique folk music of her own.

The short version of Washburn's biography is that she plays hill-country music while writing and singing lyrics in, oh, fluent Mandarin Chinese. It's not as crazy as it sounds; Asian instruments like the pipa and koto are distant cousins of her preferred banjo, and the sing-songy phonetics of Mandarin are an unlikely but apt fit for the melodies and cadences of bluegrass.

With backing band the Sparrow Quartet (banjo god Bela Fleck was her sideman), Washburn stomped and skipped through firey Appalachian takes on the local songs of Sichuan. Her bilingualism's no gimmick; she nails the dips and peaks of pitch while leading her band in scorching variations on simple, repetitive traditional melodies.

But anyone who stops at the gosh-wow factor of a pretty white banjo player singing in Chinese misses the nuance of her English tunes. "Red & Blazing" and "Eve Stole The Apple" are slow-burning torch songs, steeped in subtle but powerful feminism that only deepens the folkloric and storytelling qualities of her songs. But she knows from bluesy 'sugar-in-my-bowl' double entendres as well; she ended one Chinese song about the pan-ethnic subject of baby-making by saying "That's some hot stuff from the Sichuan province there." Her album "Song of the Traveling Daughter" is just as hot, and you'd do well to search it out.

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Offensive T-shirt watch, Vol. 4.

Hmmm ...

[Guest blogger August Brown is putting on another pot o' tea when he gets back from this.]

Emmylou Harris is the Helen Mirren of country music. Dashing silver fox? Absolutely. Been around forever yet achieved hipster cachet in recent years? Ryan Adams, Conor Oberst and even Mark Knopfler ("A nice country boy") would say so.

Harris' voice is, and has alway been, one of the genre's most visible yet its most adaptable to others' idiosyncrasies. But her set on the Palomino Stage was all about her and the graceful mother-to-the-world she's become late in her career.

With a mostly all-female backing band, Harris staples like the hard-bitten "Red Dirt Girl" and newer, more ethereal cuts like "Orphan Girl" resonated with her wispy vibrato and proved that the best instruments only improve with time.

Though the set was astonishingly under-attended at first (curse you, Brooks & Dunn), the crowd filled out with every tune until the field was rapt. Mothers' Day is next week, and Harris, who turned 60 last month, dedicated a song to her daughter to note the occasion. Should every daughter and mother be so lucky to have that voice, in this valley, do the same. 

[August Brown doesn't want to guest blog if you don't want to guest blog.]

If nothing else comes out of this weekend, I finally understand Sugarland now. The band's chipper country-pop never seemed to have legs outside the usual CMT retinue, and the duo of Jennifer Nettles and Kristian Bush didn't exactly radiate boisterous charisma or roughshod authenticity.

But taken as a pure pop band shooting for summertime fun, the duo's upbeat romps through a teenagedom full of drinking by rivers and figuring out the right time to smooch was just what the afternoon called for. "County Line" is one of those universal coming-of-age-and-misbehaving numbers that actual teenagers have lapped up for decades, full of the same detailed-yet-accessible imagery of driving too fast and dodging cops that anyone who's ever been 16 can get behind. Especially sloshed early-twentysomething ladies having a girls'-only weekend. They loved this band.

"Want To" flips the occasion, where a young couple is tentatively navigating the line between kissing and being rejected, and the band backs it up with a cheerfully expert swagger that perfectly suited the occasion. Nettles was a firebrand on stage, and call me crazy, but it didn't seem wrong that they had today's Arcade Fire late-afternoon-anthem set time.   

[The last time guest blogger August Brown owed Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson a favor, he wound up in the Norman, Okla., clink for six days.]

There's seriously no excuse as to why we didn't spend more time with Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson this weekend. The tail end of Kristofferson's set (which he performed with just his bad self, a guitar and the odd harmonica) was dusty and earnest, full of Biblical metaphors and the hard-bitten charisma that earned him an unlikely film career. His voice is as ragged, barely tonal and welcome as ever in these heady Cashville days. Wish we caught more of it.

And Willie! Jeez, we passed on Willie twice in two weekends! Inexcusable, I tell you. Hope he won't be a red-headed stranger for too much longer. There's a handle of George Dickel waiting for you if you let us make it up to you, Willie.

Brooks & Dunn are playing right now and I'm trying to care more than I do.

[Guest blogger August Brown can't wait to be 70 and just not care anymore.]

Part of being a country-influenced musician is that you have to be crotchety before your time. Scamps like Conor Oberst, Jeff Tweedy and Ryan Adams put on airs that a life of hopping trains, slugging Old Granddad and chasing black-hearted women left them beaten into the dust by the age of, what, 24? Sorry dudes, dating Winona Ryder and/or Parker Posey is a pretty instant disqualification from playing that card.

Maybe when you get to be Ramblin' Jack Elliott's age (born 1931, natch), you'll have earned the right to sit by your lonesome on a stool in the Mustang Stage and tell meandering stories about Spanish gambling and kicking it with Woody Guthrie. Among old-guard folkies still living, there is Elliott and there is everyone else. His work influenced everyone from Dylan to Springsteen to Pete Seeger, but today his songs are almost beside the point compared to his treasure trove of stories and happily haggard charisma. Elliott can stop a song mid-verse to say "now this song is where that song came from" and start a whole new tune without losing a beat or the audience. He even kicked out an obnoxious photographer who lingered to long at the front of the stage. A singer who doesn't like his picture taken? Youth sure is wasted on the young pearl-button crowd.

 

Hey! We didn't know Catharine MacKinnon was selling shirts at Stagecoach!

[Guest blogger August Brown has lived in China, but was not the subject of any naughty local folk songs.]

As jingoistic as country artists can seem sometimes (word, Darryl Worley), it's easy to forget that it's essentially acoustic folk music, which comes from a long line of music from other far-flung ethnicities. Abigail Washburn is out to right that wrong, trekking all the way to the Sichuan province of China and the feminist mythologies of Tori Amos to make a wholly unique folk music of her own.

The short version of Washburn's biography is that she plays hill-country music while writing and singing lyrics in, oh, fluent Mandarin Chinese. It's not as crazy as it sounds; Asian instruments like the pipa and koto are distant cousins of her preferred banjo, and the sing-songy phonetics of Mandarin are an unlikely but apt fit for the melodies and cadences of bluegrass.

With backing band the Sparrow Quartet (banjo god Bela Fleck was her sideman), Washburn stomped and skipped through firey Appalachian takes on the local songs of Sichuan. Her bilingualism's no gimmick; she nails the dips and peaks of pitch while leading her band in scorching variations on simple, repetitive traditional melodies.

But anyone who stops at the gosh-wow factor of a pretty white banjo player singing in Chinese misses the nuance of her English tunes. "Red & Blazing" and "Eve Stole The Apple" are slow-burning torch songs, steeped in subtle but powerful feminism that only deepens the folkloric and storytelling qualities of her songs. But she knows from bluesy 'sugar-in-my-bowl' double entendres as well; she ended one Chinese song about the pan-ethnic subject of baby-making by saying "That's some hot stuff from the Sichuan province there." Her album "Song of the Traveling Daughter" is just as hot, and you'd do well to search it out.

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Emmylou Harris: simply timeless

[Guest blogger August Brown is putting on another pot o' tea when he gets back from this.]

Emmylou Harris is the Helen Mirren of country music. Dashing silver fox? Absolutely. Been around forever yet achieved hipster cachet in recent years? Ryan Adams, Conor Oberst and even Mark Knopfler ("A nice country boy") would say so.

Harris' voice is, and has alway been, one of the genre's most visible yet its most adaptable to others' idiosyncrasies. But her set on the Palomino Stage was all about her and the graceful mother-to-the-world she's become late in her career.

With a mostly all-female backing band, Harris staples like the hard-bitten "Red Dirt Girl" and newer, more ethereal cuts like "Orphan Girl" resonated with her wispy vibrato and proved that the best instruments only improve with time.

Though the set was astonishingly under-attended at first (curse you, Brooks & Dunn), the crowd filled out with every tune until the field was rapt. Mothers' Day is next week, and Harris, who turned 60 last month, dedicated a song to her daughter to note the occasion. Should every daughter and mother be so lucky to have that voice, in this valley, do the same. 

[August Brown doesn't want to guest blog if you don't want to guest blog.]

If nothing else comes out of this weekend, I finally understand Sugarland now. The band's chipper country-pop never seemed to have legs outside the usual CMT retinue, and the duo of Jennifer Nettles and Kristian Bush didn't exactly radiate boisterous charisma or roughshod authenticity.

But taken as a pure pop band shooting for summertime fun, the duo's upbeat romps through a teenagedom full of drinking by rivers and figuring out the right time to smooch was just what the afternoon called for. "County Line" is one of those universal coming-of-age-and-misbehaving numbers that actual teenagers have lapped up for decades, full of the same detailed-yet-accessible imagery of driving too fast and dodging cops that anyone who's ever been 16 can get behind. Especially sloshed early-twentysomething ladies having a girls'-only weekend. They loved this band.

"Want To" flips the occasion, where a young couple is tentatively navigating the line between kissing and being rejected, and the band backs it up with a cheerfully expert swagger that perfectly suited the occasion. Nettles was a firebrand on stage, and call me crazy, but it didn't seem wrong that they had today's Arcade Fire late-afternoon-anthem set time.   

[The last time guest blogger August Brown owed Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson a favor, he wound up in the Norman, Okla., clink for six days.]

There's seriously no excuse as to why we didn't spend more time with Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson this weekend. The tail end of Kristofferson's set (which he performed with just his bad self, a guitar and the odd harmonica) was dusty and earnest, full of Biblical metaphors and the hard-bitten charisma that earned him an unlikely film career. His voice is as ragged, barely tonal and welcome as ever in these heady Cashville days. Wish we caught more of it.

And Willie! Jeez, we passed on Willie twice in two weekends! Inexcusable, I tell you. Hope he won't be a red-headed stranger for too much longer. There's a handle of George Dickel waiting for you if you let us make it up to you, Willie.

Brooks & Dunn are playing right now and I'm trying to care more than I do.

[Guest blogger August Brown can't wait to be 70 and just not care anymore.]

Part of being a country-influenced musician is that you have to be crotchety before your time. Scamps like Conor Oberst, Jeff Tweedy and Ryan Adams put on airs that a life of hopping trains, slugging Old Granddad and chasing black-hearted women left them beaten into the dust by the age of, what, 24? Sorry dudes, dating Winona Ryder and/or Parker Posey is a pretty instant disqualification from playing that card.

Maybe when you get to be Ramblin' Jack Elliott's age (born 1931, natch), you'll have earned the right to sit by your lonesome on a stool in the Mustang Stage and tell meandering stories about Spanish gambling and kicking it with Woody Guthrie. Among old-guard folkies still living, there is Elliott and there is everyone else. His work influenced everyone from Dylan to Springsteen to Pete Seeger, but today his songs are almost beside the point compared to his treasure trove of stories and happily haggard charisma. Elliott can stop a song mid-verse to say "now this song is where that song came from" and start a whole new tune without losing a beat or the audience. He even kicked out an obnoxious photographer who lingered to long at the front of the stage. A singer who doesn't like his picture taken? Youth sure is wasted on the young pearl-button crowd.

 

Hey! We didn't know Catharine MacKinnon was selling shirts at Stagecoach!

[Guest blogger August Brown has lived in China, but was not the subject of any naughty local folk songs.]

As jingoistic as country artists can seem sometimes (word, Darryl Worley), it's easy to forget that it's essentially acoustic folk music, which comes from a long line of music from other far-flung ethnicities. Abigail Washburn is out to right that wrong, trekking all the way to the Sichuan province of China and the feminist mythologies of Tori Amos to make a wholly unique folk music of her own.

The short version of Washburn's biography is that she plays hill-country music while writing and singing lyrics in, oh, fluent Mandarin Chinese. It's not as crazy as it sounds; Asian instruments like the pipa and koto are distant cousins of her preferred banjo, and the sing-songy phonetics of Mandarin are an unlikely but apt fit for the melodies and cadences of bluegrass.

With backing band the Sparrow Quartet (banjo god Bela Fleck was her sideman), Washburn stomped and skipped through firey Appalachian takes on the local songs of Sichuan. Her bilingualism's no gimmick; she nails the dips and peaks of pitch while leading her band in scorching variations on simple, repetitive traditional melodies.

But anyone who stops at the gosh-wow factor of a pretty white banjo player singing in Chinese misses the nuance of her English tunes. "Red & Blazing" and "Eve Stole The Apple" are slow-burning torch songs, steeped in subtle but powerful feminism that only deepens the folkloric and storytelling qualities of her songs. But she knows from bluesy 'sugar-in-my-bowl' double entendres as well; she ended one Chinese song about the pan-ethnic subject of baby-making by saying "That's some hot stuff from the Sichuan province there." Her album "Song of the Traveling Daughter" is just as hot, and you'd do well to search it out.

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Sugarland, sugary hits

[August Brown doesn't want to guest blog if you don't want to guest blog.]

If nothing else comes out of this weekend, I finally understand Sugarland now. The band's chipper country-pop never seemed to have legs outside the usual CMT retinue, and the duo of Jennifer Nettles and Kristian Bush didn't exactly radiate boisterous charisma or roughshod authenticity.

But taken as a pure pop band shooting for summertime fun, the duo's upbeat romps through a teenagedom full of drinking by rivers and figuring out the right time to smooch was just what the afternoon called for. "County Line" is one of those universal coming-of-age-and-misbehaving numbers that actual teenagers have lapped up for decades, full of the same detailed-yet-accessible imagery of driving too fast and dodging cops that anyone who's ever been 16 can get behind. Especially sloshed early-twentysomething ladies having a girls'-only weekend. They loved this band.

"Want To" flips the occasion, where a young couple is tentatively navigating the line between kissing and being rejected, and the band backs it up with a cheerfully expert swagger that perfectly suited the occasion. Nettles was a firebrand on stage, and call me crazy, but it didn't seem wrong that they had today's Arcade Fire late-afternoon-anthem set time.   

[The last time guest blogger August Brown owed Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson a favor, he wound up in the Norman, Okla., clink for six days.]

There's seriously no excuse as to why we didn't spend more time with Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson this weekend. The tail end of Kristofferson's set (which he performed with just his bad self, a guitar and the odd harmonica) was dusty and earnest, full of Biblical metaphors and the hard-bitten charisma that earned him an unlikely film career. His voice is as ragged, barely tonal and welcome as ever in these heady Cashville days. Wish we caught more of it.

And Willie! Jeez, we passed on Willie twice in two weekends! Inexcusable, I tell you. Hope he won't be a red-headed stranger for too much longer. There's a handle of George Dickel waiting for you if you let us make it up to you, Willie.

Brooks & Dunn are playing right now and I'm trying to care more than I do.

[Guest blogger August Brown can't wait to be 70 and just not care anymore.]

Part of being a country-influenced musician is that you have to be crotchety before your time. Scamps like Conor Oberst, Jeff Tweedy and Ryan Adams put on airs that a life of hopping trains, slugging Old Granddad and chasing black-hearted women left them beaten into the dust by the age of, what, 24? Sorry dudes, dating Winona Ryder and/or Parker Posey is a pretty instant disqualification from playing that card.

Maybe when you get to be Ramblin' Jack Elliott's age (born 1931, natch), you'll have earned the right to sit by your lonesome on a stool in the Mustang Stage and tell meandering stories about Spanish gambling and kicking it with Woody Guthrie. Among old-guard folkies still living, there is Elliott and there is everyone else. His work influenced everyone from Dylan to Springsteen to Pete Seeger, but today his songs are almost beside the point compared to his treasure trove of stories and happily haggard charisma. Elliott can stop a song mid-verse to say "now this song is where that song came from" and start a whole new tune without losing a beat or the audience. He even kicked out an obnoxious photographer who lingered to long at the front of the stage. A singer who doesn't like his picture taken? Youth sure is wasted on the young pearl-button crowd.

 

Hey! We didn't know Catharine MacKinnon was selling shirts at Stagecoach!

[Guest blogger August Brown has lived in China, but was not the subject of any naughty local folk songs.]

As jingoistic as country artists can seem sometimes (word, Darryl Worley), it's easy to forget that it's essentially acoustic folk music, which comes from a long line of music from other far-flung ethnicities. Abigail Washburn is out to right that wrong, trekking all the way to the Sichuan province of China and the feminist mythologies of Tori Amos to make a wholly unique folk music of her own.

The short version of Washburn's biography is that she plays hill-country music while writing and singing lyrics in, oh, fluent Mandarin Chinese. It's not as crazy as it sounds; Asian instruments like the pipa and koto are distant cousins of her preferred banjo, and the sing-songy phonetics of Mandarin are an unlikely but apt fit for the melodies and cadences of bluegrass.

With backing band the Sparrow Quartet (banjo god Bela Fleck was her sideman), Washburn stomped and skipped through firey Appalachian takes on the local songs of Sichuan. Her bilingualism's no gimmick; she nails the dips and peaks of pitch while leading her band in scorching variations on simple, repetitive traditional melodies.

But anyone who stops at the gosh-wow factor of a pretty white banjo player singing in Chinese misses the nuance of her English tunes. "Red & Blazing" and "Eve Stole The Apple" are slow-burning torch songs, steeped in subtle but powerful feminism that only deepens the folkloric and storytelling qualities of her songs. But she knows from bluesy 'sugar-in-my-bowl' double entendres as well; she ended one Chinese song about the pan-ethnic subject of baby-making by saying "That's some hot stuff from the Sichuan province there." Her album "Song of the Traveling Daughter" is just as hot, and you'd do well to search it out.

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

All apologies

[The last time guest blogger August Brown owed Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson a favor, he wound up in the Norman, Okla., clink for six days.]

There's seriously no excuse as to why we didn't spend more time with Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson this weekend. The tail end of Kristofferson's set (which he performed with just his bad self, a guitar and the odd harmonica) was dusty and earnest, full of Biblical metaphors and the hard-bitten charisma that earned him an unlikely film career. His voice is as ragged, barely tonal and welcome as ever in these heady Cashville days. Wish we caught more of it.

And Willie! Jeez, we passed on Willie twice in two weekends! Inexcusable, I tell you. Hope he won't be a red-headed stranger for too much longer. There's a handle of George Dickel waiting for you if you let us make it up to you, Willie.

Brooks & Dunn are playing right now and I'm trying to care more than I do.

[Guest blogger August Brown can't wait to be 70 and just not care anymore.]

Part of being a country-influenced musician is that you have to be crotchety before your time. Scamps like Conor Oberst, Jeff Tweedy and Ryan Adams put on airs that a life of hopping trains, slugging Old Granddad and chasing black-hearted women left them beaten into the dust by the age of, what, 24? Sorry dudes, dating Winona Ryder and/or Parker Posey is a pretty instant disqualification from playing that card.

Maybe when you get to be Ramblin' Jack Elliott's age (born 1931, natch), you'll have earned the right to sit by your lonesome on a stool in the Mustang Stage and tell meandering stories about Spanish gambling and kicking it with Woody Guthrie. Among old-guard folkies still living, there is Elliott and there is everyone else. His work influenced everyone from Dylan to Springsteen to Pete Seeger, but today his songs are almost beside the point compared to his treasure trove of stories and happily haggard charisma. Elliott can stop a song mid-verse to say "now this song is where that song came from" and start a whole new tune without losing a beat or the audience. He even kicked out an obnoxious photographer who lingered to long at the front of the stage. A singer who doesn't like his picture taken? Youth sure is wasted on the young pearl-button crowd.

 

Hey! We didn't know Catharine MacKinnon was selling shirts at Stagecoach!

[Guest blogger August Brown has lived in China, but was not the subject of any naughty local folk songs.]

As jingoistic as country artists can seem sometimes (word, Darryl Worley), it's easy to forget that it's essentially acoustic folk music, which comes from a long line of music from other far-flung ethnicities. Abigail Washburn is out to right that wrong, trekking all the way to the Sichuan province of China and the feminist mythologies of Tori Amos to make a wholly unique folk music of her own.

The short version of Washburn's biography is that she plays hill-country music while writing and singing lyrics in, oh, fluent Mandarin Chinese. It's not as crazy as it sounds; Asian instruments like the pipa and koto are distant cousins of her preferred banjo, and the sing-songy phonetics of Mandarin are an unlikely but apt fit for the melodies and cadences of bluegrass.

With backing band the Sparrow Quartet (banjo god Bela Fleck was her sideman), Washburn stomped and skipped through firey Appalachian takes on the local songs of Sichuan. Her bilingualism's no gimmick; she nails the dips and peaks of pitch while leading her band in scorching variations on simple, repetitive traditional melodies.

But anyone who stops at the gosh-wow factor of a pretty white banjo player singing in Chinese misses the nuance of her English tunes. "Red & Blazing" and "Eve Stole The Apple" are slow-burning torch songs, steeped in subtle but powerful feminism that only deepens the folkloric and storytelling qualities of her songs. But she knows from bluesy 'sugar-in-my-bowl' double entendres as well; she ended one Chinese song about the pan-ethnic subject of baby-making by saying "That's some hot stuff from the Sichuan province there." Her album "Song of the Traveling Daughter" is just as hot, and you'd do well to search it out.

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Nighttime Ramblin' Man

[Guest blogger August Brown can't wait to be 70 and just not care anymore.]

Part of being a country-influenced musician is that you have to be crotchety before your time. Scamps like Conor Oberst, Jeff Tweedy and Ryan Adams put on airs that a life of hopping trains, slugging Old Granddad and chasing black-hearted women left them beaten into the dust by the age of, what, 24? Sorry dudes, dating Winona Ryder and/or Parker Posey is a pretty instant disqualification from playing that card.

Maybe when you get to be Ramblin' Jack Elliott's age (born 1931, natch), you'll have earned the right to sit by your lonesome on a stool in the Mustang Stage and tell meandering stories about Spanish gambling and kicking it with Woody Guthrie. Among old-guard folkies still living, there is Elliott and there is everyone else. His work influenced everyone from Dylan to Springsteen to Pete Seeger, but today his songs are almost beside the point compared to his treasure trove of stories and happily haggard charisma. Elliott can stop a song mid-verse to say "now this song is where that song came from" and start a whole new tune without losing a beat or the audience. He even kicked out an obnoxious photographer who lingered to long at the front of the stage. A singer who doesn't like his picture taken? Youth sure is wasted on the young pearl-button crowd.

 

Hey! We didn't know Catharine MacKinnon was selling shirts at Stagecoach!

[Guest blogger August Brown has lived in China, but was not the subject of any naughty local folk songs.]

As jingoistic as country artists can seem sometimes (word, Darryl Worley), it's easy to forget that it's essentially acoustic folk music, which comes from a long line of music from other far-flung ethnicities. Abigail Washburn is out to right that wrong, trekking all the way to the Sichuan province of China and the feminist mythologies of Tori Amos to make a wholly unique folk music of her own.

The short version of Washburn's biography is that she plays hill-country music while writing and singing lyrics in, oh, fluent Mandarin Chinese. It's not as crazy as it sounds; Asian instruments like the pipa and koto are distant cousins of her preferred banjo, and the sing-songy phonetics of Mandarin are an unlikely but apt fit for the melodies and cadences of bluegrass.

With backing band the Sparrow Quartet (banjo god Bela Fleck was her sideman), Washburn stomped and skipped through firey Appalachian takes on the local songs of Sichuan. Her bilingualism's no gimmick; she nails the dips and peaks of pitch while leading her band in scorching variations on simple, repetitive traditional melodies.

But anyone who stops at the gosh-wow factor of a pretty white banjo player singing in Chinese misses the nuance of her English tunes. "Red & Blazing" and "Eve Stole The Apple" are slow-burning torch songs, steeped in subtle but powerful feminism that only deepens the folkloric and storytelling qualities of her songs. But she knows from bluesy 'sugar-in-my-bowl' double entendres as well; she ended one Chinese song about the pan-ethnic subject of baby-making by saying "That's some hot stuff from the Sichuan province there." Her album "Song of the Traveling Daughter" is just as hot, and you'd do well to search it out.

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Offensive T-shirt watch, vol. 3.

 

Hey! We didn't know Catharine MacKinnon was selling shirts at Stagecoach!

[Guest blogger August Brown has lived in China, but was not the subject of any naughty local folk songs.]

As jingoistic as country artists can seem sometimes (word, Darryl Worley), it's easy to forget that it's essentially acoustic folk music, which comes from a long line of music from other far-flung ethnicities. Abigail Washburn is out to right that wrong, trekking all the way to the Sichuan province of China and the feminist mythologies of Tori Amos to make a wholly unique folk music of her own.

The short version of Washburn's biography is that she plays hill-country music while writing and singing lyrics in, oh, fluent Mandarin Chinese. It's not as crazy as it sounds; Asian instruments like the pipa and koto are distant cousins of her preferred banjo, and the sing-songy phonetics of Mandarin are an unlikely but apt fit for the melodies and cadences of bluegrass.

With backing band the Sparrow Quartet (banjo god Bela Fleck was her sideman), Washburn stomped and skipped through firey Appalachian takes on the local songs of Sichuan. Her bilingualism's no gimmick; she nails the dips and peaks of pitch while leading her band in scorching variations on simple, repetitive traditional melodies.

But anyone who stops at the gosh-wow factor of a pretty white banjo player singing in Chinese misses the nuance of her English tunes. "Red & Blazing" and "Eve Stole The Apple" are slow-burning torch songs, steeped in subtle but powerful feminism that only deepens the folkloric and storytelling qualities of her songs. But she knows from bluesy 'sugar-in-my-bowl' double entendres as well; she ended one Chinese song about the pan-ethnic subject of baby-making by saying "That's some hot stuff from the Sichuan province there." Her album "Song of the Traveling Daughter" is just as hot, and you'd do well to search it out.

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Day 2: Abigail Washburn plays as hot as Sichuan tofu

[Guest blogger August Brown has lived in China, but was not the subject of any naughty local folk songs.]

As jingoistic as country artists can seem sometimes (word, Darryl Worley), it's easy to forget that it's essentially acoustic folk music, which comes from a long line of music from other far-flung ethnicities. Abigail Washburn is out to right that wrong, trekking all the way to the Sichuan province of China and the feminist mythologies of Tori Amos to make a wholly unique folk music of her own.

The short version of Washburn's biography is that she plays hill-country music while writing and singing lyrics in, oh, fluent Mandarin Chinese. It's not as crazy as it sounds; Asian instruments like the pipa and koto are distant cousins of her preferred banjo, and the sing-songy phonetics of Mandarin are an unlikely but apt fit for the melodies and cadences of bluegrass.

With backing band the Sparrow Quartet (banjo god Bela Fleck was her sideman), Washburn stomped and skipped through firey Appalachian takes on the local songs of Sichuan. Her bilingualism's no gimmick; she nails the dips and peaks of pitch while leading her band in scorching variations on simple, repetitive traditional melodies.

But anyone who stops at the gosh-wow factor of a pretty white banjo player singing in Chinese misses the nuance of her English tunes. "Red & Blazing" and "Eve Stole The Apple" are slow-burning torch songs, steeped in subtle but powerful feminism that only deepens the folkloric and storytelling qualities of her songs. But she knows from bluesy 'sugar-in-my-bowl' double entendres as well; she ended one Chinese song about the pan-ethnic subject of baby-making by saying "That's some hot stuff from the Sichuan province there." Her album "Song of the Traveling Daughter" is just as hot, and you'd do well to search it out.

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Fox Confessor brings the flood; not fans

[Guest blogger August Brown is actually an auxiliary member of New Pornographers too. They roll deep.)

At least Neko Case had a sense of humor about playing in tonight's "Lemonheads spot" opposite George Strait. Her criminally tiny crowd wouldn't have filled the Echo, and one gets the sense that someone at her booking agency is kicking themselves that they didn't get her on the Coachella bill instead. We were hoping for Case to have a breakout set, but that's hard to give when your sound crew nearly outnumbers the audience. Yet Case kept her spirits up, covering a Strait tune while his actual songs bled over to her stage, and did her darnedest to appease the alt-countryites who stuck around for a virtuosic, if a bit autopilot, set of haunting originals.

Case's last album, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," was a strangely beautiful song cycle loosely based in half-remembered Ukranian folklore and backed by members of Calexico. Case looked a bit scruffy after a rough day where her bassist was hospitalized after a car accident earlier, but she gamely ran through resonant, twangy highlights like "That Teenage Feeling" with grace and sheepish good cheer. Case's voice is always a welcome force of nature, but many forget that her songcraft and lyrics are as dense and rewarding as her harmonies. If only more folks were there to hear them.

 

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Fightin' music

[What, we can't post an arty picture of Alan Jackson? Guest Blogger August Brown begs to differ, snob.]

While Alan Jackson reminsced about lost virginity on the tender ballad "Remember When," two dudes in Stetsons were choking the bejeezus out of each other in the middle of the audience. Girl-possession issues, most likely, but the thuds of fisticuffs definitely broke the spell of lines like "we made love, and then you cried."

But overcoming that little skirmish is exactly what Jackson has done throughout his decades long career of chart-topping country hits. He's an escapist. Jackson's politely rollicking honky-tonk carries specific images (brands of trucks, engine parts, references to his own family) and generic family-values wisdom that adds up to universal nostalgia for a South that probably none of his fans have lived.

Consider this: on "Drive (For Daddy Gene)," Jackson recalls days riding in his father's fishing boat, while in the next verse describing the trail where dad dumped his trash. It's sort of incompatible -- fondly remembering both pristine nature and the spoiling thereof? But so it goes in the New South, where the worst of Wal-Mart-inspired suburban blight is warmly re-invented in the public memory as authentic rural America.

Jackson's devoted following happily accepts this, and not without reason. The consummate Nashville professional, Jackson's confident narratives and stick-to-your ribs choruses like on "Five O'Clock Somewhere" defined a '90s-era purist approach to country that still sells outrageously well. In today's motley musical climate, however, that adds up to a kind of us-versus-them mentality that, unlike Miranda Lambert or Jason Michael Carroll, has little crossover potential and little need for it.

Jackson introduced his backing band, proudly enumerating the tiny towns in the South and Midwest where they all grew up. It was a sly gesture towards an older audience who demands that their country stars have driven rickety Fords and slugged moonshine before becoming millionaires. "There's been a lot of great music here in a state known for silicone," Jackson said from the Mane Stage. Maybe so, but that doesn't make the Nashville machine au naturale by any means.

Photo: Jackson on one of the Mane Stage's big screens.

 

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Offensive T-shirt watch, Vol. 2

Made in Guatemala, surely.

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Lines in the sand, Vol. 1

[Guest blogger August Brown needs to come up with $40k in a hurry.]

A few odds and ends: Palm Desert resident Sara Lowery, 18, at right with her friend Andrew Lemon, attended both Coachella and Stagecoach. The biggest difference between the two? "Age, mostly," she said. "It's a calmer crowd this time."

But Sara! We hear that people practically have sex in the aisles with enthusiasm when Kenny Chesney plays!

"Oh, well that's what I'm here for then."

We couldn't agree more, Sara. Also overheard: A guitar autographed by George Strait just fetched $40,000 at auction. That's an awful lot of dollar ribs there.

Country has always loved it some cover songs, but killer takes on Fleetwood Mac, the Band and Linda Ronstadt by assorted bands proved that the lines between modern Nashville and their hippie nemeses are ever-shrinking.

And it turns out that the well-heeled folks who ponied up for the $550 seats in the front few rows really do get what they paid for. They get to keep the Stagecoach-emblazoned chair with them when they leave.                                    

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

We've got friends in low places

[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with our spies about a few can't-miss acts ...

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn't played his theme to "The Beverly Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day's first country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn't the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans' set as she played from her well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured Willie Nelson's harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it's seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Country goes rock; rock harrumphs back

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding, ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World: Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top any list of people whom we're thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud, raucous and as enjoyable as anything we'll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won't take her seriously given her "Nashville Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to let the boys have all the fun. "Here's a little cheating song," she teased, and her girls in the house went nuts. Don't worry, Miranda, we're not straying anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last relationship didn't work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Side stage action with Nickel Creek and Raul Malo

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely, ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest, "Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse's Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right) added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies. (He's also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of "hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled," Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the great thing about country music is that you don't have to look like Timbaland's BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo (left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Offensive T-shirt watch, Vol. 1.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn't know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

A double shot of bluegrass

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country's retreat to its insular base over the last five years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A brisk, pickin'-and'-grinnin' take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb Pederson's acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit, but it's still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much noodling in a half-full tent.

"We're not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a few minutes. "But we've got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he's talking about his picking abilities or other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Not much we can add to this

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can't-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a "History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Old 97's: Jon Brion wants none of this

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97's West Texas roots. Well, relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rollerskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We mispronouce everything..." he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Stagecoach: Buzz Bands heads west (well, east...)

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last weekend's messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach's acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage (witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren't safe for posting). It's an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country, tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we're curious to see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.

Coming this weekend: Stagecoach

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of country music's heavy hitters will be on hand, and we'll have reviews and photos here, as well as August's reports on this blog.