Roger Waters’ pig penned after Coachella flight

Indio, the pig has landed.

Roger Waters' two-story inflatable prop pig that floated off into the night sky between his festival-closing sets Sunday at Coachella plopped down Tuesday over two properties in nearby La Quinta, less than two miles from the Empire Polo Field, where the three-day event was held, festival officials said Wednesday.

"One of the women who found it called us and said, 'We found your pig, but it looks more like pulled pork,' " festival spokeswoman Marcee Rondan said.

Rondan said Coachella officials had not confirmed the names of the lighter-than-air pig wranglers, but the Desert Sun newspaper in Palm Springs identified them as Susan and Steve Solts and Judy and Patrick Rimmer. The paper also quoted them as saying they will donate the $10,000 reward money to children's music programs in their area.

The reward offered by Coachella officials for the pig's return also included four lifetime passes to future Coachella festivals, which the couples said they would divide. They also will receive all-access passes for this weekend's Stagecoach country music festival, which Rondan said they'd been planning to attend anyway.

Rondan said the pig will become part of the Coachella archives. Waters' appearance, she said, "was the first time anyone has ever performed back-to-back sets at Coachella. "So the pig is part of Coachella history now."

-- Randy Lewis

The critical information inquiring minds want to know about the giant stage prop that disappeared during Roger Waters’ closing performance Sunday night at Coachella isn’t so much where it is now but exactly how a two-story inflatable pig masterminds a daring escape in front of tens of thousands of fans in the first place.

Festival organizers are mum, except for offering a $10,000 reward plus four lifetime passes to Coachella to whoever can bring about the safe return of the plastic porker. Contact them at lostpig@coachella.com.

Conspiracy can’t be ruled out, considering this isn’t the first pig to float off into the night sky in recent times. On Waters’ 2006 tour centered around complete performances of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon,” the graffiti-inscribed oinker was allowed to drift away on several occasions, including the opening show of his three-night stint at the Hollywood Bowl. Local authorities said Waters would face charges if it happened again, and, to no one’s surprise, Porky remained contentedly tethered during the other two L.A. shows.

But what of those that did break the bonds of their terrestrial masters? Did they just fly off in search of bluer pastures? Or is it something more sinister, perhaps a protest against the wanton disregard of the inalienable right of synthetic gaseous critters to life, liberty and the pursuit of inflatable corn husks? Perhaps Waters needs a less-feisty breed of helium-filled animal. How about a nice, loyal inflatable Holstein? He could call it the Dark Side of the Moo.

--Randy Lewis

Photo: Steve C. Mitchell/EPA

While Roger Waters floated the pig in the sky at the Main Stage, the Saraha dance tent gave shelter to the other Coachella that only wants to bliss out to chronic BPM overload and strobe-light ecstacy. Simian Mobile Disco, the British purveyors of analog concrete, provided an intriguing set that jumped between lush and austere. "It's the Beat" from last year's joyously titled "Attack Decay Sustain Release" was the cardinal number, building and then dissemenating several layers of keyboards before snapping back to taut squeals and hard beats.

Chromeo was 20 minutes late, which didn't do my weary legs any favor. Perhaps that's why their set didn't quite charm me. These talkbox pranksters are a little like Prince if raised by robots, which is a fine place to start but Dave 1 and P-Thugg could use a little more meat on the bone, a little more social commentary. Chromeo, it's good to borrow from Purple, but you should also borrow from Pink. That said, "Needy Girl" struck all the appropriate tangy notes.

But getting back to pigs for a second, it was revealed in a quick chat with Paul Tollett after Waters' set that the pig, once it had served its time, had been cut loose and is out there floating somewhere, wherever the winds take it. Perhaps it'll make an appearance over the 10 tomorrow, guiding us all back home.

--Margaret Wappler

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

There was a nasty rumor circulating about a rape in one of the trailer bathrooms in the VIP area (one of our Soundboard writers, Jessica Gelt, even heard it directly from a uniformed security staffer), but according to Indio police spokesman Ben Guitron there was no report made or investigation underway.

Guitron said that, as of 10 p.m. on Sunday, there had been exactly 100 arrests, most for alcohol or drug offenses, at Coachella 2008. There were two on Thursday (when the campgrounds opened), 29 on Friday, 35 on Saturday and 34 on Sunday. There were no violent felonies reported. We expect to have numbers on injuries and other medical-tent stats shortly, but Guitron said there were no major incidents.

-- Geoff Boucher

When the Coachella folks announced Roger Waters' headlining slot tonight, accusations of a dad-rock coup ran rampant. In a world of albums known only through Rapidshare links and concerts experienced entirely through a camera lens for Flickr purposes, what kid is going to sit through two-and-a-half hours of back-to-front Floyd?

Well, judging by the morass of gently-crisped young things splayed on the lawn right now for Waters' set, plenty of them. We asked a few what Floyd means to the Kids These Days, and if their dads would be pleased to see them gape-jawed at the Giant Pig all over again.

Ellis Marte, 18, from San Francisco: "I watched the Dark Side of Oz, so that's how I know most of Floyd. I like it a lot, over the last four years a lot of kids got into classic rock. They think it's cool again, especially kids who play music. They look to classic rock for inspiration."

Caitlin R., 21, a USC student: "I texted my dad to tell him I'm here. He said he was jealous. Roger Waters proves that people who are older can rock out too. There's a lot of new technology in music today, but there's also a lot of appreciation for what this meant at the time."

Vanessa Madrigal, 19, favorite band -- Metric: "I think all the old people came just for this. I know Roger Waters but younger people don't really listen to him. This sounds like it has a lot of emotion, we usually listen to more poppy stuff, but these lyrics are more deep."

Kaitlin Binnewies, 20, Sacramento: "I've never heard any Pink Floyd, but I'm surprised it's this good. None of my friends knew who [Waters] was. I think it's great fun. It's bringing all the people together, I feel there's something for everyone here. "

Bettine Nguyen, 20, Irvine: "The lyrics and stuff are really chill. I was here last year for Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage, and this is so completely different."

-- August Brown and Jessica Gelt

"We're going to take a little break," Waters just announced just before the first in-set intermission in the history of the festival.

Related item: Waters is, at age 64, the oldest headliner in the annals of Coachella.

 -- Geoff Boucher

On Saturday night, Prince was still playing when a sizable percentage of his audience started streaming toward the parking lot. On Sunday, some Coachella organizers were saying privately that one reason might have been the excruciating traffic jam on Friday night when a boneheaded blunder by some staffers had a key exit point closed when it was supposed to be open. 

The result: Some people sat in their cars for two hours before even getting out of the lot. "I think on Saturday night some people were just so burned by the night before that they left early," one mid-level staffer said. "I think it hurt Prince. On Saturday night the situation was much, much better. "

-- Geoff Boucher 

The new speaker towers that line the perimeter of the main stage were added specifically for the Roger Waters set that's sending waves of thunder and shimmer across the Empire Polo Field right now.

Production-wise, the set by the Floyd auteur is the most expensive in festival history. Major pyro, smoke, lasers and huge screens showing slick montages of images from the Floyd dreamscapes. Oh, and backstage there's an inflated pig the size of a school bus, and a floating astronaut.

Coachella founder Paul Tollett predicted this would jump to the top of his personal "best Coachella set ever" list, joining Rage Against the Machine's reunion last year and Saturday night's purple party with Prince. Classic rock at Coachella? When pigs fly.

-- Geoff Boucher

The L.A. outfit Autolux (Eugene Goreshter and Carla Azar) play gauzy, inward rock held together by Azar's steel-bolt drums. For their 5 p.m. set at the Outdoor Theater, when the sun pretty much morphed into a death star hell-bent on burning every exposed square inch of skin, Autolux held their own but didn't wow the somewhat dazed crowd. At their best, these guys can sound like a long lost cut off of Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation," but after so much mannered fuzz, you just want them to destroy something, take a bat to their own work.

Emily Haines, the passionate frontwoman of Metric, seems like the kind of girl who probably stained at least one diary page in junior high with a speck of her own blood (some sort of oath, surely). It's that edgy, vulnerable quality that makes her a little scary and magnetic, a perfect singer to keep your eyes locked on. And how could you not when she's wearing a silver one-shoulder leotard? If last year's lady performer attire was the gauzy white dress, this year's is the leotard.

Haines says the craziest stuff, especially when buying time during technical difficulties, such as this narc-baiting line: "Who's a stoner? I think acid is coming back, I keep hearing about it." Then she launched into a new song, "Satellite Mind," tense and focused and a good sign that Haines has ironed out some of her inconsistencies. She closed with "Monster Hospital," the paranoid disco-punk single off the album "Live It Out." The five girls next to me, who sang every lyric to each other, couldn't have been happier -- one of them, wearing a tie-dyed toga, covered her sweaty friends in glitter, their own sticky, sparkly finale.

-- Margaret Wappler

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Porker MIA: Reward offered for Coachella’s missing plastic pig

The critical information inquiring minds want to know about the giant stage prop that disappeared during Roger Waters’ closing performance Sunday night at Coachella isn’t so much where it is now but exactly how a two-story inflatable pig masterminds a daring escape in front of tens of thousands of fans in the first place.

Festival organizers are mum, except for offering a $10,000 reward plus four lifetime passes to Coachella to whoever can bring about the safe return of the plastic porker. Contact them at lostpig@coachella.com.

Conspiracy can’t be ruled out, considering this isn’t the first pig to float off into the night sky in recent times. On Waters’ 2006 tour centered around complete performances of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon,” the graffiti-inscribed oinker was allowed to drift away on several occasions, including the opening show of his three-night stint at the Hollywood Bowl. Local authorities said Waters would face charges if it happened again, and, to no one’s surprise, Porky remained contentedly tethered during the other two L.A. shows.

But what of those that did break the bonds of their terrestrial masters? Did they just fly off in search of bluer pastures? Or is it something more sinister, perhaps a protest against the wanton disregard of the inalienable right of synthetic gaseous critters to life, liberty and the pursuit of inflatable corn husks? Perhaps Waters needs a less-feisty breed of helium-filled animal. How about a nice, loyal inflatable Holstein? He could call it the Dark Side of the Moo.

--Randy Lewis

Photo: Steve C. Mitchell/EPA

While Roger Waters floated the pig in the sky at the Main Stage, the Saraha dance tent gave shelter to the other Coachella that only wants to bliss out to chronic BPM overload and strobe-light ecstacy. Simian Mobile Disco, the British purveyors of analog concrete, provided an intriguing set that jumped between lush and austere. "It's the Beat" from last year's joyously titled "Attack Decay Sustain Release" was the cardinal number, building and then dissemenating several layers of keyboards before snapping back to taut squeals and hard beats.

Chromeo was 20 minutes late, which didn't do my weary legs any favor. Perhaps that's why their set didn't quite charm me. These talkbox pranksters are a little like Prince if raised by robots, which is a fine place to start but Dave 1 and P-Thugg could use a little more meat on the bone, a little more social commentary. Chromeo, it's good to borrow from Purple, but you should also borrow from Pink. That said, "Needy Girl" struck all the appropriate tangy notes.

But getting back to pigs for a second, it was revealed in a quick chat with Paul Tollett after Waters' set that the pig, once it had served its time, had been cut loose and is out there floating somewhere, wherever the winds take it. Perhaps it'll make an appearance over the 10 tomorrow, guiding us all back home.

--Margaret Wappler

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

There was a nasty rumor circulating about a rape in one of the trailer bathrooms in the VIP area (one of our Soundboard writers, Jessica Gelt, even heard it directly from a uniformed security staffer), but according to Indio police spokesman Ben Guitron there was no report made or investigation underway.

Guitron said that, as of 10 p.m. on Sunday, there had been exactly 100 arrests, most for alcohol or drug offenses, at Coachella 2008. There were two on Thursday (when the campgrounds opened), 29 on Friday, 35 on Saturday and 34 on Sunday. There were no violent felonies reported. We expect to have numbers on injuries and other medical-tent stats shortly, but Guitron said there were no major incidents.

-- Geoff Boucher

When the Coachella folks announced Roger Waters' headlining slot tonight, accusations of a dad-rock coup ran rampant. In a world of albums known only through Rapidshare links and concerts experienced entirely through a camera lens for Flickr purposes, what kid is going to sit through two-and-a-half hours of back-to-front Floyd?

Well, judging by the morass of gently-crisped young things splayed on the lawn right now for Waters' set, plenty of them. We asked a few what Floyd means to the Kids These Days, and if their dads would be pleased to see them gape-jawed at the Giant Pig all over again.

Ellis Marte, 18, from San Francisco: "I watched the Dark Side of Oz, so that's how I know most of Floyd. I like it a lot, over the last four years a lot of kids got into classic rock. They think it's cool again, especially kids who play music. They look to classic rock for inspiration."

Caitlin R., 21, a USC student: "I texted my dad to tell him I'm here. He said he was jealous. Roger Waters proves that people who are older can rock out too. There's a lot of new technology in music today, but there's also a lot of appreciation for what this meant at the time."

Vanessa Madrigal, 19, favorite band -- Metric: "I think all the old people came just for this. I know Roger Waters but younger people don't really listen to him. This sounds like it has a lot of emotion, we usually listen to more poppy stuff, but these lyrics are more deep."

Kaitlin Binnewies, 20, Sacramento: "I've never heard any Pink Floyd, but I'm surprised it's this good. None of my friends knew who [Waters] was. I think it's great fun. It's bringing all the people together, I feel there's something for everyone here. "

Bettine Nguyen, 20, Irvine: "The lyrics and stuff are really chill. I was here last year for Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage, and this is so completely different."

-- August Brown and Jessica Gelt

"We're going to take a little break," Waters just announced just before the first in-set intermission in the history of the festival.

Related item: Waters is, at age 64, the oldest headliner in the annals of Coachella.

 -- Geoff Boucher

On Saturday night, Prince was still playing when a sizable percentage of his audience started streaming toward the parking lot. On Sunday, some Coachella organizers were saying privately that one reason might have been the excruciating traffic jam on Friday night when a boneheaded blunder by some staffers had a key exit point closed when it was supposed to be open. 

The result: Some people sat in their cars for two hours before even getting out of the lot. "I think on Saturday night some people were just so burned by the night before that they left early," one mid-level staffer said. "I think it hurt Prince. On Saturday night the situation was much, much better. "

-- Geoff Boucher 

The new speaker towers that line the perimeter of the main stage were added specifically for the Roger Waters set that's sending waves of thunder and shimmer across the Empire Polo Field right now.

Production-wise, the set by the Floyd auteur is the most expensive in festival history. Major pyro, smoke, lasers and huge screens showing slick montages of images from the Floyd dreamscapes. Oh, and backstage there's an inflated pig the size of a school bus, and a floating astronaut.

Coachella founder Paul Tollett predicted this would jump to the top of his personal "best Coachella set ever" list, joining Rage Against the Machine's reunion last year and Saturday night's purple party with Prince. Classic rock at Coachella? When pigs fly.

-- Geoff Boucher

The L.A. outfit Autolux (Eugene Goreshter and Carla Azar) play gauzy, inward rock held together by Azar's steel-bolt drums. For their 5 p.m. set at the Outdoor Theater, when the sun pretty much morphed into a death star hell-bent on burning every exposed square inch of skin, Autolux held their own but didn't wow the somewhat dazed crowd. At their best, these guys can sound like a long lost cut off of Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation," but after so much mannered fuzz, you just want them to destroy something, take a bat to their own work.

Emily Haines, the passionate frontwoman of Metric, seems like the kind of girl who probably stained at least one diary page in junior high with a speck of her own blood (some sort of oath, surely). It's that edgy, vulnerable quality that makes her a little scary and magnetic, a perfect singer to keep your eyes locked on. And how could you not when she's wearing a silver one-shoulder leotard? If last year's lady performer attire was the gauzy white dress, this year's is the leotard.

Haines says the craziest stuff, especially when buying time during technical difficulties, such as this narc-baiting line: "Who's a stoner? I think acid is coming back, I keep hearing about it." Then she launched into a new song, "Satellite Mind," tense and focused and a good sign that Haines has ironed out some of her inconsistencies. She closed with "Monster Hospital," the paranoid disco-punk single off the album "Live It Out." The five girls next to me, who sang every lyric to each other, couldn't have been happier -- one of them, wearing a tie-dyed toga, covered her sweaty friends in glitter, their own sticky, sparkly finale.

-- Margaret Wappler

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Notes from the end: Simian, Chromeo and a flying pig

While Roger Waters floated the pig in the sky at the Main Stage, the Saraha dance tent gave shelter to the other Coachella that only wants to bliss out to chronic BPM overload and strobe-light ecstacy. Simian Mobile Disco, the British purveyors of analog concrete, provided an intriguing set that jumped between lush and austere. "It's the Beat" from last year's joyously titled "Attack Decay Sustain Release" was the cardinal number, building and then dissemenating several layers of keyboards before snapping back to taut squeals and hard beats.

Chromeo was 20 minutes late, which didn't do my weary legs any favor. Perhaps that's why their set didn't quite charm me. These talkbox pranksters are a little like Prince if raised by robots, which is a fine place to start but Dave 1 and P-Thugg could use a little more meat on the bone, a little more social commentary. Chromeo, it's good to borrow from Purple, but you should also borrow from Pink. That said, "Needy Girl" struck all the appropriate tangy notes.

But getting back to pigs for a second, it was revealed in a quick chat with Paul Tollett after Waters' set that the pig, once it had served its time, had been cut loose and is out there floating somewhere, wherever the winds take it. Perhaps it'll make an appearance over the 10 tomorrow, guiding us all back home.

--Margaret Wappler

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

There was a nasty rumor circulating about a rape in one of the trailer bathrooms in the VIP area (one of our Soundboard writers, Jessica Gelt, even heard it directly from a uniformed security staffer), but according to Indio police spokesman Ben Guitron there was no report made or investigation underway.

Guitron said that, as of 10 p.m. on Sunday, there had been exactly 100 arrests, most for alcohol or drug offenses, at Coachella 2008. There were two on Thursday (when the campgrounds opened), 29 on Friday, 35 on Saturday and 34 on Sunday. There were no violent felonies reported. We expect to have numbers on injuries and other medical-tent stats shortly, but Guitron said there were no major incidents.

-- Geoff Boucher

When the Coachella folks announced Roger Waters' headlining slot tonight, accusations of a dad-rock coup ran rampant. In a world of albums known only through Rapidshare links and concerts experienced entirely through a camera lens for Flickr purposes, what kid is going to sit through two-and-a-half hours of back-to-front Floyd?

Well, judging by the morass of gently-crisped young things splayed on the lawn right now for Waters' set, plenty of them. We asked a few what Floyd means to the Kids These Days, and if their dads would be pleased to see them gape-jawed at the Giant Pig all over again.

Ellis Marte, 18, from San Francisco: "I watched the Dark Side of Oz, so that's how I know most of Floyd. I like it a lot, over the last four years a lot of kids got into classic rock. They think it's cool again, especially kids who play music. They look to classic rock for inspiration."

Caitlin R., 21, a USC student: "I texted my dad to tell him I'm here. He said he was jealous. Roger Waters proves that people who are older can rock out too. There's a lot of new technology in music today, but there's also a lot of appreciation for what this meant at the time."

Vanessa Madrigal, 19, favorite band -- Metric: "I think all the old people came just for this. I know Roger Waters but younger people don't really listen to him. This sounds like it has a lot of emotion, we usually listen to more poppy stuff, but these lyrics are more deep."

Kaitlin Binnewies, 20, Sacramento: "I've never heard any Pink Floyd, but I'm surprised it's this good. None of my friends knew who [Waters] was. I think it's great fun. It's bringing all the people together, I feel there's something for everyone here. "

Bettine Nguyen, 20, Irvine: "The lyrics and stuff are really chill. I was here last year for Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage, and this is so completely different."

-- August Brown and Jessica Gelt

"We're going to take a little break," Waters just announced just before the first in-set intermission in the history of the festival.

Related item: Waters is, at age 64, the oldest headliner in the annals of Coachella.

 -- Geoff Boucher

On Saturday night, Prince was still playing when a sizable percentage of his audience started streaming toward the parking lot. On Sunday, some Coachella organizers were saying privately that one reason might have been the excruciating traffic jam on Friday night when a boneheaded blunder by some staffers had a key exit point closed when it was supposed to be open. 

The result: Some people sat in their cars for two hours before even getting out of the lot. "I think on Saturday night some people were just so burned by the night before that they left early," one mid-level staffer said. "I think it hurt Prince. On Saturday night the situation was much, much better. "

-- Geoff Boucher 

The new speaker towers that line the perimeter of the main stage were added specifically for the Roger Waters set that's sending waves of thunder and shimmer across the Empire Polo Field right now.

Production-wise, the set by the Floyd auteur is the most expensive in festival history. Major pyro, smoke, lasers and huge screens showing slick montages of images from the Floyd dreamscapes. Oh, and backstage there's an inflated pig the size of a school bus, and a floating astronaut.

Coachella founder Paul Tollett predicted this would jump to the top of his personal "best Coachella set ever" list, joining Rage Against the Machine's reunion last year and Saturday night's purple party with Prince. Classic rock at Coachella? When pigs fly.

-- Geoff Boucher

The L.A. outfit Autolux (Eugene Goreshter and Carla Azar) play gauzy, inward rock held together by Azar's steel-bolt drums. For their 5 p.m. set at the Outdoor Theater, when the sun pretty much morphed into a death star hell-bent on burning every exposed square inch of skin, Autolux held their own but didn't wow the somewhat dazed crowd. At their best, these guys can sound like a long lost cut off of Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation," but after so much mannered fuzz, you just want them to destroy something, take a bat to their own work.

Emily Haines, the passionate frontwoman of Metric, seems like the kind of girl who probably stained at least one diary page in junior high with a speck of her own blood (some sort of oath, surely). It's that edgy, vulnerable quality that makes her a little scary and magnetic, a perfect singer to keep your eyes locked on. And how could you not when she's wearing a silver one-shoulder leotard? If last year's lady performer attire was the gauzy white dress, this year's is the leotard.

Haines says the craziest stuff, especially when buying time during technical difficulties, such as this narc-baiting line: "Who's a stoner? I think acid is coming back, I keep hearing about it." Then she launched into a new song, "Satellite Mind," tense and focused and a good sign that Haines has ironed out some of her inconsistencies. She closed with "Monster Hospital," the paranoid disco-punk single off the album "Live It Out." The five girls next to me, who sang every lyric to each other, couldn't have been happier -- one of them, wearing a tie-dyed toga, covered her sweaty friends in glitter, their own sticky, sparkly finale.

-- Margaret Wappler

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Coachella crime

There was a nasty rumor circulating about a rape in one of the trailer bathrooms in the VIP area (one of our Soundboard writers, Jessica Gelt, even heard it directly from a uniformed security staffer), but according to Indio police spokesman Ben Guitron there was no report made or investigation underway.

Guitron said that, as of 10 p.m. on Sunday, there had been exactly 100 arrests, most for alcohol or drug offenses, at Coachella 2008. There were two on Thursday (when the campgrounds opened), 29 on Friday, 35 on Saturday and 34 on Sunday. There were no violent felonies reported. We expect to have numbers on injuries and other medical-tent stats shortly, but Guitron said there were no major incidents.

-- Geoff Boucher

When the Coachella folks announced Roger Waters' headlining slot tonight, accusations of a dad-rock coup ran rampant. In a world of albums known only through Rapidshare links and concerts experienced entirely through a camera lens for Flickr purposes, what kid is going to sit through two-and-a-half hours of back-to-front Floyd?

Well, judging by the morass of gently-crisped young things splayed on the lawn right now for Waters' set, plenty of them. We asked a few what Floyd means to the Kids These Days, and if their dads would be pleased to see them gape-jawed at the Giant Pig all over again.

Ellis Marte, 18, from San Francisco: "I watched the Dark Side of Oz, so that's how I know most of Floyd. I like it a lot, over the last four years a lot of kids got into classic rock. They think it's cool again, especially kids who play music. They look to classic rock for inspiration."

Caitlin R., 21, a USC student: "I texted my dad to tell him I'm here. He said he was jealous. Roger Waters proves that people who are older can rock out too. There's a lot of new technology in music today, but there's also a lot of appreciation for what this meant at the time."

Vanessa Madrigal, 19, favorite band -- Metric: "I think all the old people came just for this. I know Roger Waters but younger people don't really listen to him. This sounds like it has a lot of emotion, we usually listen to more poppy stuff, but these lyrics are more deep."

Kaitlin Binnewies, 20, Sacramento: "I've never heard any Pink Floyd, but I'm surprised it's this good. None of my friends knew who [Waters] was. I think it's great fun. It's bringing all the people together, I feel there's something for everyone here. "

Bettine Nguyen, 20, Irvine: "The lyrics and stuff are really chill. I was here last year for Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage, and this is so completely different."

-- August Brown and Jessica Gelt

"We're going to take a little break," Waters just announced just before the first in-set intermission in the history of the festival.

Related item: Waters is, at age 64, the oldest headliner in the annals of Coachella.

 -- Geoff Boucher

On Saturday night, Prince was still playing when a sizable percentage of his audience started streaming toward the parking lot. On Sunday, some Coachella organizers were saying privately that one reason might have been the excruciating traffic jam on Friday night when a boneheaded blunder by some staffers had a key exit point closed when it was supposed to be open. 

The result: Some people sat in their cars for two hours before even getting out of the lot. "I think on Saturday night some people were just so burned by the night before that they left early," one mid-level staffer said. "I think it hurt Prince. On Saturday night the situation was much, much better. "

-- Geoff Boucher 

The new speaker towers that line the perimeter of the main stage were added specifically for the Roger Waters set that's sending waves of thunder and shimmer across the Empire Polo Field right now.

Production-wise, the set by the Floyd auteur is the most expensive in festival history. Major pyro, smoke, lasers and huge screens showing slick montages of images from the Floyd dreamscapes. Oh, and backstage there's an inflated pig the size of a school bus, and a floating astronaut.

Coachella founder Paul Tollett predicted this would jump to the top of his personal "best Coachella set ever" list, joining Rage Against the Machine's reunion last year and Saturday night's purple party with Prince. Classic rock at Coachella? When pigs fly.

-- Geoff Boucher

The L.A. outfit Autolux (Eugene Goreshter and Carla Azar) play gauzy, inward rock held together by Azar's steel-bolt drums. For their 5 p.m. set at the Outdoor Theater, when the sun pretty much morphed into a death star hell-bent on burning every exposed square inch of skin, Autolux held their own but didn't wow the somewhat dazed crowd. At their best, these guys can sound like a long lost cut off of Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation," but after so much mannered fuzz, you just want them to destroy something, take a bat to their own work.

Emily Haines, the passionate frontwoman of Metric, seems like the kind of girl who probably stained at least one diary page in junior high with a speck of her own blood (some sort of oath, surely). It's that edgy, vulnerable quality that makes her a little scary and magnetic, a perfect singer to keep your eyes locked on. And how could you not when she's wearing a silver one-shoulder leotard? If last year's lady performer attire was the gauzy white dress, this year's is the leotard.

Haines says the craziest stuff, especially when buying time during technical difficulties, such as this narc-baiting line: "Who's a stoner? I think acid is coming back, I keep hearing about it." Then she launched into a new song, "Satellite Mind," tense and focused and a good sign that Haines has ironed out some of her inconsistencies. She closed with "Monster Hospital," the paranoid disco-punk single off the album "Live It Out." The five girls next to me, who sang every lyric to each other, couldn't have been happier -- one of them, wearing a tie-dyed toga, covered her sweaty friends in glitter, their own sticky, sparkly finale.

-- Margaret Wappler

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Is ‘Dark Side’ blowing younger minds?

When the Coachella folks announced Roger Waters' headlining slot tonight, accusations of a dad-rock coup ran rampant. In a world of albums known only through Rapidshare links and concerts experienced entirely through a camera lens for Flickr purposes, what kid is going to sit through two-and-a-half hours of back-to-front Floyd?

Well, judging by the morass of gently-crisped young things splayed on the lawn right now for Waters' set, plenty of them. We asked a few what Floyd means to the Kids These Days, and if their dads would be pleased to see them gape-jawed at the Giant Pig all over again.

Ellis Marte, 18, from San Francisco: "I watched the Dark Side of Oz, so that's how I know most of Floyd. I like it a lot, over the last four years a lot of kids got into classic rock. They think it's cool again, especially kids who play music. They look to classic rock for inspiration."

Caitlin R., 21, a USC student: "I texted my dad to tell him I'm here. He said he was jealous. Roger Waters proves that people who are older can rock out too. There's a lot of new technology in music today, but there's also a lot of appreciation for what this meant at the time."

Vanessa Madrigal, 19, favorite band -- Metric: "I think all the old people came just for this. I know Roger Waters but younger people don't really listen to him. This sounds like it has a lot of emotion, we usually listen to more poppy stuff, but these lyrics are more deep."

Kaitlin Binnewies, 20, Sacramento: "I've never heard any Pink Floyd, but I'm surprised it's this good. None of my friends knew who [Waters] was. I think it's great fun. It's bringing all the people together, I feel there's something for everyone here. "

Bettine Nguyen, 20, Irvine: "The lyrics and stuff are really chill. I was here last year for Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage, and this is so completely different."

-- August Brown and Jessica Gelt

"We're going to take a little break," Waters just announced just before the first in-set intermission in the history of the festival.

Related item: Waters is, at age 64, the oldest headliner in the annals of Coachella.

 -- Geoff Boucher

On Saturday night, Prince was still playing when a sizable percentage of his audience started streaming toward the parking lot. On Sunday, some Coachella organizers were saying privately that one reason might have been the excruciating traffic jam on Friday night when a boneheaded blunder by some staffers had a key exit point closed when it was supposed to be open. 

The result: Some people sat in their cars for two hours before even getting out of the lot. "I think on Saturday night some people were just so burned by the night before that they left early," one mid-level staffer said. "I think it hurt Prince. On Saturday night the situation was much, much better. "

-- Geoff Boucher 

The new speaker towers that line the perimeter of the main stage were added specifically for the Roger Waters set that's sending waves of thunder and shimmer across the Empire Polo Field right now.

Production-wise, the set by the Floyd auteur is the most expensive in festival history. Major pyro, smoke, lasers and huge screens showing slick montages of images from the Floyd dreamscapes. Oh, and backstage there's an inflated pig the size of a school bus, and a floating astronaut.

Coachella founder Paul Tollett predicted this would jump to the top of his personal "best Coachella set ever" list, joining Rage Against the Machine's reunion last year and Saturday night's purple party with Prince. Classic rock at Coachella? When pigs fly.

-- Geoff Boucher

The L.A. outfit Autolux (Eugene Goreshter and Carla Azar) play gauzy, inward rock held together by Azar's steel-bolt drums. For their 5 p.m. set at the Outdoor Theater, when the sun pretty much morphed into a death star hell-bent on burning every exposed square inch of skin, Autolux held their own but didn't wow the somewhat dazed crowd. At their best, these guys can sound like a long lost cut off of Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation," but after so much mannered fuzz, you just want them to destroy something, take a bat to their own work.

Emily Haines, the passionate frontwoman of Metric, seems like the kind of girl who probably stained at least one diary page in junior high with a speck of her own blood (some sort of oath, surely). It's that edgy, vulnerable quality that makes her a little scary and magnetic, a perfect singer to keep your eyes locked on. And how could you not when she's wearing a silver one-shoulder leotard? If last year's lady performer attire was the gauzy white dress, this year's is the leotard.

Haines says the craziest stuff, especially when buying time during technical difficulties, such as this narc-baiting line: "Who's a stoner? I think acid is coming back, I keep hearing about it." Then she launched into a new song, "Satellite Mind," tense and focused and a good sign that Haines has ironed out some of her inconsistencies. She closed with "Monster Hospital," the paranoid disco-punk single off the album "Live It Out." The five girls next to me, who sang every lyric to each other, couldn't have been happier -- one of them, wearing a tie-dyed toga, covered her sweaty friends in glitter, their own sticky, sparkly finale.

-- Margaret Wappler

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Roger Waters gives us pause

"We're going to take a little break," Waters just announced just before the first in-set intermission in the history of the festival.

Related item: Waters is, at age 64, the oldest headliner in the annals of Coachella.

 -- Geoff Boucher

On Saturday night, Prince was still playing when a sizable percentage of his audience started streaming toward the parking lot. On Sunday, some Coachella organizers were saying privately that one reason might have been the excruciating traffic jam on Friday night when a boneheaded blunder by some staffers had a key exit point closed when it was supposed to be open. 

The result: Some people sat in their cars for two hours before even getting out of the lot. "I think on Saturday night some people were just so burned by the night before that they left early," one mid-level staffer said. "I think it hurt Prince. On Saturday night the situation was much, much better. "

-- Geoff Boucher 

The new speaker towers that line the perimeter of the main stage were added specifically for the Roger Waters set that's sending waves of thunder and shimmer across the Empire Polo Field right now.

Production-wise, the set by the Floyd auteur is the most expensive in festival history. Major pyro, smoke, lasers and huge screens showing slick montages of images from the Floyd dreamscapes. Oh, and backstage there's an inflated pig the size of a school bus, and a floating astronaut.

Coachella founder Paul Tollett predicted this would jump to the top of his personal "best Coachella set ever" list, joining Rage Against the Machine's reunion last year and Saturday night's purple party with Prince. Classic rock at Coachella? When pigs fly.

-- Geoff Boucher

The L.A. outfit Autolux (Eugene Goreshter and Carla Azar) play gauzy, inward rock held together by Azar's steel-bolt drums. For their 5 p.m. set at the Outdoor Theater, when the sun pretty much morphed into a death star hell-bent on burning every exposed square inch of skin, Autolux held their own but didn't wow the somewhat dazed crowd. At their best, these guys can sound like a long lost cut off of Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation," but after so much mannered fuzz, you just want them to destroy something, take a bat to their own work.

Emily Haines, the passionate frontwoman of Metric, seems like the kind of girl who probably stained at least one diary page in junior high with a speck of her own blood (some sort of oath, surely). It's that edgy, vulnerable quality that makes her a little scary and magnetic, a perfect singer to keep your eyes locked on. And how could you not when she's wearing a silver one-shoulder leotard? If last year's lady performer attire was the gauzy white dress, this year's is the leotard.

Haines says the craziest stuff, especially when buying time during technical difficulties, such as this narc-baiting line: "Who's a stoner? I think acid is coming back, I keep hearing about it." Then she launched into a new song, "Satellite Mind," tense and focused and a good sign that Haines has ironed out some of her inconsistencies. She closed with "Monster Hospital," the paranoid disco-punk single off the album "Live It Out." The five girls next to me, who sang every lyric to each other, couldn't have been happier -- one of them, wearing a tie-dyed toga, covered her sweaty friends in glitter, their own sticky, sparkly finale.

-- Margaret Wappler

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Prince and the perils of parking

On Saturday night, Prince was still playing when a sizable percentage of his audience started streaming toward the parking lot. On Sunday, some Coachella organizers were saying privately that one reason might have been the excruciating traffic jam on Friday night when a boneheaded blunder by some staffers had a key exit point closed when it was supposed to be open. 

The result: Some people sat in their cars for two hours before even getting out of the lot. "I think on Saturday night some people were just so burned by the night before that they left early," one mid-level staffer said. "I think it hurt Prince. On Saturday night the situation was much, much better. "

-- Geoff Boucher 

The new speaker towers that line the perimeter of the main stage were added specifically for the Roger Waters set that's sending waves of thunder and shimmer across the Empire Polo Field right now.

Production-wise, the set by the Floyd auteur is the most expensive in festival history. Major pyro, smoke, lasers and huge screens showing slick montages of images from the Floyd dreamscapes. Oh, and backstage there's an inflated pig the size of a school bus, and a floating astronaut.

Coachella founder Paul Tollett predicted this would jump to the top of his personal "best Coachella set ever" list, joining Rage Against the Machine's reunion last year and Saturday night's purple party with Prince. Classic rock at Coachella? When pigs fly.

-- Geoff Boucher

The L.A. outfit Autolux (Eugene Goreshter and Carla Azar) play gauzy, inward rock held together by Azar's steel-bolt drums. For their 5 p.m. set at the Outdoor Theater, when the sun pretty much morphed into a death star hell-bent on burning every exposed square inch of skin, Autolux held their own but didn't wow the somewhat dazed crowd. At their best, these guys can sound like a long lost cut off of Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation," but after so much mannered fuzz, you just want them to destroy something, take a bat to their own work.

Emily Haines, the passionate frontwoman of Metric, seems like the kind of girl who probably stained at least one diary page in junior high with a speck of her own blood (some sort of oath, surely). It's that edgy, vulnerable quality that makes her a little scary and magnetic, a perfect singer to keep your eyes locked on. And how could you not when she's wearing a silver one-shoulder leotard? If last year's lady performer attire was the gauzy white dress, this year's is the leotard.

Haines says the craziest stuff, especially when buying time during technical difficulties, such as this narc-baiting line: "Who's a stoner? I think acid is coming back, I keep hearing about it." Then she launched into a new song, "Satellite Mind," tense and focused and a good sign that Haines has ironed out some of her inconsistencies. She closed with "Monster Hospital," the paranoid disco-punk single off the album "Live It Out." The five girls next to me, who sang every lyric to each other, couldn't have been happier -- one of them, wearing a tie-dyed toga, covered her sweaty friends in glitter, their own sticky, sparkly finale.

-- Margaret Wappler

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Roger Waters, surrounded

The new speaker towers that line the perimeter of the main stage were added specifically for the Roger Waters set that's sending waves of thunder and shimmer across the Empire Polo Field right now.

Production-wise, the set by the Floyd auteur is the most expensive in festival history. Major pyro, smoke, lasers and huge screens showing slick montages of images from the Floyd dreamscapes. Oh, and backstage there's an inflated pig the size of a school bus, and a floating astronaut.

Coachella founder Paul Tollett predicted this would jump to the top of his personal "best Coachella set ever" list, joining Rage Against the Machine's reunion last year and Saturday night's purple party with Prince. Classic rock at Coachella? When pigs fly.

-- Geoff Boucher

The L.A. outfit Autolux (Eugene Goreshter and Carla Azar) play gauzy, inward rock held together by Azar's steel-bolt drums. For their 5 p.m. set at the Outdoor Theater, when the sun pretty much morphed into a death star hell-bent on burning every exposed square inch of skin, Autolux held their own but didn't wow the somewhat dazed crowd. At their best, these guys can sound like a long lost cut off of Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation," but after so much mannered fuzz, you just want them to destroy something, take a bat to their own work.

Emily Haines, the passionate frontwoman of Metric, seems like the kind of girl who probably stained at least one diary page in junior high with a speck of her own blood (some sort of oath, surely). It's that edgy, vulnerable quality that makes her a little scary and magnetic, a perfect singer to keep your eyes locked on. And how could you not when she's wearing a silver one-shoulder leotard? If last year's lady performer attire was the gauzy white dress, this year's is the leotard.

Haines says the craziest stuff, especially when buying time during technical difficulties, such as this narc-baiting line: "Who's a stoner? I think acid is coming back, I keep hearing about it." Then she launched into a new song, "Satellite Mind," tense and focused and a good sign that Haines has ironed out some of her inconsistencies. She closed with "Monster Hospital," the paranoid disco-punk single off the album "Live It Out." The five girls next to me, who sang every lyric to each other, couldn't have been happier -- one of them, wearing a tie-dyed toga, covered her sweaty friends in glitter, their own sticky, sparkly finale.

-- Margaret Wappler

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Metric and Autolux sparkle and fade

The L.A. outfit Autolux (Eugene Goreshter and Carla Azar) play gauzy, inward rock held together by Azar's steel-bolt drums. For their 5 p.m. set at the Outdoor Theater, when the sun pretty much morphed into a death star hell-bent on burning every exposed square inch of skin, Autolux held their own but didn't wow the somewhat dazed crowd. At their best, these guys can sound like a long lost cut off of Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation," but after so much mannered fuzz, you just want them to destroy something, take a bat to their own work.

Emily Haines, the passionate frontwoman of Metric, seems like the kind of girl who probably stained at least one diary page in junior high with a speck of her own blood (some sort of oath, surely). It's that edgy, vulnerable quality that makes her a little scary and magnetic, a perfect singer to keep your eyes locked on. And how could you not when she's wearing a silver one-shoulder leotard? If last year's lady performer attire was the gauzy white dress, this year's is the leotard.

Haines says the craziest stuff, especially when buying time during technical difficulties, such as this narc-baiting line: "Who's a stoner? I think acid is coming back, I keep hearing about it." Then she launched into a new song, "Satellite Mind," tense and focused and a good sign that Haines has ironed out some of her inconsistencies. She closed with "Monster Hospital," the paranoid disco-punk single off the album "Live It Out." The five girls next to me, who sang every lyric to each other, couldn't have been happier -- one of them, wearing a tie-dyed toga, covered her sweaty friends in glitter, their own sticky, sparkly finale.

-- Margaret Wappler

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Spiritualized, realized

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

My Morning Jacket melts hearts, faces

The last sound heard at My Morning Jacket's Main Stage set was a garbled, terrifying shriek of voices, electronic glitching, bomb-raid guitar feedback and God knows what else. In an instant, it was the total sum of a set from a band that's looking more and more like it can do absolutely anything.

MMJ shed all the stock "Southern Rock" comparisons on "Z," which drew from sparkle-eyed disco and James Brown crackle as much as their grain-silo lonesome prairie-rock. The live album "Okonokos" documented the absolute monsters they are live. And if the cuts from their forthcoming "Evil Urges" are any indication, they may make those once-silly "American Radiohead" comparisons apt. The rhythms are sparse and more syncopated, nodding at deep soul and even hip-hop at points. The country songs are more romantic and spacious, and the rockers smoke harder than ever. The band's been experimenting with electronica rhythms and samples that sound unexpectedly fitting in their high-lonesome wail, and Jim James has never been in better control of his freakishly athletic voice, which has the desperation of Otis Redding with an ethereal purity all his own.

As culture loses more and more faith in new rock bands' ability to stir bodies, emotions, minds and radio plays at once, My Morning Jacket seems to be one of the only bands that can do each convincingly. No matter your cultural vantage point, MMJ alludes to it with Pentecostal fervor, but one run through with a sadness and majesty that maybe only the Good Book itself gets quite right. It might make them the best American rock band today.

-- August Brown

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Color Love and Rockets back

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Sean Penn’s losing causes

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Sean Penn’s losing causes

Sean Penn took a drag off his cigarette, stared down at his work boots and conceded that, as political activism goes, he's not usually on the side that wins. "I am a person who does care," Penn said, sitting in his trailer backstage, "but I have only ever failed." He started rattling off his activism resume -- candidates he has supported, the war he has opposed, the policies he has protested. "But I am an optimist and this young generation right now is so much smarter than us. That's why we're here."

Penn spoke twice Sunday, including an early evening speech on the main stage, where he looked out over a huge and somewhat puzzled audience. "It was nerve-racking, public speaking is not my thing."

Coachella founder Paul Tollett reached out to Penn a few weeks ago (mutual pal Rosanna Arquette helped the two connect) to ask him to speak. The reason: Both agree that the MySpace Generation is the most connected ever, but somehow also becoming the most isolated. Penn came to invite them "to turn off their computers and come see some things in the world in person."

Penn's plan is to take a convoy of buses to New Orleans on a 10-day tour that will make multiple stops along the way to give his band of Coachella fans a tune-up in activism. They will protest the war, talk up green issues and, in Louisiana, do some construction work to help the still-beleaguered congregation of a church that was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. As of 8 p.m. Sunday, there were more than 100 people signed up for his Dirty Hands Caravan. "Paul called me up and said he didn't want the young fans at this festival to be asked by their grandkids someday 'What did you do during the war?' and have to answer, 'I had a MySpace page.' This generation is smarter, funnier and better than the 1960s generation and the generation I grew up with. This is a chance to tap into their imaginations.'"

-- Geoff Boucher

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Couple engaged at Spiritualized!

Eat your heart out, Prince. You may have cornered the market on hot love jams, but did you bring a man to his knees? Jim Becker of Philadelphia popped the question to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Hahn, on one knee at Spiritualized's Mojave set during their cover of Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."

"If they hadn't played that song we might not be together here," Becker said. She said yes (phew!). The couple, naturally, have tagged the song for the first dance.

Coachella dudes, the bar is now set very high.

-- Margaret Wappler

Photo by Vanessa Herzog

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Housing crunch

Meritocracy apparently doesn't factor into Coachella's unique temporary housing complex in the v.v.i.p. area. Back there, where white picket fences set apart picturesque RV dressing rooms for every act on the festival roster (each of which is custom decorated by a team of Coachella art experts to appeal to the individual pecadillos of each performer -- perceived or otherwise), everyone from Kid Sister to My Morning Jacket to Aphex Twin gets a temporary berth. But not all are created equal.

If you have the right all-access bracelet, you (like certain Soundboard operatives) could observe that reggae legend Linton Kwesi Johnson, French dance duo Justice and Lollapallooza founder Perry Ferrell are confined to tiny-ass dressing rooms that measure no more than 125 square feet.

Not so headliner Roger Waters. Sure, dude may be the most recognizable face of the late, great Pink Floyd - a dyspeptic dinosaur rocker whose presence as a headliner at indie music's preeminent platform many industry observers have questioned. Waters has his own Branch Davidian-esque compound in the backstage area, a larger than usual staging area cordoned off by tasteful wicker fencing, covered by an attractive pointed tent and bounded on one side by a gigantic RV (Soundboard couldn't get in but the thing is at least 700 square feet).

--Chris Lee

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Gogol Bordello holds their own on main stage

Maybe it was just me, but for some reason I felt like Gogol Bordello didn't really fit as a main stage act. Sure they were fun, crazy, musical, dynamic and definitely a band that could hold an audience's attention, but weren't they a group that was better in a smaller, friendlier confine than the vastness of Coachella's main stage?

Apparently they can bring their Pogues/Clash/Borat gypsy punk anywhere they damn well please.

The New York band brought their ethno-centric party freakshow in full force and had concertgoers dancing to all sorts of folk/roots/rock for the entire 45 minutes that they had the main stage.

In fact, one audience member, inspired by the set, suggested that the Lakers should incorporate the single "Start Wearing Purple" to the Staples Center playlist. Especially when new power forward Pau Gasol heats up during the game.

-- photo and post by Tony Pierce

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Swervedriver makes some noise in reunion set

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Does It Offend You, Yeah? Actually, no.

Yes, yes, we know what you're thinking: "Oh boy, a smarmy techno-punk quartet with a completely egregious band name in a terrible font screaming shrill commands to make out with them. Sign us up!" But please, before you consign Does It Offend You, Yeah? to the Island of Misfit Post-Punks, consider this caveat: They're actually pretty good. Leaving out the screamy Jesse Keeler collaboration "Let's Make Out," there's good bit of bottom-heavy funk and squiggly monster-movie arpeggios to hold your attention beyond the murderous house stomp. Their debut, "You have No Idea What You're Getting Yourself Into" might be the most hyped sleeper pick of the year.

It's even better in person, when singers Morgan Quaintence and James Rushent are free to do goofy running-man dances and play guitar solos behind their heads (with a tongue in cheek, I think). The live instruments make all the difference in the world -- their songs sound like the Justice-y French crossovers of last year, but they can play like a rock band and engage the audience with infinitely more charisma and spontaneity. And that, kids, makes all the difference on a hot slog like today.

-- August Brown

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

To Duffy, with love

The debut album by 23-year-old Welsh songstress Duffy won't be released in the U.S. for two weeks yet, but a crowd of listeners who were feeling her heat -- and knew plenty of her lyrics -- crowded the Mojave Tent for her midafternoon set at Coachella on Sunday.

Duffy (born Aimee Anne Duffy) apparently was feeling the heat too, and the humidity, as she sweated through a 45-minute set plagued by a couple of false starts and some tech hiccups at the outset. "You can't hear me?" she joked at the beginning. "I've never heard anyone say that in my life." Still, her countrified, Dusty-Springfieldesque soul proved swoon-worthy, getting a big ovation for "Mercy" (which has been used in an American TV show) and melting a few hearts with her lilting vocals.

Fans who remember Lulu wouldn't have been surprised if Duffy had busted into "To Sir With Love." But despite her trying set, Duffy's estimable charm, coupled with the material on the forthcoming "Rockferry," makes it clear her time is now.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Deadmau5 in danger

Deadmau5,  the Canadian DJ and producer, showed up about 2 p.m. Sunday with his trademark mask on -- it's a huge, red grinning mouse head -- and he was whisked around the dusty backstage roads in a golf cart that gave him a bit of a fright. "My ears stick out pretty far, and the driver likes to negotiate these tight corners and I almost got taken out by a tree branch."

The mask was custom made by Warren Keillor, the film production artist, and it makes it a bit unnerving to chat with Deadmau5 (whose nonrodent name is Joel Zimmerman). Do you look him in the eye or the mouth, which is where he's looking out?

"Always go with the eye. It's the way to go."

Deadmau5 is about halfway done with his third album and expects to wrap it up this summer. He's also been working with Tommy Lee ("He's a sweetheart," the mouse said of the Motley Crue drummer). Deadmau5 goes on at 4 p.m. in the Sahara. "The next thing I'm excited about doing is taking my show up to the next level. I already have some live elements incorporated and I want to build on it and make it more of a show."

-- Geoff Boucher

    Photo by Charley Gallay / Getty Images

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Stars in the afternoon

Indie rock in the afternoon is the curse of the Coachella main stage. Bands that shine hard in clubs executing well-wrought guitar-based music often don't possess enough of a theatrical or tribal flair to communicate across Coachella's biggest field. But with flowers and a sweet sense of purpose, the Montreal-based band Stars managed to go beyond the status quo.

Expressing wonder at the band's presence on the stage where Prince had stood just one night before, singer Torquil Campbell bounded around as his bandmates executed Stars' romantic, expansive songs. He dedicated a song to Barack Obama -- the only endorsement I heard all weekend, and from a resident of Canada -- and, quoting one of the band's album titles, told the crowd to set itself on fire. Co-vocalist and songwriter Amy Milan was a little more wry (she dedicated a song to the "swingers down in the tents"); she and Campbell complemented each other beautifully.

The flowers the band had attached to its amps and instruments added some homemade festivity. At set's end, they threw them into the crowd. Prince would have liked that.

-- Ann Powers

Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

A big kiss from the Black Lips

An e-mail just pinged in from Jared Swilley of the Black Lips who was marveling at the sights and sounds of his first Coachella: "I am not very used to such great treatment. The backstage looks like an old retirement community complete with trailers and picket fences. But rock and roll. I saw Steven Tyler back there and he was really wasted  and had these girls holding him up so he wouldn't fall. That was a very memorable moment. Coachella has been a very memorable and enjoyable experience. The parties are the best. Everywhere you go there's free beer and a pool. Seeing Prince was very mesmerizing. He's one of the greatest entertainers alive. I like seeing tons of people I know from all over the world in one place. I don't think I could survive a fourth day, though."

-- Geoff Boucher

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Systemic

System of a Down didn't play the festival this year but it sure feels like they did. SOAD singer Serj Tankian, in top hat and at full wail, was the final act on the Outdoor Theatre stage Friday night and then Saturday in the Mojave Tent it was SOAD drummer John Dolmayan with his Scars on Broadway project. After the set, Dolmayan was all smiles and reflective on the singular vibe of the desert show. "A lot of people think it's the best festival of all the festivals. It's the vibe and way people act. It's great. There's a real spirit and it says a lot about California."

-- Geoff Boucher

  

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Doesn’t smell like teen spirit

For the second time in three days, a mysterious septic odor -- an offensive, penetrating poo stank -- has washed over the festival, prompting Coachella-goers to hold their noses, wave hands in front of faces and drink beer marginally slower.

During the Montreal indie quintet Stars' 4:00 p.m. set, the smell created a nauseating sensory counterpoint to the group's lush, tuneful brand of pop. But no one could quite pinpoint the cause.

About 11:15 p.m. on Friday, the Verve's frontman Richard Ashcroft took time out after the band had performed a soulful version of "The Drugs Don't Work" to offer commentary about the olfactory overload.

"I almost got distracted near the end of the song. It smells like someone took the biggest [bowel movement] in the world!" Ashcroft exclaimed. "I can tell you it wasn't anyone in the band. We're all very relaxed."

-- Chris Lee

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Notes on the ‘God Pass’

There's been a lot of conjecture about the so-called "God pass" over the years at Coachella. Some, including the event's promoter and co-founder Paul Tollett, might have you believe that this mythical all-access pass -- the festival's literal and figurative golden ticket -- does not even exist.

But dear Soundboard reader, the God pass is real, an inexorable privilege for a lucky chosen few every year. At Coachella -- where the kind of VIP bracelet you have on is generally in direct proportion to the amount of fun you have -- they are spoils that mostly go to key members of Tollett's Goldenvoice Productions.

And since the festival's 1999 inception, they have taken various shapes. The original God pass was a blue, red and white target, a la the Who during its Mod phase. Last year, the pass was a pair of interlocking pistols (because, generally, if you've got one, you're a "top gun," as the inside joke goes).

Andrew Hagen, whose father owns the Empire Polo Fields, holds the privileged position as the event's official photographer -- he snaps everyone who plays in an air-conditioned photo studio in the VVIP area. Cagey when first asked about the God pass, Hagen inititally declined to show. But eventually, he had to show it off.

The 2008 God pass is a wood bead necklace --a kind of rustic choker -- with a unique charm: a golden rooster as its focal point. All on-site guards are instructed to swing all barricades open wide upon sight of the pass.

But perhaps its most tangible benefit (if going on stage with bands -- and being able to walk around their dressing room area while drinking their Red Bull for free -- isn't enough for you) is the access to the Tiki Bar. Almost no one knows that just to the left of the main stage, abutted by the VIP area, is a tiny lagoon full of whimsical sculptures of animals, a cozy bar with low lighting and comfy chairs. And several rows of folding chairs offer the best seats in the Coachella house.

-- Chris Lee

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Shout Out Louds is more of a whimper

Shout Out Louds' singer Adam Olenius looks exactly like Jason Schwartzman in "The Darjeeling Limited." He'd surely take that as a compliment, because Shout Out Louds' music is smack in the middle of the Wes Anderson demographic. Its chipper indie pop has all the trappings of twee  (hottie keyboardist,  Robert Smith, yelps Swedishness), and its songs aspire to big emotional rushes.

It doesn't usually get there, as the band can't seem to escape that early-aughts "Ascent of Indie Pop on TV Soundtracks" style, except on a few unimpeachable singles such as  "Tonight I Have to Leave It," where a most unexpected steel drum melody gets a lot of mileage out of one little riff. The Pogues' accordionist James Fearnley made a spirited cameo on "Very Loud," and afterward, I decided that more bands need to reference themselves in their lyrics. It's a cute joke, one that Wes Anderson would likely approve of.

--August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Austin TV kicks off a hazy Sunday

The final day of Coachella '08 was kicked off by Mexico City indie rockers Austin TV. They grow on you.

--post and photo by Kevin Bronson

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Sean Penn offers a call to action

"I've been traveling around the country doing my a capella Celine Dion cover act," Penn joked as he took the stage Sunday afternoon in a spoken-word engagement inside Coachella's Gobi tent.

As it turns out, the spoken-word act was really just a call to action from Penn to Coachella's youngish demographic. "Everything we do today is going to be based on spontaneity -- mainly yours," he said while sitting on a simple chair, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette and reading from handwritten notes.

The actor and sometimes antiwar activist then laid out sketchy details of what he is calling "The Dirty Hands Caravan."

"What we're gonna do is get on a biodiesel bus and go to New Orleans," he said.

Penn apparently is bent on sharing the joy he has felt in getting his hands dirty in order to help others (the thespian famously helped rescue stranded New Orleans residents in the wake of Katina three years ago).

In an effort to inspire teenagers and twentysomethings at the festival, Penn, who partnered with nonprofit Do Something, asked those in the audience to sign up at a nearby booth to participate in the journey and to perhaps be in a documentary about the upcoming effort -- there were two release forms courtesy of the Dirty Hands Caravan in the sign-up tent.

"Revolution is a job for the young," Penn continued. "This is the smartest, most technologically proficient generation of all time. This idea that I had was based on 'no experience necessary.' What we're gonna do is get on biodiesel buses, and I want you to go over to a booth today and go with us to New Orleans."

The bus trip, which leaves Monday directly from the festival, is free. Penn, who will be on the bus for at least part of the trip to New Orleans, says the biodiesel bus will "stop all along the way" to hear guests like Stan Harper and Everlast speak. "It's gonna be a journey that no one will ever forget," he promised.

Around 30 people initially crowded the sign-up tent afterwards, but more can seek out forms all day today. It's not known how many will be able to ride on the compassion caravan, which should arrive in New Orleans May 3 and return to California May 7 or 8.

- Charlie Amter

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Purple reign, abridged version

Full report tomorrow, but to satiate you musicologists, here are the highlights of Prince's epic, way-past-curfew set: a poignant version of "Little Red Corvette" with an awesome, rubber-shredding guitar solo; a swingin' version of "Glamorous Life" with Sheila E; a couple of Morris Day and The Time songs, including "The Bird" and a double encore with insane purple lights. Oh, and let's not forget the covers: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You," Radiohead's "Creep" and the Beatles' "Come Together." The final encore? The fastest version of "Let's Go Crazy" that the law would allow.

Lights out, Coachella. We'll catch up with you tomorrow.

>> Read Ann Powers' review of Prince's performance

Photo by Damon Winter / Getty Images

P.S. Thanks to the diligent readers who caught the slip-up: "I Feel For You" is an original Prince tune that Chaka Khan covered in 1984.

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Portishead haunts the night

In the 10 years that Portishead has been absent, trip-hop, the genre birthed in the '90s to a mix of giggles and rapture, has been maligned but then quietly, in some quarters, resuscitated. Tonight's set proved that Portishead, one of the lighthouses of the genre beaming a murky green light, has splendidly evolved from its Bristol beginnings.

Let's say this first: Geoff Barrow, Adrian Utley and Beth Gibbons are control freaks of the first order, executing every stroke of their subterranean cabaret with tight fists, which often results in brilliance but then something too claustrophobic at times. But you're not listening to them for sloppy joy in the sun; Portishead is strictly for nighttime vamps.

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Waiting …

Prince is late.

Scheduled for a 10:45 start, he just started, at 11:10.

Wonder if the midnight curfew is in effect?

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Merrymaking with Calvin Harris

Calvin Harris is a tall Scotsman with an '80s fetish and, on Saturday night at Coachella, a tent full of dance-happy fans who knew the words.

His throwback disco is sprinkled with enough moxie and clever wordplay that it might have a shelf life longer than the wisps of fresh air that occasionally blow through this festival's porta-potties. It helps that his five-piece band delivers the goods, both instrumentally and with those falsetto backing vocals that were "Acceptable in the '80s," and even before.

Even stomping purposefully around the stage, furiously knob-twiddling or doing his best to sell a couple new songs, Harris comes off as the party guy, and it's just not his sticky song "Merrymaking at My Place." His is the new disco that wants to be taken seriously like, perhaps, LCD Soundsystem's. Dance, sweat, then talk about that great book you just read.

Harris seems on his way.

Post, photos by Kevin Bronson

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Yelle: Also acceptable in the 80s

 

If you ever found the idea Uffie appealing (a sassy Francophile spitting kiss-off rhymes over feverish electro) but the actual article completely unpalatable (like I do), then Yelle has solved your problems. Yelle, from Brittany via a sweet Halloween costume supply store, joins M.I.A. and Santogold as this year's it-girls, and proved that last year's French techno armada might still have some juice left. Being a corn-fed monolinguist American, I have no idea what kind of awesomeness she was singing about. But here's what I do know: she can do the post-Peaches bubblegum sex-rap deal pretty convincingly, I was psyched to see her with a live drummer and synth player who actually looked to be playing live, and she will be absolutely everywhere in Nightlifeland in a few months. Another fun detail: the crowd had a huge contingent of really young teenagers losing their minds every time she flipped her bangs or jump-kicked or whacked a floor tom. I forgot how much fun it is to see a concert next to kids who can't buy cigarettes yet. I bet she's better than Justice will be tomorrow, and was certainly more interesting to watch.

-August Brown

Photo by Jessica Gelt

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Near riot conditions at M.I.A.

According to several traumatized witnesses, sheer pandemonium ruled at the M.I.A. show in the Sahara tent tonight.

"People were crying and fainting, a bunch of people were trying to rush the stage," said Krystle Ramos, 21, of Los Angeles who was among those caught up in the throng.

"I was trying to leave and I lost my shoes, someone pulled down my dress," said Eva Mata, 20, of Santa Cruz. "Every one was so amped, they were trying to crash the performance."

Several witnesses recounted how after British electropop quintet Hot Chip finished its set around 7, fans grew increasingly agitated waiting for the Sri Lankan-born, London-bred electronica producer and MC. Even in the face of mounting aggression, security did little to calm the crowd.

"At one point, I was on my knees, trying to get up," said Mata. "And no one would help me."

--Chris Lee

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Food in the desert: not so bad

Anyone who has ever been to Coachella has had a Spicy Slice pizza. The $7 slice is typically fresh, hot, cheesy and better than most of what we usually have to deal with in Los Angeles. But the good thing about Coachella is that there's a lot more to choose from here in the desert than pizza and beer.

Orange County is representing with a beautiful raw and vegan selection by 118 degrees, a stand from the restaurant in Costa Mesa. Hungry folks can choose from Hemp Quesadillas, Living Lasagna and even vegan pizzas from $8 to $12.

Interested in soul food? They don't have collard greens here, but one can find creamed spinach, red beans and chicken kabobs for $10. Falafel, chicken sandwiches and a variety of hot dogs are sprinkled around the polo field, as well as an assortment of ice cream bars and coffee stands.

A mainstay, the coconuts are back. Not only is it fun to enjoy the natural treat, but it's particularly interesting to watch people work on their 'nuts for the first time. Some tackle the difficult beast with a fork, some with a pocket knife, most with their hands. Some fail, and very few conquer the fruit without making a mess, cutting themselves or breaking a nail.

One of the most pleasant surprises is the taquito/guacamole plate. Concertgoers can choose between three or four chicken taquitos, which are accompanied by chips and a generous ice cream scoop of guacamole for $7.

Water is $2 or free if you pick up 10 empty plastic bottles (an offer we have seen several attendees take advantage of). So not only is the food pretty good, but there's no reason not to stay hydrated out here at the show.

-- Photo and post by Tony Pierce

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Music, nonstop: Kraftwerk’s robotronic grooves soothe

As the sun set Saturday, music fans were certainly in the mood for some cool Teutonic vibes to bring in the night after a menacingly hot day. German electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk provided respite from the heat and the soundtrack to the night's arrival, tapping its vast back catalog of classics.

The highlights? A nice version of "Trans-Euro Express," a perfect rendition of "Autobahn," a tight take on "Musique Non Stop" and the cycling homage "Tour de France"-- accompanied by actual vintage Tour de France footage.

Casual fans were taken aback when they heard the signature hook from Coldplay's "Talk"; perhaps not knowing it was a Kraftwerk synth hook first ("Computer Love"). Chris Martin reportedly begged the band to let him use the riff.

Other more serious fans were alarmed that Florian Schneider was missing from the quartet's lineup (he was replaced for the night with a fill-in...and, no, he was not a robot).

The band's on-site rep Saturday assured us his curious absence was "not health related." She said he simply couldn't make the show. We'll update this post if we get better information.

Overall, Krafwerk's set, though good, was less exciting on the main stage this year than the Dusseldorf quartet proved when they last played Coachella (in the Sahara dance tent four years ago).

-- Charlie Amter

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Tumultuous times in Hot Chip tent

Hot Chip was hot all right. The English electro-pop act packed the Sahara tent at Coachella on Saturday evening, and then some, blinding the crowd with beats. Fans were also blinded by the harsh sun coming through the west end of the tent.

Those who thought the quintet stole the show at last year's Coachella were not disappointed. Some fans climbed the scaffolding of the tent; another tried crashing the up-front area, and after a WWF-worthy tussle with a security guard that saw the perpetrator crash through the side of the tent, order was restored. The over-exuberant fan was carted off in handcuffs.

Behave. It's dance music.

--Photos and post by Kevin Bronson

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Hey, Death Cab for Cutie: This is why we want to live here

It's always a fun time when Death Cab For Cutie plays its anti-L.A. anthem "Why You'd Want to Live Here" in Southern California. It's an exacting laundry list of the most cliched, obvious complaints about Los Angeles: traffic, movie star egos and smog.

Oh, sensitive Seattle-ite Ben Gibbard, with your floppy bangs and pained falsetto, we're so sorry our city doth offend you so! Yes, we know you're kind of kidding, and you're really only bitter that another hipstress wised up to your sad-panda schtick, but still, tell us about your mythic Metros and great coffee and endless metaphorical rain!

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Café Tacuba and Yoakam delight the SIGS

Coachella cannot be all things to all people, but the organizers give it a whack. Every year, several artists hugely popular in their own domains fill out the bill for those not into the current trend-follower's bliss (lately, that's been dance rock dressed in bad 1980s fashion.)

Spanish-speaking festivalgoers -- hardly a minority among California music lovers -- are one of these special interest groups. Last year, Julieta Venegas thrilled a very full Gobi tent with her accordion-flavored border pop. This year, it was a return engagement for Café Tacuba, and the venerable elders of rock en español made a mid-sized crowd in front of the main stage exceptionally happy.

Looking classy in coordinated outfits -- a small book could be written on how bands trick out for this festival -- the Mexican mainstays offered hits from their extensive songbook as fans sang along joyfully.

And they danced: The group got it on with bravado onstage, especially at one point, when everyone but the drummer abandoned their instruments to give a brief overview of dance moves from Temptations-style synchronized steps to Travolta-esque disco to karate kicks.

Singer Ruben Ortega contributed a running bilingual commentary that was at turns idealistic and comical. "Our grandfathers and grandmothers say it's not true that we come here to live," he said. "We come here to dream." This is a poetic thought -- made lighter by the fact that Ortega was wearing his trademark rooster-comb stocking cap at the time.

Over at the Outdoor Theatre, another veteran was making another bunch of SIGS smile. Dwight Yoakam, the only artist scheduled this year to play both Coachella and Stagecoach, still wears the tightest jeans in show business -- and they don't appear to be stretch denim. This old-school attitude permeated what I saw of his set, and it appealed strongly to a particular kind of fan.

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

A polyphonic spree with Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent

Sometimes the way to do Coachella is to drift from tent to tent, from guitar noodle to handbell to plunky keyboards, like Guy Debord slathered in SPF 30. So I visited Stephen Malkmus, Kate Nash and St. Vincent, wandering in for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.

As I walked toward the Outdoor Theater, Malkmus was unspooling the guitar, yarns of sound unraveling on the field. The audience was tangled in it, loving it, rolling around. With Janet Weiss on drums, for starters, the Jicks have turned into a crack ensemble, swelling around Malkmus' California-dust guitar and his lyrics that still hit as many wonky references as any Pavement jam. Malkmus, a Portland family man now, is mellowing but in all the ways you want to see: There's a jazz-head's sense of nuance and plucking that's increasingly part of his lexicon. 

As I walked away from Mr. Pavement in a safari hat, I heard him say: "We don't endorse torture and we don't vote for Bush." The crowd weakly clapped. What the hell is going on? Doesn't anyone care? I've seen ONE Obama shirt and nothing else at Coachella so far.

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Hot Chip: Steal this look

Call it the latest iteration of nerd triumphalism. Or call it Hot Chip co-frontman Alexis Taylor's day in the sun (literally -- it's been triple digits and relentlessly bright in Indio today). But judging from the British electro-pop quintet's rapturous reception at the Sahara tent this evening -- or to be more specific, judging from the number of diminutive men in the crowd who seem to have co-opted the reedy-voiced, horn glasses-wearing singer's signature look -- Taylor's anti-fashion seems to have struck a chord in this style-saturated hyper-cultural environment.

Everywhere you looked in and around the crowded tent were nebbishy guys in throwback glasses, proud -- even peacock-ish -- in their doofus-y glory. You could almost sense a kind of relief in the air, as if Taylor had shown them it was OK to be.

According to one estimate, perhaps 9.7% of the tent was sporting some vestige of Taylor's shorn-hair, oversize-glasses and button-downs style. *

Robert Plant he most decidedly is not. But every time Taylor raised his helium-high voice in blip-hop, R. Kelly-inspired song, ladies in the crowd appeared enraptured.

The social ramifications of this style paradigm shift are yet to be fully understood. But as Tracy Morgan might encourage, to Taylor we say, "You go, boy!" And we at Soundboard endorse you fellas out there to steal this look.

-- Chris Lee

[* This is total guestimation but is probably more or less correct by a margin of about 10%.]

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Under new MGMT

Anybody who can explain the appeal of MGMT to me gets a free well cocktail (a $7 value here, ugh). The duo's Mojave tent set was, so far, pound for pound the most anticipated set of the day. Seriously, I could barely even get within 20 feet of any entrance to the tent, and even the band seemed a bit freaked out by the reception. What were all those kids salivating over? Turgid mid-tempo synth-pop that sounded like a sloppy Broadcast fronted by Dean Ween.

I'll have to give credit where it's due: Their single "Time to Pretend" is perfectly calibrated radio pop that some A&R guy at Columbia is getting to keep his job for discovering. I'm not sure whether it's good, but it was obviously made by really smart people.

But everything else on their debut record is plodding, diluted and full of references to better bands that MGMT never even approaches. It's "dancey" but not danceable, it's "spacey" but not atmospheric, and it's "poppy" without having more than a handful of demonstrable hooks. And live, they played like every other band of twentysomething dudes scratching their heads to adapt their iPod's stem tracks in a rock setting. [Correction: An earlier version of this post included references to drug use and prostitution that have been deleted. - ed]

-- August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

Bonde do Role and Cafe Tacuba start international parties

When Bonde do Role's singer Marina Ribatski quit the Brazilian tawdry rap trio, one wondered how they'd survive such a crushing blow to their boundless libido (check the lyrics for "Melo do Caldinho" to see for yourself). We shouldn't have worried. The two new faces of Bonde, Ana Bernardino and Laura Taylor, are even better epitomes of Bonde's  orgy-core hip-hop.  I'm not sure which is which, but one dresses like a hotel maid and has only one vocal setting ("anticipating orgasm") and the other's main onstage responsibility is to be a total, unmitigated hottie.

They still do the unapologetic Alice in Chains and "Robot Rock" sampling thing, which is fun once or twice on record until the joke gets old. But after coming from MGMT, Bonde reaffirmed my faith in partying. I'm not sure whether the new lineup is an improvement, but it makes Bonde considerably more insane onstage, which for them is the ultimate goal anyhow.

Cafe Tacuba occupies this year's token Latin arena-rock slot (Manu Chao had it last year), and like Chao the Mexican band has the odd trait of having no song sound remotely like any other. This is a pretty cool ability at a giant festival like this, and they bounced from better-than-Vampire-Weekend ska-pop to jangly house beats to a bit of ranchero-disco that got some mad Mexican flag shoutouts from the crowd. The camera found numerous super-stoked Latino faces to zero in on, but the good vibes knew no borders. I hope Goldenvoice keeps this Latin rock trend alive at Coachella, as there's no better cultural attache than a beat you can really dance to.

-- August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA