Pitchfork

Photos by Natalie Kardos

I’m not sure if you heard or not, but Coachella was supposed to suck this year. They couldn't get any decent acts on the bill-- I mean, how could Prince and Portishead possibly compete with the likes of the Chili Peppers or a reunited Rage Against the Machine? Or hot new underground acts that you've never seen before like LCD Soundsystem or the Arcade Fire? (OK, that would have been pretty awesome.) So yeah-- stop listening to your jaded friends and take a good look at Coachella 2009, especially when they heed my call to finally get Soundgarden to reunite (possibly).

FRIDAY, APRIL 25
Rogue Wave [Coachella; 1:30 p.m.]

Death Cab meets Southern California whine-rock, which I hear is great, if you're into that sort of thing. Rogue Wave weren't helped by poor sound quality in the first half of their set-- the vocals were lost amidst heavy guitar. That makes their songs an especially tough sell, given that Zach Schwartz already has pitch problems, and his soft voice is easily lost in an even softer desert breeze. They ironed out those sound problems by mid-show, just in time to hit a couple of newer songs cleanly. Their one truly interesting moment, however, was when they attempted a bit of actual rock via a 45-second drum jam with all members participating-- and nearly pulled it off. Rogue Wave also lose points because their frontman looks like a blond Bam Margera. Not fair, but true. --Joe Crosby

Battles [Gobi; 3 p.m.]

If you've happened to see Battles at a more conventional rock venue, you know these guys are liable to break a sweat or two onstage; I imagine John Stanier goes through more white T's during an average week of touring than your favorite Atlanta rapper. So what happens in the broiler pan of the California desert-- does Stanier spontaneously combust, Spinal Tap-style? Fortunately, as the first rock band made entirely of tungsten and fiber optics, these men-machine can withstand heat up to 5,000 degrees Kelvin without fucking up their ultra-precise grooves. I guess that makes it somewhat of a disappointment that they were allotted the same amount of air-time as the Black Kids, who I suppose had to play every one of their songs twice. Mirrored was nothing but high points, but while the band addressed the singles, Battles' set felt unnecessarily truncated.

After spending 2007 winning people over, a victory lap was certainly earned though-- I mean, kids love that crash cymbal, probably because trying to air-guitar to this stuff will make you look a damn fool. While their standard introductory one-two of "Race:Out" and "Tij" are exciting in their expansion of rock's possibilities, it's also depressing to think that Tyondai Braxton and Ian Williams can play two instruments at the same time better than you could ever possibly play one. Maybe that's why "Atlas" draws the response of a smash hit; it finally gives the steakheads something in 4/4 to dance to. Braxton appears to be fully aware of its current adoption as a warped but wholly accessible pop song, giving the handsome man's gun in accordance with his vocal parts, an effective counter to Stanier's stonefaced, sternum-shattering bass thump (lesson learned from soundcheck: if these guys are coming to your club, do not fuck with his floor tom). Cheers for one-upping every K-12 teacher in the United States by making math fun again.

Les Savy Fav [Outdoor; 3:10 p.m.]

One of the best sets of the festival. Live, Les Savy Fav are, of course, loud, even abrasive at times, but highly entertaining. A real shit riot with Tim Harrington absolutely losing his mind on stage. Harrington stepped on the 95-degree stage in long pants, suede leather, jacket, and hat, only to quickly de-robe until he was sporting crotch-hugging red shorts and green-striped socks. Once appropriately attired, he was a firecracker soaked in gasoline, jumping into the crowd, mouth-kissing dudes, shoving his mic down an audience member's pants, dropping onto his knees and performing lyrical fellatio with the mic still firmly inserted in the willing fan's waistline. In the crowd, he sang, head in the air, as revelers mobbed him. Not to be slowed, he put a garbage bag over his torso, crawled under the stage (to the chagrin of security), and climbed the scaffolding three stories up. It was ridiculousness verging on genius. And he still managed his poetic and erudite lyrics without fault. --Joe Crosby

Jens Lekman [Mojave; 4:35 p.m.]

Don't be surprised if you have to cuff your sweetheart when Jens Lekman rolls into town; young and insanely talented, with a Swedish accent, a quick wit, and a full head of hair, Lekman also knows how to recruit a top-notch celebrity backing band-- at least I'm pretty sure he managed to recruit Kim Cattrall as his drummer and answered the question "where's Florian?" by sticking him on sampler.

At which point a guy with a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt fiddles with wires for several minutes before the Florian lookalike saves the day. Either constantly pointing up or down was part of the string section But even someone as charmed as Lekman has a shitty day every now and again: If I had a voice like Lekman, I'd sing a cappella pretty often too, but here it was a necessity rather than an aesthetic choice since pretty much everyone on the Mojave stage was hampered by an ever-changing set of sound issues. About 10 seconds into "The Opposite of Hallelujah", Lekman cut his band off, looked at his piano, and asked "how do you plug this in?,"'s act (outside of "A Sweet Summer's Night On Hammer Hill) or no one could ever get their volume right. You have to wonder if it was intentional for Jens to point his middle finger towards the sound booth in accordance with the lyrics of "It Was a Strange Time in My Life" or whether it just so happened to be straight in front of him-- after all, you don't claim "Warren G" is from "93" if you're a stickler for the details. -- Ian Cohen

Cut Copy [Gobi; 5:15 p.m.]

You know that feeling where you realize that a band you thought was really good actually turns out to be totally fucking awesome? You can see where this is going: Cut Copy are rock stars. I don't think I've seen a group with a greater sense of entitlement to fame since Urge Overkill. "Are you fucking ready, Coachella?" asked guitarist Tim Hoey with equal parts sneer and sincerity; shit, I wasn't ready. Because either the Australian contingent travels extremely well or the fantastic In Ghost Colours is far more (deservedly) popular than I realized. And those who weren't thrilled to be there in the first place were won over: I can't think of any other group that did more to elevate its profile.

Inexplicably linked to blog house in its 14th minute and counting, Cut Copy function more as one of the strongest alchemists of dance and rock music this side of LCD Soundsystem; whether the inordinately shirtless and laddish crowd wanted to spazz or just wild the fuck out, "So Haunted" and closer "Hearts on Fire" allowed for both. Hell, a giant Australia beach ball was batted about for most of the set before Hoey casually knocked it away once it reached the stage. Other people may have seen me attempt to dance. Cut Copy played with a confidence of artists many hits deep, rarely tied to their samplers or guitars; the ease with which leading voice Dan Whitford and Hoey led the crowd into the insane buildup to the first chorus of "Lights & Music" makes me hope that they aren't angling for solo gigs. Anyone not having fun at this show was probably in the first aid tent. -- Ian Cohen

Vampire Weekend [Outdoor; 5:40 p.m.]

One of 2007-08's favorite sons, these Ivy Leaguers' beachy world pop was a highly anticipated draw. Mixed reviews from SXSW and elsewhere provided festivalgoers with open-ended questions, only a few of which were answered. For instance, Vampire Weekend can replicate their sound live. Their trademark elastic vocals bounce and spring with near perfection, and their rhythms translate well with the keyboard backed by bass lines reminiscent of African pop. Keyboardist Rostam Batmanglij is the instrumental glue-- impressive, and probably the most talented of the four. That said, the show, on the whole, was a snooze fest. The music is much better suited for passing out in the sand after one-too-many frozen cocktails than it is for the stage and the band-- still young, and fresh from the quad-- know how to play their songs but not yet how to coax an audience. -- Joe Crosby

The National [Outdoor; 6:55 p.m.]

You know what I like about the National? Other than seeing fans witness the perennial set-closer "Mr. November" for the first time? No matter where you happen to be located in the Outside Theatre, they have the decency to be tall enough so you can get a good view. I'm serious, if there is ever some of "Battle of the Indie Stars" on Pitchfork.tv, these guys would probably win it. Their height was a boon considering that these guys are now officially a Popular Band with Popular Songs, something that is admittedly getting a little weird.

On the strength of Boxer's success, they've got some earned indulgences like a full-time brass duo (No Doubt-style), whose volume at least initially distract from the backbone of every National song, namely Matt Berninger's voice. The outro of "Mistaken For Strangers" loses a bit of its devastating power when the brass is pretty much playing the whole time, and I'm not sure why, but the outro fanfare of "Fake Empire" just seems off when they derivate from the version on Boxer. But all things told, this felt like a primer for first-timers and rightfully so- nothing pre-Alligator, and saving their signatures for the end. "Abel" is usually the first encore during their headlining shows, but it got folded into the setlist, showing at least these guys were planning ahead.

Still, one question: Where the fuck was Padma? -- Ian Cohen

The Raconteurs [Coachella; 7:30 p.m.]

Coming from someone who isn't a particularly big Raconteurs fan, they came across a good, straight-forward rock'n'roll, which the pop landscape is, by and large, lacking. Jack White had complete control of the show, gliding throughout the set like a puppet master playing acoustic, electric (a full-on hammer), and keys. Bandmate Brendan Benson is a sturdy fence post to White's barbed wire, balancing his singing partner's louder noise with a voice that, although a bit understated, exhibits more substance here than on his solo work. Fans disappointed by the sometimes tepid Consolers of the Lonely might be swayed by these more incendiary live renditions. -- Joe Crosby

Aphex Twin [Sahara; 8 p.m.]

This was my first trip to the Sahara tent all day, and from the looks of things, it was filled with the kind of people who have been there for Coachella's entirety up to that point. Tired of seeing all those weenie kids wearing jeans that could cause ingrown hairs? Well, to quote an acquaintance upon arrival to the Sahara, "holy shit, people still wear JNKOs?" And really, in spite of what Richard D. James was doing up on stage (a surprisingly hip-hop leaning set), standing and watching a show really wasn't the point. Needless to say, if you were hoping to walk in on "4" or "Xtal" you were destined for disappointment. -- Ian Cohen

The Verve [Coachella; 9 p.m.]

The ubiquity of posters from previous iterations of Coachella led to an underlying subtext: the 21st century hasn't really produced many big bands worth a shit. I realize that some people (myself included, since Urban Hymns was an important record of my youth), were agog with anticipation in seeing these guys perform for the first time in a decade, but really, they still have fewer hits in America than the Verve Pipe. At least they still look the part-- Richard Ashcroft seems to have grown into the gaunt, chiseled-out face that adorned one of the worst-selling Rolling Stone issues of all time, and the other guys played their role of "other guys" just fine. Which is sort of the problem here: You might have changed since 1997, but they haven't, and while Ashcroft's solo work tends to get panned in disproportion to the work of the Verve, I guess that makes Nick McCabe one of the most underrated guitarists of the last couple of decades. Because all the obnoxious glorification of Ashcroft's ego has been in plain view really since Day One; they just happened to cover it up with snazzy licks.

Not the least bit humbled by his band's reception, Ashcroft returned from the margins of commercial awareness with a shirt that looks like it never even had buttons and litany of Mojo Risin' posturing-- I'm not sure what's more embarrassing, hearing Ashcroft yell "this is music!" or having to explain to other people that happens to be the name of the song, one of many that contains some sort of grandiose statement contained within the first lyric (see also, "Space & Time", "Life's an Ocean") that manages to be clichéd and meaningless at the same time.

At least he didn't say "this is working man blues!" when introducing "Bitter Sweet Symphony" like he did last time I saw them, but Ashcroft did dedicate it to Hunter S. Thompson and as the song came to a close, he put the microphone up to his heart, because, you know, he's been dowwwwn. Meanwhile, "The Drugs Don't Work", besides inspiring the most obvious Coachella crowd joke ever, felt like some ponderous and completely awful parody of wasted rock star self-pity instead of the emotional core of Urban Hymns. Is "The Rolling People" really the most modest song these guys played? I kinda secretly hoped that they'd start out with that and play it for, like, 20 minutes, but as is, it was a rather concise version.

As for their future prospects, fans got a taste of new track "Sit & Wonder" (first line, "I sit and wonder"), a somewhat tuneless and charmless vamp preceded by Ashcroft telling the crowd, "most bands, when they reform don't bother to make new music. That's what it's always been about for us." Credit where credit's due-- at least he managed to acknowledge the rest of the guys' existence right there. -- Ian Cohen

Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings [Mojave; 9:35 p.m.]

The stout fiftysomething Sharon Jones wouldn't turn heads walking down the street, but shaking and gyrating under the lights, she's sex personified. And she knows it. With the Dap Kings' foundation, Jones' soul-funk is an experienced lover plucking the audience's virgin cherry one song at a time. The tempo is slow-baked with bass until it cooks with a trio of horns, while the sultry songstress adds a modern ingredient to old R&B recipes. In a genre where it's difficult for artists to distinguish themselves from the past, Sharon Jones somehow creates a unique identity while paying homage to her forebears. -- Joe Crosby

Black Lips [Mojave; 10:50 p.m.]

For all the shit talking about the Black Lips', well, shit talking, their antics aren't nearly as absurd as you might guess. I don't think I saw them piss on stage once, which, I must admit, was slightly disappointing. What I did see, though, was a decent rendition of 1960s punk/late 1970s riot rock hybrid. Their set list played like rock's version of "Kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out," except that I'm pretty sure the Black Lips don't believe in god. When a fan lovingly yelled, "Hey, fuck you guys," bassist Jared Swilley's handlebar 'stache curved upward in sinister appreciation. If you're looking for sweet harmonies, vocal aptitude, and mature songwriting, you're looking in the wrong place. Is you're looking for anti-establishment noise and a good time, here it is. -- Joe Crosby

SATURDAY, APRIL 26

The Bird and the Bee [Mojave; 12:30 p.m.]

These are the 21st-century Carpenters, save the fact that Inara George doesn't have an eating disorder and Greg Kurstin didn't appear to be doing blow off his keyboard. With an early Saturday afternoon set, water guns were in tow-- they were a needed refresher after Friday's brutal sun. With two female singers backing, George's soothing, oft-jazzy voice drifted over crowd like a siren's call, convincing male onlookers to believe that she loved them when the wicked twinkle in her eye (and common sense) said otherwise. Kurstin's subtle, airy keys mix with George's throwback vocals to create a delightfully simple sound-- something you can't quite grab hold onto, yet enjoy trying to nonetheless. -- Joe Crosby

Little Brother [Outdoor; 1:15 p.m.]

They say you should dress for the job you want, not the job you have, and I wonder if that applies to naming your hip-hop act as well; I mean, look how far Rick Ross has gone just because he can rhyme it with "boss." Little Brother have a reputation as perpetual also-rans considering how badly even Lupe Fiasco sons them in record sales, and I imagine opening up the second day of Coachella to a crowd mostly unfamiliar with your material has to be a bit emasculating. Still, you have to hand it to Phonte and Big Pooh for giving it their all and not falling back on that whole "this is real hip-hop" hectoring that can make their studio albums feel like a chore. It's actually funny how closely they resemble the rappers they so vociferously resent in a live setting; you're liable to hear them beg to get your hands up, make some noise-- everything short of getting some girls up on stage to dance to the latest single.

And yet, they persevered throughout to put on an entertaining, if not somewhat textbook performance, even if the coffee shop chicks and white dudes didn't happen to have the MTV Jams channel on for the five minutes in which "Lovin' It" was broadcast. I mean, I can at least give them my sincere thanks for not giving Joe Scudda a bus pass, right? --Ian Cohen

The Teenagers [Mojave; 1:30 p.m.]

The Teenagers offer a virtually expressionless presentation while performing their French-accented electro-pop. Given their Gallic take on British pop and post-punk guitar, Joie Division might be a more appropriate name for them-- and certainly there are shades of Ian Curtis in the ambiguously asexual persona of instrument-less frontman Quentin Delafon. On the whole though, they'd sound better if you were chain smoking in the corner of a dark, dingy club rather than standing in the desert. -- Joe Crosby

Man Man [Mojave; 2:30 p.m.]

If you could join one band, which would it be? As far as I'm concerned, if Man Man need a sixth guy to just bang on shit and play instruments found at the local pawn shop, I'm in. I've already got the white Lacoste shirt, plus my family lives in Philly!

Before Rabbit Habits I had thought of them as a sort of aesthetic Cliff Notes for everything annoying about Williamsburg, only transferred to my beloved hometown. Diehards insisted I see them live, lest I experience Man Man in 2-D. And they were totally right. Few bands are more reliant on the physical aspect of performance, with Honus Honus, face-to-face with drummer Pow Pow (one of rock's most overlooked) in some sort of bizarre debate while the rest of the guys stand towards the back like a Greek muppet chorus.

Most importantly, they brought their own soundman, who was every bit as busy as the rest of them on the mixboard. Every Man Man song proved an excuse to bust out party favors like black robes, kazoos, feathers, and god knows what else, a barely controlled chaos that still looked improbably scripted. It's impossible to hear "Big Trouble" the same way again after watching all those little breakdowns of shattering glass take place in real time, and there's no reason for the studio version of "Harpoon Fever (Queequeg's Playhouse)" to sound like it's getting softer as the verses kick in. And maybe I'm not alone in my pursuit to become Man Man #6-- last time I saw so much abdomen painting, I was at a University of Georgia football game. --Ian Cohen

DeVotchKa [Outdoor; 3:35 p.m.]

This band's sound is as eclectic as their arsenal of instruments. Slavic, Spanish, and Mariachi rhythms float from violin, sousaphone, guitar, upright bass, keys, accordion, and more. DeVotchKa create a sort of international folk that weaves stories together in both English and Spanish. Nick Urata's voice is honest, even desperate and pleading. And as if their music wasn't theatrical enough, the band was flanked mid-set by "The Amazine Slavic Sisters", a pair of Cirque du Soleil-esque acrobats who spun from ribbons tied to the rafters, suspended 30 feet in the air and upside down, with only the wrap of a cloth to support them. Unfortunately, just as the set was picking up speed, horn and bass player Jeanie Schroder seemed to succumb to the midday heat; ss a result, they ended about 15 minutes early, which is a shame because their howling music was all too appropriate for an outdoor festival. -- Joe Crosby

Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks [Outdoor; 4:50 p.m.]

Pavement are good rock. Solo Malkmus is good pop. The Jicks are caught somewhere in the middle. Granted, solo Malkmus isn't really solo, with members of the Jicks present at almost all times. But recording and touring as the Jicks gives the rest of the band their deserved moment in the sun. Sure, there was some of the classic, exploratory Malkmus guitar, but the most enticing sounds came from Joanna Bolme, who is almost entirely responsible for the symbiotic interplay between her bass and the two other guitars. (And, of course, Janet Weiss on the skins is always a plus.)

Malkmus' lithe voice is complemented by the Jicks' driving rock, and his lyrics continue to veer between the obscure and the tangible. It could have just been a passable show except this is clearly a band who loves performing, coming across like seasoned pros they are but not making what they're doing look like work. -- Joe Crosby

St. Vincent [Gobi; 5:20 p.m.]

"We're St. Vincent," announced Annie Clark. Yeah, that's her on the album cover. And a shiny nickel to any review of Marry Me that mentions anyone else (other than Sufjan Stevens). But the self-deprecating Clark was quick to note that this is a band. And not just that either-- yeah, they've got a full-time violinist and a guy who plays clarinet, but when Clark picks up that Angus Young SG, it's clear that St. Vincent are a rock band and you're in for a rock show. They've even got a version of "Now, Now" that never knew what hit it, a blistering guitar workout that broke every bit of the stained glass that surrounded SV's chamber-pop studio take.

During this set, the tent slowly filled due to the nearby Kate Nash show going on at the same time, and Clark proved to be a resoundingly magnetic performer, with her loopy stage banter cementing a sense of loose-screwness ("be safe this weekend. I don't want no babies on my watch"). Plus it takes a brass pair to cover "Dig a Pony", let alone as a solo, feedback-lacerated dirge. --Ian Cohen

Hot Chip [Sahara; 6:10 p.m.]

From the word go, Hot Chip blasted their refreshing, elastic pop to the back of the tent and didn't stop, wasting none of their 50-minute set on crowd banter or other niceties. The English group-- like James Murphy as a speedfreak computer nerd-- delicately blended organic instrumentation and off-the-cuff electronics, and despite performing to one of the two most-crowded tents I saw, there wasn't a person there who wasn't moving, sweating through their headbands, American Apparel way-too-short Prefontaine shorts, and halter tops. Somewhere across the desert, MGMT wept. -- Joe Crosby

Death Cab for Cutie [Coachella; 6:30 p.m.]

It might sound unfair to pile on, but Death Cab For Cutie were never known for being the most pyrotechnic live act even when they were in clubs. So just imagine them being followed immediately by Kraftwerk, Portishead, and then Prince, a challenge defeatingly acknowledged by Ben Gibbard in one of his more awkward stage exchanges (which is to say, all of them).

Yet after the resounding commercial success of 2005's Plans, Death Cab are at least embracing their status; new tracks from the upcoming Narrow Stairs were well-suited to festival performances. The eight minutes of "I Will Possess Your Heart", at first blush a flailing artistic endeavor, here sounded more like a naturally evolving jam, and "Bixby Canyon Bridge" furthered the promise that DCFC might grow beyond maturity signifiers like the bassist growing a beard. But most of the set underlined, not so much the band's weaknesses but guitarist/producer Chris Walla's strengths: "The Sound of Settling" and "Soul Meets Body", when taken out of their glass cases, are rendered muddy and sluggish. "Soul Meets Body" needs that antiseptic drum track as well as that rippling mandolin thing in the intro; "The Sound of Settling" needs those handclaps. Perhaps as a matter of overcompensation, Death Cab here leaned towards weaker yet more muscular material-- see the forgettable Photo Album inclusions of "We Laugh Indoors" and the embarrassingly generic "I H8 L.A." rant "Why You'd Want to Live Here". --Ian Cohen

Rilo Kiley [Outdoor; 7:20 p.m.]

Fans of Rilo Kiley probably thought this was a pretty good show. And it would've been if two things had happened: 1) They stuck to Jenny Lewis' folk-country tinged songs, and 2) That dude didn't sing. It's like Dr. Rilo and Mr. Kiley up there when they trade vocal duties. Thankfully, Lewis can sell even the mediocre songs with her flirtatious delivery and deft handling of the guitar and piano. The biggest struggle for Rilo Kiley is some songs lack substance. They hang on for dear life, tethered to a cohesive melody, but they're about one guitar riff away from a Lilith Fair revival no matter who is singing. -- Joe Crosby

Animal Collective [Mojave; 8:25 p.m.]

You thought putting Vampire Weekend against Cut Copy was proof that Coachella may not have had the Pitchfork reader in mind? How about making you choose between M.I.A., Animal Collective, and Kraftwerk when just four hours ago your options were either MGMT or Cold War Kids?

Then again, if you decided to push your luck with Kraftwerk's set through "Showroom Dummies", you were likely rewarded, since there was little easy about Animal Collective's time in Indio. It's pretty amazing to think that four years ago, these guys were on some sticks and stones primitive shit, because in 2008, you need about four Harvey Mudd-educated engineers just to keep Geologist's cables untangled. It took nearly an additional half hour for them to finally take the stage, and during this hiatus, I would reckon Coachella suffered its greatest number of drug casualties.

Besides that, they of course played few songs recognizable to non-tape-traders; luckily, they included an epic version of "Fireworks" so nobody minded. Instead AC still astoundingly leaned on unreleased material, most of which took ages to take form. But whether these embryonic jams eventually were rendered into a Tropicalia-meets-El Guincho reverie or a near hip-hop telepathy between Panda Bear and Avey Tare, it's difficult not to be embarrassingly excited at the multitude of possibilities contained within their mind-boggling setup. --Ian Cohen

M.I.A. [Sahara; 8:25 p.m.]

The disaster of Coachella. To start, M.I.A. had no business performing in one of the tents. She is far too popular to expect hoards of fans to cram into that small space. But even the suffocation factor wouldn't have been an issue if the show was better. All of the elements were there-- lively, colorful screen visuals, incredible beats-- except her. M.I.A. taunted as much as performed, and then tarnished her otherwise energetic antics by inviting a few dozen concertgoers on stage. The result was predictable: police intervention, house lights kicking on, and M.I.A. forced to leave the stage for nearly 15 minutes of her 50-minute set. When she came back on, she performed "Paper Planes" with the energy of a child forced to do the dishes, and then promptly left. And to think some people skipped Animal Collective and Kraftwerk for that. -- Joe Crosby

Portishead [Coachella; 9:15 p.m.]

The band everyone at Coachella-- other bands, fans, everyone-- was rooting for. Granted, acts like Prince and Roger Waters were more popular, but festivalgoers seemed most curious to hear Portishead in their only scheduled U.S. performance after a 11-year recording break. The consensus? Relief and joy after a wonderfully cerebral set.

Portishead were the perfect tonic for a sun-baked, weary crowd; scattered on the lawn of the main stage, people lost themselves in the entrancing daze of Beth Gibbons' quivering voice and Geoff Barrow and Adrian Utley's ominous tones. The songs even got lost in themselves, each one a link in a chain clanging its way through a dark, clattery set. It's a brilliant dichotomy-- the wonderfully grim music and lyrics juxtaposed against Gibbons' unflaggingly hopeful voice. Gibbons gave one of the masterful performances of the festival as Portishead's set wandered through old songs and new, not relying too heavily on either. Tracks from Dummy were, rightfully so, given their fair share of play, their turbid rhythms slowed down and mixing well alongside their newer, more progressive and contemplative work. --Joe Crosby

Prince [Coachella; 10:45 p.m.]

Photo by Zach Roper


"Coachella! I'm gonna start things off here with something from the third disc of Crystal Ball!" "Who wants to hear The Rainbow Children in its entirety?" "Ladies and gentlemen, Appolonia!"

Prince said a whole bunch of shit during his headlining set on Saturday night, but fortunately none of the above was included. Granted, that's what one should expect when the guy on stage is getting forked over a rumored $4.8 million. But compared to artists like, say, Death Cab and Jack Johnson, this is an upgrade from David Eckstein to Alex Rodriguez; your headliners can't fall back on shit like grittiness or hustle-- they should be able to knock it out of the park.

To call this a concert would be selling it short. Cavalcade? Extravaganza? Well, that's more like it, and from the jump, it was evident that we weren't just going to hear The Hits, Vol. 1 on shuffle. As a matter of fact, it took nearly a half hour just to hear some original Prince material. Not that anyone was complaining when Morris Day kicked off the set off with two Time numbers before Sheila E. gave us "The Glamorous Life".

Between the stratospheric expectations and the obvious financial obligation, Prince was sparing no tricks, even if he was up against an obvious problem: We'd been our feet for the past 12 hours in 100-degree weather listening to live music. God bless him for keeping shit interesting even as fatigued concertgoers were begrudgingly making their way out. Prince raps have always been dicey going, but he had no trouble spicing up "Musicology" with timely music-biz crit and you have to love the decision to pull out early-90s chestnuts like "7" and "Cream", while dedicating the latter to himself (sadly, he did not do "My Name Is Prince" nor have Kirstie Alley narrate the thing).

But through no fault of his own, it might have been too overwhelming. After understandably taking the stage about a half hour later than expected, and running through 15 of the weekend's most impressive guitar solos, 12:30 in the morning may not have been the opportune time to have a backup singer cover Sarah McLachlan's "Angel", before turning an extended version of "Come Together" into an anti-war screed. Mind you, this was before he did "Purple Rain", which might still be going on to this moment. But all of that is merely bitchery when you consider that we'll likely never see his likes again; the only thing keeping my aching feet off my mind was the comfort in knowing that I was among the ten of thousands of luckiest music fans in America.

And, oh, you may have heard, but he played "Creep". During one of the many interludes Prince took between particularly lengthy workouts, there was an arpeggiated chord progression that sounded familiar, but just a bit…off. But all of a sudden, "When you were here before…" You looked at the person to your right in confusion. "Couldn't look you in the eye." And then to the left as you were starting to realize what the fuck was happening. --Ian Cohen

SUNDAY, APRIL 27

Linton Kwesi Johnson [Gobi; 1:25 p.m.]

Jamaican emigrant, English resident, and heralded dub poet Linton Kwesi Johnson was an anomaly amongst Coachella performers. Reading from selected pieces from the 1970s-90s, he stood alone on stage, with only his book, The Revalueshanary Fren-- spelled phonetically in the same Jamaican patois with which he writes and delivers poems dealing with racism and injustice. Rather than putting his words over music, Johnson's voice offered the only rhythm, and with it, enormous power. His set was short, 10 minutes so, because he said, "Poetry is like medicine; it should be taken in small doses." Like much of what Johnson said, there's truth to that. --Joe Crosby

Annuals [Mojave; 1:45 p.m.]

You'd be hard pressed to find bigger fans of Be He Me than myself, but it's obvious that Annuals are at a crossroads right now. That "let's have three guys play drums at the same time" thing? Yeah, that's not so hip now that even Rogue Wave are doing it. But maybe it's the liberation of playing Sunday's opening slot or a result of an artistic about-face, but Annuals challenged the audience, focusing on new material from their upcoming major-label debut. If this set was any indication, it will less long-winded and more urgent. -- Ian Cohen

Holy Fuck [Gobi; 2:50 p.m.]

Two sound machines/keyboards set against a drum set and bass, Holy Fuck might be the hardest working band I saw. And by hardest working, I mean constantly moving, tinkering, and finding objects in their boards to make sounds. In fact, while the music is enjoyable, the real show is iwatching them work. Sampling half the set from the front and half from the back of the tent, I'm not sure how those at a distance digested the whole show. It's not nearly as much fun. The majority of the performance was like a freight train trying to climb a hill, chugging along, with unbothered passengers simply enjoying the scenery. Holy Fuck's last two songs were that same train screaming downhill, and the audience finally started grooving. --Joe Crosby

Swervedriver [Mojave; 5:05 p.m.]

Remember what I said about having to opt for either MGMT or Cold War Kids the other day? We should've been so lucky on Sunday; with the cancellation of the Field because dude is a fanatical terrorist or something, there were about two hours that was almost completely barren. That said, it was refreshing to see Swervedriver try to give 1990s psychedelic/shoegaze a better look than the Verve did. Several diehards held court to hear the balance of Swervedriver's limited but well-proportioned discography. These cats look oooolllld. Had they copped that Nordic pirate look of, say, Serena-Maneesh, they could be the next new something, but as they stand right now, they're the could've beens-- not that it makes those stun-gun guitars of Mezcal Head sound any less awesome. -- Ian Cohen

Gogol Bordello [Coachella; 5:30 p.m.]

This hodgepodge of ethnicities and their infectious energy won over the festival from the main stage. Donning purple-and-black-striped half-calf tights, Eugene Hutz and his acoustic guitar slapping (think Les Claypool's hands, but on a six-string) and waving arms summoned the crowd-- which quadrupled in size by the set's fourth song. Festivalgoers were literally running toward the stage.

Representing nine countries and a circus of instruments (Hutz plays a fucking fire bucket for chrissakes), Gogol Bordello's sound is what happens when someone drops acid into your borscht. Two female stage performers appeared in full lycra, acting out some sort of death scene as set pieces. The stage performers exited, only to return in new lycra, one carrying cymbals, the other a marching bass drum, while Ecuadoran percussionist Pedro Erazo scrambled from one end of the stage to the next in a lucha libre mask. With that, Hutz lifted a bottle of red wine, thrusting it into the air with each chant as the liquid splashed down his sinewy forearm. He must've left the turkey leg backstage. And as the gypsy punk roared to a close, Hutz provided the crowded with his middle finger, and said, "Fuck you, we don't give up!" It was the only clearly understandable line of the set, but no mind: It's a remarkable achievement to spew lyrics hardly anyone can understand, and still leave them wanting more. -- Joe Crosby

Spiritualized [Mojave; 6:20 p.m.]

Look, Coachella-- I don't know who was in charge of the sound at the Mojave Tent but please advise them that even in this depressed economy, UPS is still likely to be hiring. It's one thing to have early troubles trying to work with Jens Lekman's mini-orchestra, and fuck, I guess we should be lucky to have heard any Animal Collective at all. But the god Jason Pierce was in such a simple set-up: an acoustic guitar, face-to-face with an electric piano, surrounding by a group of vocalists and strings. So how are you gonna get as much feedback during the first five minutes of his set as we did during the entirety of Swervedriver? I hadn't immeresed myself in Songs in A&E prior to the show, and I still don't know what it sounds like-- the delicacy of the songs were bloodstained by Spaceman J having to damn near fingerpick so that his strums didn't augur a chorus of wailing drones. Well, there's always Pitchfork Fest. --Ian Cohen

My Morning Jacket [ft. M. Ward] [Coachella; 7 p.m.]

Let's remove Roger Waters and Prince from this conversation, because they're in a different league-- superstars with decades behind them. So, if we pretend for a moment that they don't exist, then My Morning Jacket performed hands down my favorite set of the festival. In the studio, My Morning Jacket craft good music, but what you're not hearing enough of on those albums is what makes them so unfuckingbelievable live-- the music. Because singer Jim James' voice is so high and crisp that it dominates their records; but live, that instrument you hear lingering just beneath his voice explodes right there with it.

James avoids tagging the band with a genre, being the wonderful weirdo that he is (he was wearing white-strapped moon boots and a scarf on stage): They're funk and honky and blues and metal and vintage and progressive riding this submerged wave of disco. And live, they jam, bringing their music to the brink, probing and testing the limits of their instruments until James' voice hums out over the crowd and lassos them back down to Earth. Maybe you have to wear moon boots to do a thing like that. --Joe Crosby

Roger Waters [Coachella; 8:30 p.m.]

Anyone who hasn't heard Roger Waters live is bound to be skeptical of his performance. But skepticism can be an ignorant, judgmental little bastard. Waters' first set was about what you'd expect-- a few Floyd songs, a sales-pitchy intro into one of his originals, all merely pretty good. The second set, however, is The Dark Side of the Moon, in full, in order. The David Gilmour and Rick Wright substitutes were carbon copies vocally, and the bevy of soul singers, crooning violinist, just-right guitar solos, and Waters' mind-bending bass created the psychedelic atmosphere you thought died decades ago. The music didn't create that world on its own: A three-story-tall inflatable astronaut walked above the stage, and the building-sized Coachella pig sluggishly floated 100 feet above the crowd: "Fear Builds Walls", it read across its belly, and it circled once before drifting off into oblivion. (Safe return of the pig will net you $10k and four tickets to Coachella for life. Email lostpig@coachella.com. Seriously.)

Ten-story-high pyrotechnics-- hell, they were battle torches from Brobdingnag-- shot off, warming even the farthest reaches of the festival. A purple prism, 30 feet high, maybe more, rose at the top of the stage scaffolding, and a refracted light beam from the album's iconic cover cut its rainbow laser across a heavy canopy of smoke, twisting and turning in purples and greens and yellows in its wake. And if two one-hour sets and enough imagery to leave your dreams haunted for days beyond hadn't satisfied Floyd fans, the army of 12, count 'em, 12, musicians and singers came on stage for a three-song encore that began with "Another Brick in the Wall Part 2". --Joe Crosby

Murs [Mojave; 9 p.m.]

Here's an idea for an upcoming article for The Onion: "Rap Pushed Back to 2009." Yeah, Murs may have boasted that his long-delayed LP Murs for President would be out by the end of the summer, but if you believe that, I have label-approved copies of Detox, Tha Carter III, and that David Banner record I'd have no problem selling to you for about 30 euros a pop.

And yet, Murs still went far and beyond the call of duty, like he was obligated to pull off a superstar show. He donned three outfits-- Kawasaki motorbike enthusiast, khaki suit playboy, West coast legend—and brought out Living Legends for a lived-in and warmhearted coda. Halfway through his set, he also introduced the Jacksonville punk group Whole Wheat Bread, which got the teens in front of me doing a sort of skankin'/arm-flailing mosh hybrid like this was a Goldfinger show—especially during a surprisingly quality cover of "It Takes Two". --Ian Cohen

Black Mountain [Mojave; 10:15 p.m.]

"I guess this one's for the blazers." Such went the introduction to "Druganaut", as if any explanation was needed. Despite taking place after My Morning Jacket and during the last half of Roger Waters' set, there were still plenty of herbal diehards packing the Mojave tent for Black Mountain-- like 75% of the crowd yelled with approval when asked who was planning on camping out. Despite starting their set with "Stormy High", the sound (shoddy again in the Mojave tent) was all about muddy lows and Matt Camirand's basslines weren't so much hypnotic as they were narcotic; if only they had Aphex Twin's lasers, perhaps we could've been the beneficiaries of some particularly righteous vision quests, but unfortunately, and perhaps predictably, two-thirds of the way through, even the most intrepid smokers moved west toward the Sahara tent for Justice. --Ian Cohen

Justice [Sahara; 11 p.m.]

Okay, so this whole blog house thing is in dire danger of wearing itself out, particularly in light of all the adverts and energy drinks and such and such. But provided Justice don't go all acoustic on their next record-- or at the very least do a Human After All-- they'll get the first phone call to close out Coachella for the next few years. And why not? Even after a long weekend of music, the Sahara tent was still dangerously rowdy and overcrowded through Justice's set-- regardless of whether or not some of the more homebody types had to D.R.I.V.E. home that night. All things told, even if you're tiring of digital-distortion clipping, playground chanting, or Uffie, Justice are pretty much the posterboys for this strain of late-2000s indie-tinged electronic music-- for kids with the proclivity to dance, sneer, and possibly, annoyingly play it off as a joke all at once. --Ian Cohen