University of California Irvine's radio station, KUCI 88.9FM, is in the midst of its annual fund drive (it runs through May 10). This student/volunteer-run, listener-supported source of unconventionally excellent music and commentary won the Weekly's Best Radio Station last year. Here's what we said about it:

KUCI... really has no competition on OC airwaves. For its diversity of programming, desire to broadcast music that doesn’t even get considered by 99.7 percent of its competitors, and, uh, let’s say idiosyncratic on-air personalities, KUCI towers over its rivals. The station’s DJs may not have the smoothest, most well-modulated deliveries nor always stay on message, and they occasionally allow some DEAD AIR, but they’re certainly passionate about the music they’re playing or the issues they’re discussing, and it makes a helluva difference if you’ve had it up to hear with cookie-cutter corporate radio.

Eclecticism and obscurity are most college radio stations’ lifeblood, and this applies to KUCI. A scan through the schedule reveals shows devoted to left-field global music, jazz, reggae, blues, hip-hop, girl bands, Latin, various underground beat-centric styles, electronic music, local punk rock, underground metal, witty unconventional news commentary, progressive public affairs, tons of rock in its myriad styles, and much more. You may not like everything KUCI airs, but if you possess an open mind and a three-digit IQ, you’ll enjoy a lot of it. If nothing else, you have to admire the sheer unpredictability of the whole enterprise in a medium dominated by companies where the bean counters declared decisive victory decades ago.

To make a tax-deductible donation, you can call 949.824.5824 or go to KUCI's site. Premiums are available for contributions $35 and up.

HARD—a nü-rave extravaganza held in downtown Los Angeles—will take place July 19 at the Shrine Expo Hall. Tix go on sale May 5 at all Ticketbastard locations and here. The event's sponsored by Nitrus, Dim Mak Records, and Dance Right, with help from MySpace.com and URB magazine.

HARD debuted on New Year's Eve 2007; if you remember it, you probably weren't there. N*E*R*D and MSTRKRFT will be headlining the summer edition of HARD (only artists using all caps qualify for such lofty slots). It should be a night (and morning) of deeply spiritual booger-sugar intake.

Here are a couple of videos to whet your appetite.

N*E*R*D's “Everyone Nose”

MSTRKRFT'S “She's Good for Business”

Full press release after the jump.

For the many people who purchased music from the now-defunct MSN Music store, this summer would be a good time to clean out your files. You didn’t really want to keep all those songs you bought, did you?

After the launch of the company’s Zune Marketplace in late 2006, Microsoft decided to ditch the old store and as of August 31, 2008, they will be shutting off the MSN Music licence servers.

So what exactly does this mean for all those music files that were legally downloaded and paid for?
Well, if you FOREVER COMMIT to a computer by the aforementioned date, NEVER buy a new computer and NEVER upgrade your OS then you can keep all that music.

If you do decide to upgrade? Tough shit, the files wont transfer properly.

As quoted in an Ars Technica article:

“...this technicality is not rooted in reality — the authorizations will now expire when the computer does, for whatever reason.

Of course, MSN Music customers do have one other option: burning all of their music to audio CD and then re-ripping them back to the computer as MP3s, sans DRM. But that’s a lossy, lousy solution.”

To commemorate Portishead's world-beating performance at Coachella Saturday, this edition of Video Savant focuses on “Machine Gun,” a track off Third, which comes out today.

“Machine Gun” is unlike anything in Portishead's canon, which is indicative of most of Third; all reports point to a reinvention of the group's sound, although I've yet to hear the whole album. The staccato bursts of distorted and martial drums (the titular weapon, it's safe to assume) evoke Nine Inch Nails and Tackhead, while an eerie analog synth (mimicking a forlorn Theremin groan) underscores Beth Gibbons' plaintive, curdled-whipped-cream vocals about AWOL saviors and the poison in her heart. Whereas previous Portishead releases have become coffeehouse standards, “Machine Gun” is more suitable for the battlefield or the abattoir.

Dig the blue-light starkness of this clip. Everything appears to be suffused in a Cold War-era bleakness. The massive Moog and/or Buchla synthesizers only add to the poignant, long-ago aura of this video. But Portishead avoid corny nostalgia and create a gripping work of art (which sounded great on the Coachella main stage, too).

There aren't too many guys in recent years that had as big of an impact on the Orange County punk scene as Mike Conley, ex M.I.A. front man and owner of Avalon Bar in Costa Mesa. Given that statement, I should have been more prepared for the overwhelmingly packed scene that awaited me behind the entrance curtain at the House of Blues.

The night was a celebration of the life and times of a man that was taken from us far too early. In support of Mike Conley's family, Orange County punk fans were blessed to share a loud, sweaty night with friends of Conley the likes of Naked Soul, Jigsaw, Cadillac Tramps, Kevin Seconds, Social Distortion and everyone's favorite lisping punk rock provacateur Jello Biafra.

A gathering of fans new and old swarmed every crack of the venue. Above the hooting and hollering at the bar, the fuzzy washed out 80's footage of Conley raging on stage with M.I.A. back in the good ol' days put a smile of the faces of some old punks long enough to make them ignore the beer in their hands for a few minutes.

The show started with a bang from crowd pleasing sets by the tribute to Naked Soul as well as Jigsaw, who got the crowd plenty riled up as they took turns thrashing and wailing on beautifully dissonant chords.

With an electric mix of humor, and OG swagger, The Cadillac Tramps were next to take the stage in honor of Conley. Psychobilly girls and boys crammed the front barricades as Mike "Gabby" Gaborno played with the crowd and rallied the band to deliver the kind of kick-ass old school swingin' punk that the Tramps do best. They were joined on stage by Johnny Wickersham of Social Distortion who added some great guitar licks to songs like "Bone Dry" and plenty of their great cataloge from the 90s. A personal highlight for me was when Gaborno unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out some fat that appeared to have a smiley face with X'ed out eyes tattooed on it. Very sexy.

As Cadillac Tramps exited the stage, I sat near the bar and got to hear a few guys talking about going to M.I.A. shows and meeting Conley and what a nice guy he was. Every story that came and went made me even more disappointed that I never got the chance to meet him.

Finally, the curtain opened up on Social Distortion and the packed crowd went wild. They performed an acoustic set, which ignited a sing-along that nearly shook the building. As he strummed his guitar, Mike Ness stayed cool and calm, almost somber as he and the band gave us anthems like "Ball and Chain," "Story of My Life" and "Ring of Fire."

The show was closed out by a sweaty performance by Conley's former band mates, the remaining members of M.I.A. The mosh pit behind the barricade picked up speed as the band fired out tunes like "Shadows in My Life" and "You Should Know Me." At one point it looked like a washing machine on spin cycle filled with sweaty clothes. And fellow punk icon, Kevin Seconds, joined the band on stage to deliver vocals on a few songs with them.

As if the long list of respected names on stage couldn't get any longer, the crowd really lost it when Dead Kennedys singer Jello Biafra trampled the stage sporting his signature grimace. I don't know if he'll ever read this, but I want to thank Jello for sweating on me so profusely during "California Uber Alles," "Let's Lynch the Landlord" and the awesome M.I.A. tune "Murder in a Foreign Place."

Though he's gained a few pounds since his heyday, let me be the first to attest to the fact that Biafra's still got some hops for on older guy. At one point he jumped into the crowd with the grace of a swan. As fans mobbed him in the crowd, the vibe of a true punk show was all around. That's a pretty impressive feat at a venue inside the House of Mouse. I've got to believe that somewhere in the building the spirit of Conley was watching the whole scene with a big smile.

Hopefully the Conley family was pleased to see such a big turnout. All told, the Beautiful Noise Benefit concert earned $33,231. But even the dollar sign couldn't match the amount of love and admiration that came spilling out of the audience that night for one of OC's fallen heroes.

Every other blog is posting it, so why can't we?

Prince covers "Creep" at Coachella, people clap.

Hurry and view it before Prince's ultra-vigilant people tear it down from the internetz.

Holy Fuck: Holy fuck! Awesome Canucks!

Coachella dealt me a TKO, so I missed Sunday. Ouch. Beware the undercooked brown rice... or something.

Sadly, my illness prevented me from witnessing Holy Fuck, Swervedriver, Spiritualized, Justice, Modeselektor, Booka Shade, Black Mountain, Deadmau5, Linton Kwesi Johnson, and the unforgettable sight of thousands of near-naked humans texting in the blazing sun. (Huge sigh.)

To remedy this void, please check out our sister paper LA Weekly's Day 3 coverage and a few of OC Weekly photographer Christopher Victorio's pics. More of Christopher's shots will be coming soon to the Coachella blog posts.

Roger Waters: Floydian rip

Justice: The other Daft Punk

Duffy: Reminiscent of Dusty (Springfield)

Recovering from yesterday’s illness forced me to miss 120 Days, MGMT, Little Brother and Boys Noize. Bah.

But I arrived in time to see some Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks. Their loose rock jams slash sea shanties were adorned with much proggy filigree. It was nice big-sky music for a big-sky setting. “It’s time to go fucking Jack Johnson on your ass,” Malkmus announced later, strapping on an acoustic. That was my cue to bolt.

I strode over to the Sahara tent to catch Erol Alkan spinning ravenously raunchy electro with XXX bass textures. Man, the DJs at Coachella have been really bringing their A games. With an hour to dazzle the masses, there really is little time for filler. Everyone realizes that a stellar job here could mean big bookings for the future. So everybody wins.

Next I grabbed some dinner and had the misfortune to experience the awful aural trainwreck that occurs when seated between Dwight Yoakam’s adequate country rock at the Outdoor Theater and the massive percussion structure/sculpture called Parabola. The latter is like something out of a magnificent Harry Partch dream: several makeshift gongs, xylophones, metal poles, and drums of all shapes and sizes, on which Coachella attendees are free to unleash their inner Mickey Harts or Tony Allens. The chaotic yet still somewhat coherent rhythm never ceased rolling and tumbling during festival hours. This was a great idea, but it led to some horrendous contrasts in sound, like the one outlined above.

Time for Hot Chip. Wow—the Sahara tent was overrun with fans. This was one of the most clustery of clusterfucks. Hot Chip have gotten really popular in the last year (they played here in 2007, but not to this size of a crowd. In a nutshell, Hot Chip have become probably the preeminent live, song-based electronic band in the world. Their melodic and rhythmic gifts have coalesced into a well-oiled pleasure machine. “Over and Over” has become their anthem and manifesto (“The joy of repetition really is in you”). Not bad for some pasty, self-deprecating Brits with flat voices.

Over at the Gobi tent, fellow Englishmen Cinematic Orchestra engaged in some mellow, meandering soul jazz. Last time I saw CO (at South by Southwest in 2000), they evoked Sun Ra’s artful, freeform freakouts. Now they’re more refined and restrained—more coffee table than outer space. But it’s still good for what it is.

But for this observer, all of this has been merely a prelude for the mighty Kraftwerk. Still vital nearly 40 years after their inception, the German quartet maintained the same setup that they fielded in their last N. American tour: four dignified, business-suited members standing stock-still in a line behind laptops and synths while vibrant images of bicyclists, trains, autobahns, robots, words, geometric shapes, etc. flicker behind their motionless forms. “Man-Machine” started things splendidly, the beats and bleeps cutting through the fetid desert air like ice picks. Lyrics got run through a device that makes everything sound like Stephen Hawking with emphysema. It’s the opposite of what’s commonly thought of as “soul,” but it’s ideal for Kraftwerk’s precise cyborg boogie.

Kraftwerk’s set traversed many of their classics and best songs: “Trans-Europe Express,” “Autobahn,” “We Are the Robots,” “Radioactivity,” “Computer Love,” “Numbers,” “Computer World,” “Tour de France.” Even the newer cuts like “Vitamin” and “Planet of Visions” sounded brilliant and vital.

I expected Kraftwerk to close with “Pocket Calculator,” but instead we got “Boing Boom Tschak” merged with “Musique Non Stop.” That’s Kraftwerk’s patented sly humor there, ending the show with a song called “Musique Non Stop.” Also funny is the fact that old gents who look like bankers are some of the funkiest mofos on the planet.

After Kraftwerk, I had about 20 minutes to dash over to catch a little of Animal Collective and M.I.A.’s performances before returning to the main stage for Portishead, the act whom I’m most excited to see. Animal Collective, to grossly generalize: the Beach Boys in dub and on DMT—in a cave. Yeah, that good. The M.I.A. situation was another clusterfuck. In the three minutes I hovered outside the Sahara tent, I heard lots of simulated gunshots, airhorns and finally some of "World Town.” M.I.A. had on a flattering platinum-blonde wig and a flashy mini-dress. But Portishead beckoned…

Portishead had to be the most anticipated set of Coachella—Prince notwithstanding. And they killed it. Their drummer, Clive Deamer, was powerful and nuanced, and Geoff Barrow augmented him well with passionate percussion and an expressive array of scratches. Adrian Utley added resonant, haunting guitar hues throughout. Beth Gibbons conveyed her trademark noirish diva drama with modulated mastery. She even got Patti Smith on us during one new quiet-stormy track (“Threads”). Portishead wove new cuts (the stark, martial “Machine Gun” and the krautrockin’ “The Rip” were particularly striking) in with the old favorites (“Wandering Star” was transformed into a beatless wonder of understated tension and heartbreak). Talking to many spectators later, I discovered that Portishead were the highlight of this year's Coachella.

Prince, you may be shocked to learn, came on 25 minutes late. When he finally graced the stage, he shouted, “Coachella! I am here! Where are you?!” Then, “You are in the coolest place on earth right now!” Few would argue his point.

He and his band were decked out in classy white and dove-gray suits. Holy shit, the Purple One’s old mate Morris Day’s on stage and they start the set with the Time’s “The Bird” and “Jungle Love.” And what’s this? Sheila E? “The Glamorous Life”? Yes, yes it is.

But… the sound is muted. How can this be? Portishead sounded firmament-fillingly large. Why would Prince sound muffled? Who’s working sound here? Some shlub from a Palm Springs dive bar?

Anyway, Prince and co. gamely tore through “1999,” “Controversy,” “Little Red Corvette,” “Cream,” “U Got the Look,” and other gems from his bulging back catalog, adding jammy, jazzy flourishes when they felt like it. But their impact was diminished by the mystifyingly low volume and lack of clarity. You’d think a notorious control freak like Prince (no photos allowed, supposedly, but our Christopher Victorio and others somehow circumvented the vaunted Prince security staff) would demand the best sound quality in the history of the universe for a concert like this. But no.

However, a triumvirate of covers at set’s end raised spirits, as Prince Prince-fied Sarah McLachlan’s “The Arms of an Angel” (performed by his backing vocalists), Radiohead’s “Creep,” and the Beatles’ “Come Together.” The night climaxed somewhat predictably with “Purple Rain” and “Let’s Go Crazy.” After that, a massive traffic jam in the Empire Polo Field’s parking lot ensued, despite many punters leaving before “Cream” had even concluded before midnight.

Clearly, some sort of temporary mass transit system needs to be implemented in Indio during Coachella. If nothing else, it would reduce the monstrous carbon footprint the fest leaves every April. I’m thinking a shuttle bus system in which the vehicles run on vegetable oil and recycled Greenpeace leaflets. Anything has to be better than the mollusk-paced crawl and vast plumes of exhaust that transpire when approaching and departing Coachella.

Newsflash: Vampire Weekend—currently one of the most hyped bands in the universe—are merely pleasant, lilting pop with light dustings of African high-life sweetener. They make Remain in Light-era Talking Heads sound like Fela Kuti. Wheedly, jangly guitar dominates Vampire Weekend's sound and one song has a particularly constipated skank rhythm to it. They played some new songs that will probably be on the next album. Very few non-whites were spectating. I still dont know what all the fuss is about, but I do know that Remain in Light is way more interesting than anything VW can muster right now.

Peripatetic DJ Diplo had two huge phallic, red, inflatable "dancers" on either side of his setup, but they were not really necessary. Whatever the level beyond full-on party mode is, that's where Diplo's selections were. A dirty-disco version of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit," Daft Punks "Harder, Faster, Better, Stronger" (with the word work repeated over and over), a track with the third-greatest break ever (Lyn Collins' "Think [About It]"), Federic Franchi's "Cream," the Prodigy's "Smack My Bitch Up" segued into Plastkman's "Spastik." It was pretty much all fire and the crowd ate it up. Near the end of his set, he dropped M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes" and the Sri Lankan songbird came onstage to sing along with her recorded self—the fringe benefit of being ex-lovers, perhaps? Nice to see they're still on good terms.

Aphex Twin's DJ set started with a beautifully resonant drone—the polar opposite tack of Diplo, whom he followed on the Sahara stage. A surprising transition to Public Enemy's "Welcome to the Terrordome" followed, before a long stretch of obscure psychedelic dance cuts stream by. "Why is no one dancing?'" a guy behind me asked. Nobody answered, but more people start dancing when Aphex broke into some very intricate drum & bass full of serpentine convolutions and then even more got busy when the redheaded Brit shifted into some hardcore jungle from the '90s. When the jungle took a turn for the weirder, four costumed dancers (panda, dalmatian, gorilla, another dog) joined Aphex, lending some levity to what had been a pretty serious performance (Aphex sits when he DJs, so all you can see is his disembodied head).

The Verve started strong with rock epics like "This Is Music" and "Space and Time," but soon devolved into bloated blandness. I didn't hear anything pre-A Northern Soul. Boo.

Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings' typically storming retro-soul revue was marred by Pendulum's live drum & bass shenanigans over in the next tent. A damned shame.

Spank Rock started with a party-rockin' DJ set that mirrored Diplo's, but their live segment suffered due to front man Naeem Juwan's absence (he was ill). But a short-short-wearing Amanda Blank and a couple of female rappers gamely tried to fill the void with some foul-mouthed flow that could make Peaches curdle. The energy level was high and the songs punchy and endearing.

Black Lips gouged out some raucous, tuneful garage rock with both glee and a dangerous edge. They somehow make 40-year-old tropes sound evergreen where many others who attempt them sound complacent and dull. "Thank you for not going to see Jack Johnson," singer Cole Alexander sincerely quipped between songs.

Black Lips' shaggy charm easily outshone Jack Johnson's beyond-vanilla rock. (Shocking revelation!) I tried to give Johnson a chance, but he was unbelievably flavorless. His shot at reggae rock made the Police sound like Toots & the Maytals.

So I bounced out of the festival only to struggle for 90 minutes to get out of the Empire Polo Field's parking lot. As if I hadn't suffered enough from Jack Johnson, then came this indignity. I write this in a state of nausea. I blame either JJ or the dodgy vegan egg rolls...

Rilo Kiley on April 24, 2008 at The Glass House
By Gabriel Ryan

Better Than: Driving all the way to Coachella and sweating your ass off.

Download: Rilo Kiley's With Arms Outstretched

I think last night was one of the most interesting Rilo Kiley shows I've ever attended. For one, the crowd was antsy because of technical difficulties throughout the set, and two, I don’t think half of the audience knew any of the songs played other than what was on the new album. The night started off with the crowd packed in like sardines and then by a half-hour into the set, you could see the crowd slowly diminishing. Probably, because they just played their most “popular” songs off of Under The Blacklight.

Despite the flaky crowd, Jenny Lewis’ voice was spot on. With slower renditions of their older songs, she belted out the tunes like it was her last show ever—which it definitely wasn’t because the band is playing Coachella this Saturday. Perhaps Coachella is to blame for the lack of crowd participation, perhaps not. But a lot of people could be heard dreading the long trip to the desert, which many of them were traveling to after the show.

To add to the interesting evening, there were a lot of perverts in the crowd. Perverts, everywhere I tell you. One example of the night being a middle-aged man who loudly described sexual acts that he’d like to perform on Jenny Lewis, and the amount of magazines he’d already ruined containing her picture. He spoke with such passion, like he was giving a retirement speech. When I turned around to glare at him, he looked at me as if I was dying to join his conversation and says to me, “You know what I mean… right?”

Actually, no sir. I don’t. I prefer Blake Sennett myself…

Critic's Notebook

Personal Bias: I am a huge Rilo Kiley fan. I would go to their show even if they were covering Britney Spears and Hannah Montana songs with a kazoo.

Random Detail: One complaint about last night. . . fucking under-aged kids and their cell phones! Why must you talk on your cell phone in the middle of the show? Text your little hearts out, but take the conversation outside.

By The Way: View pictures of the performance here.