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...

Feast your eyes on 'em here.

Prince: Sexy vegan MF, fixin' to steal Jack Johnson's thunder. Srsly.

This just in: Prince will leave his lavish Minneapolis lair to headline the second night of the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival (as nobody calls it).

The veteran funk-soul-R&B guitarist/vocalist agreed to participate in the massively popular fest only after torturous negotiations with Mother Nature to keep the temperature below 80º. This is understandable, as Prince's scorching guitar solos would likely set fire to the Empire Polo Field under normal Indio, California circumstances.

Here's hoping the Purple One can coax Kraftwerk to come up and spontaneously jam with him on "Numbers."

Via Coachella.com:

FRIDAY, APRIL 25: Jack Johnson, The Verve, Raconteurs, The Breeders, Fatboy Slim, Tegan and Sara, Madness, The Swell Season, The National, Animal Collective, Slightly Stoopid, Mum, Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings, Stars, Battles, Aesop Rock, Midnight Juggernauts, Does it Offend you, Yeah?, Minus the Bear, Spank Rock, dan le sac Vs Scroobius Pip, Diplo, Adam Freeland, Santo Gold, Jens Lekman, John Butler Trio, Vampire Weekend, Dan Deacon, Architecture in Helsinki, Sandra Collins, Busy P, Cut Copy, Black Lips, Datarock, Professor Murder, Reverend and the Makers, The Bees, Porter, Rogue Wave, Modeselektor, American Bang, Lucky I Am.

SATURDAY, APRIL 26: Portishead, Kraftwerk, Death Cab for Cutie, Cafe Tacuba, Sasha & Digweed, Rilo Kiley, Dwight Yoakam, M.I.A., Hot Chip, Cold War Kids, Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks, DeVotchKa, Flogging Molly, Mark Ronson, Turbonegro, Scars on Broadway, Islands, Enter Shikari, Calvin Harris, Boyz Noize, Junkie XL, Cinematic Orchestra, Jamie T, The Teenagers, VHS or Beta, Carbon/silicon, Erol Alkan, Yo Majesty!, Little Brother, Bonde Do Role, St. Vincent, Akron Family, MGMT, Institubes DJs (Surkin, Para One and Orgasmic), James Zabiela, Sebastian, Kavinsky, Dredg, The Bird and the Bee, Grand Ole Party, New Young Pony Club, 120 Days, Yoav, Electric Touch, Uffie

SUNDAY, APRIL 27: Roger Waters (“Dark Side of the Moon”), Love & Rockets, My Morning Jacket, Spiritualized, Justice, Gogol Bordello, Chromeo, The Streets, Metric, Danny Tenaglia, Simian Mobile Disco, Booka Shade, Murs, Dmitri from Paris, Autolux, The Field, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Les Savy Fav, The Cool Kids, Sons & Daughters, Sia, Holy Fuck, Black Kids, Black Mountain, The Annuals, Kid Sister w/A-Trak, Man Man, Duffy, I'm from Barcelona, Manchester Orchestra, Deadmau5, The Horrors, Austin TV, Shout Out Louds, Plastiscines, Brett Dennen

Seriously. Playing Dark Side of the Moon, according to the LA Times.

Also: Death Cab, Breeders, M.I.A., Love & Rockets (woo-hoo!), Cafe Tacuba, Kraftwerk, Raconteurs....you'll know more when we do, but you can probably hit up the Coachella website and find out sooner....

That's the word coming from a story in today's LA Times. Confirmed: My Morning Jacket, Rilo Kiley (who've never been as good as they were the night I saw them years ago at Chain Reaction--so long ago, the Weekly archives don't go back that far!), Jack Johnson, the Raconteurs, the Verve (of "Bittersweet Symphony" fame? Really? Who took their one hit and laughably thought they could sell out the then-Arrowhead Pond with it back in 1998? I know, I was there.)

But it's weird. The lineup will be announced at a news conference in Mexico City, and it's not even the main story--that title goes to a concurrent announcement about a Coachella-esque New Jersey fest being put together by Paul Tollett & co. Radiohead is apparently confirmed for that, but we'll all know more about all this sometime later today. We think.

Around this time every year, fantastical rumors concerning the Coachella line-up begin to simmer. Last year's big "what ifs" were the Police, the Smiths—but then again, that's every year—and Rage Against the Machine. Sometimes the delusions and pipe dreams end up being the truth. Usually they don't.

And every year, almost as if by tradition, faux Coachella fliers are whipped up by some dudes who hang out on the internet message boards for way too long. These are the first two I've seen circulating the blogs and I'd say that some of the headliners seem to be pretty likely—My Bloody Valentine and Radiohead in particular. And maybe No Doubt (why not?). Take a look for yourself after the jump.