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.

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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!

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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.

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