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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Chris Lee

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

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

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

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

– August Brown

Photo by Spencer Weiner / Los Angeles Times

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

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

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

– August Brown

Photo: Cafe Tacuba by Steve C. Mitchell / EPA

The Sahara tent is back on the map for Coachella’s indie rockers. This year, more than in years past, the tent has been overflowing with curious Silverlake types hellbent on catching buzzing electro acts.

Berlin’s Boys Noize (Alex Ridha) is perhaps the perfect example of a dance artist it’s suddenly OK for rock fans to like. Although Ridha himself makes minimal techno devoid of cliches for the club scene in Germany, his songs have been resonating big time with rock fans in the U.S. lately — largely because of similar-sounding artists on Paris’ Ed Banger records.

But Ridha’s set Saturday proved he is no Ed Banger imitator. He expertly mixed together tracks from his stellar 2007 release “Oi Oi Oi” as if he were in his bedroom, causing the burgeoning crowd to pump their fists in time with the music. This is electro to bang your head to — and word is out that Ridha’s brand of dissonant, minimal techno (which sometimes veers into house territory) is the most exciting in dance music right now.

Highlights of his set included a sick reworking of the opening synth line from the Prodigy’s “Breathe” (Ridha smoothly switching up the pitch of the track and adding, then removing, his own drum lines, all the while showing remarkable restraint) and his own “Lava Lava.”

The Berliner ended his set (which stretched over his allotted time) with his take on Feist’s “My Moon, My Man,” leaving the crowd wanting more. Was Boys Noize the best Sahara dance tent act of the fest? Fan reaction at the end seems to suggest Ridha is onto something very big indeed.

– Charlie Amter

Photo: Paul Butterfield / Getty Images

I don’t know who listened to my silent prayers for better vegan options at Coachella this year, but the days of subsisting for a weekend off hockey-puck falafels are apparently over. There’s a dope organic sandwich stand by the entrance called Green Leaf that makes a mean tempeh wrap and an Indian joint by the Outdoor Stage called Bombay Station that has the single best plate of festival food I’ve had in Indio: coconut rice with dal and tomato-pea curry. I, for one, appreciate Coachella finally acknowledging the considerable filthy hippie demographic in its culinary planning.

– August Brown

The sweltering crowd that braved triple-digit temperatures for the 4 p.m. set at the main stage on Saturday at Coachella could have used a cold front along with the Cold War Kids, but somehow the heat was fitting for the Long Beach-based quartet’s sometimes-swampy, always-clattery blues.

The indie favorites emerged from the L.A. scene in 2006 with a reputation for steamy club gigs and road-tested intensity. The heat Saturday demanded every ounce of frontman Nathan Willett’s caterwaul, as he and mates Matt Maust, Jonnie Bo Russell and Matt Aveiro worked themselves into a red-faced frenzy. Their largely spare arrangements and frenetic percussion proved too daunting for the mix at times, but tales of woe such as “Hospital Beds,” “We Used to Vacation” and “Hang Me Up to Dry” still came off as boozy and forlorn, even in the harsh sunlight.

The foursome has been working on a follow-up to 2006’s “Robbers & Cowards,” and showcased at least four of the new tunes, a couple of which seemed to slow the set to a crawl. But maybe it was the lack of a breeze.

– Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

Now that’s commitment — the four aesthetes in DeVotchKa, the most refined of today’s world music mash-up bands, came onstage in the 3 p.m. heat attired almost entirely in black. Jeanie Schroder, the fetching upright bass and sousaphone player, wore a tango dress and a jacket with quarter-length sleeves and elaborate red ruffles. As guys in cargo shorts gathered before them, they seemed more ready for an audience with members of the Corleone clan. But soon enough, women were flamenco dancing at their feet.

DeVotchKa doesn’t have the party-hearty energy that friendly rivals Gogol Bordello will bring to the mainstage tomorrow; with roots in art music and burlesque, they’re more studied and, in some ways, more theatrical. The planned highlight of this set came when giant red and black strips of cloth unfurled and were ascended by the Slavic Sisters, acrobats who often perform with the band. They twirled and hung upside down and DeVotchKa’s singer-songwriter, Nick Urata, played a theremin and sang in his gorgeous high tenor. It was, of course, spectacular.

But the band really won over the mid-size crowd with its evocative B-movie jams. Tom Hagerman will probably be the only player this year to inspire thoughts of Paganini with devilish violin work. Shawn King’s drumming was sharp but never overbearing; he often let Schroder’s tuba determine the beat.

And Urata, though not a pushy frontman (he barely spoke, only pausing to swig from a wine bottle), has more style than a tent full of track-shorts-wearing Coachella trendoids. In a tux shirt and shades, he inhabited the noirish character he plays in his songs, crooning about ladies lost and desperate moments encountered. At times it was hard to tell his  voice from the sound of his theremin.

As for that dedication to style: I spotted Schroder after the band’s set, sitting backstage with washcloths on her bare shoulders as an EMT checked her out, probably for heatstroke. (The medical staff soon departed and she seemed fine, chatting with friends.) She’s hardly the only pale young woman who’s endangered her health this weekend. But she may be the only one who did it for art.

 – Ann Powers

Photo by Chris Pizzello / AP

The velvety Norwegian act 120 Days started late in the Gobi tent but they started right: with an electro purple haze that immediately made the crowd melt into the grass. The beats were low and thunked in the chest, the two keyboards traded off with bubbly bursts while singer Adne Meisfjord, blade-thin and bare-chested, cut in with raw vocals. It’s hard to do much of anything in the Gobi tent but hold down the fort/tent at this hour but these guys kicked it with aplomb.

– Margaret Wappler

Photo of Adne Meisfjord by Karl Walter / Getty Images

In the rush to appraise, each year, what it is that makes Coachella such a titan among major league, multi-act rock fests — to pinpoint what defines the festival in a given year (a Daft Punk electric pyramid, Rage Against the Machine fan bonfires, Madonna in the dance tent) — sometimes it’s easy to overlook the things that the festival isn’t.

So far this year, certain absences have registered, even if only on some subatomic level: More than a day and a half into Coachella 2008, there are almost no celebrities in attendance, and nobody except Sean Penn (who will take the stage at the Gobi tent tomorrow) seems to be talking politics — election year be damned.

Your humble correspondent searched high and low for signs of the celebrity-industrial complex but came up way short. Sure, there was Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler looking leathery and louche in a leather shirt and jeans Friday (dude looks like a Sleestack!). And Paris Hilton made a rather perfunctory appearance in the VIP tent last night (apparently distracting people bellying up at the bar enough to allow non-gawkers to more quickly score their drinks). But there’s been no Kirsten Dunst, no Lindsay Lohan, no Scarlett Johansson — none of the usual Hollywood suspects who have been seen at Coachella in recent years.

As well, a random and informal survey of festival-goers’ T-shirts revealed a pronounced political apathy. You had the girl in the “Shut up and vote” shirt, the dude wearing an “Obama ‘08″ T and the fashion plate in the “War is over” singlet.

But other than that, you were more likely to see T-shirt sloganeering more along the lines of “The Decemberists are terrible” and “I [heart] cage fighters.”

Oh, Coachella! Where is your social consciousness and celebrity quotient?

– Chris Lee