[Guest blogger August Brown rallies ’round the family, with a pocket full of shells.]

It’s hard to think about Rage Against The Machine in 2007 without remembering 1992. Clinton was in office, on his way to Oval Office, the economy was about to start sailing, and yet they still found plenty of reasons to be furious at The System. The group’s headlining set on Sunday was probably the most anticipated set in Coachella history; everything from riots to bona fide revolution seemed possible, judging from the hyperbole about their reunion. How would their serrated funk-metal play in a decade where there’s more legitimate reasons to take to the streets, and when few musicians seems to know how to talk about them?

For the first three songs at least, it played awfully sedate. Nearly every weary body on the grounds champed at the bit for the band to come out (sorry, Evan Dando and Spank Rock). But in one of the year’s biggest anti-climaxes, Rage emerged to a muddy and anemic mix that knocked the wind out of Tim Commerford’s basslines. For a minute there, it seemed that the Machine would win out by cutting off Rage from their best weapon- their skull-cracking riffs.

But the soundboard pulled it together, turning up the master mix three songs in, and the band scorched. As did a few small bonfires near the right guardrails, but outside of a few rogue lighting rig climbers, the only really dangerous explosions were happening onstage. Zack de la Rocha spat venom at consumers, Christians and the shoppers on Rodeo Drive (one his better metaphorical punching bags) but kept the stage banter non-existent. Tom Morello, one of the last real guitar heroes left in America, conjured Hendrix’s solos, Public Enemy’s brittle DJ scratching and squeals of feedback in between Sly Stone-via-Dante’s Inferno funk licks. Commerford and drummer Brad Wilk were as martial as ever, and era-defining hits like “Bulls On Parade” and “Bombtrack” have held up astonishingly well.

The only time de la Rocha broke the fourth wall was to give everyone what they wanted- a deliberate and forthright rebuttal to the last six years of neocon politics.

“This administration should be tried, hung and shot,” he said, as if one form of execution wasn’t enough. It may have been ham-fisted, but to hear it from the mouth of a rock singer today, de la Rocha may well have set the dam loose for political music at the tail end of the Bush era. Even if he didn’t though, the spectacle of 60,000 fans pounding their fists in unison closer “Killing In The Name Of” “Killing in the Name” was a reminder of better times for openly political music, or at least more hopeful ones from years past.

Corrected post; thanks to readers for keeping us on the ball.

Photo by Michael Buckner/Getty Images.

[Guest blogger Margaret Wappler admits that she’s annoyed with Rage for spawning the Korns of the world even though that’s not really fair.]

You want to know how to fill up the Gobi tent when you’re one of Coachella’s sacrificial lambs? Start off by looking like Pharrell if reared by Kurtis Blow in Jamaica. Then add in some potty talk about the bathing suit areas of both genders. Oh, and some bongo players and ladies in braids who will pop and lock with big grins on their faces. And let’s not forget the secret sauce: some mostly empty talk about the races rioting on the dance floor that will make you sound intelligent but is pretty much a ruse. But hey, whatever. Spank Rock isn’t trying to gather the intelligentsia for a poetry reading.

Some of us like our festival closers blissfully stoopid, thank you very much.

Buzz emanated from several sets that we didn’t have time to take in fully –especially the remarkable stylings of beatboxer Kid Beyond, who packed an afternoon set in the Gobi Tent.

The Kaiser Chiefs did all they could to prove they belonged, too, promoting their sophomore album — as well as spontaneous athletic endeavors — when frontman Ricky Wilson climbed the rigging at the Outdoor Theatre.

Rodrigo y Gabriela turned in another in a growing line of stunning Southern California appearances when they unleashed their flamenco metal on the Gobi Tent crowd. “Almost evil,” somebody called it. And almost instrumental, too — except when they executed their cover of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.” The crowd sang. Hearing that, we wish we were there.

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Then there was the requisite end-of-the-night crush to exit the Empire Polo Field. At the “back door” to the VIP area, a wristband-toting crowd had assembled, hoping the leave through the very same gate they left the night before. But things always change from day to day at Coachella. Always.

Beefy but friendly security blocked the gate, until a dude with an entourage made his way through (tapping a man wearing a vintage Motley Crue T-shirt on the shoulder and saying, “Nice shirt”). The dude cracked the gate and yelled, “I’m Tommy Lee, let me the —- out.”

The guards obliged. And Mr. Vintage Motley Crue tried the blend in with Lee’s entourage, but that didn’t work. “I’m never wearing this damn T-shirt again,” he said as he was exiled back to the land of the lesser VIPs.

Thankfully, more exits were open at the end of Coachella 2007 than were open last year, when the crowded was herded into a single walkway.

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Overheard in the Mojave Tent while the Klaxons plied their Nu-Rave:

“I don’t want to be here! I want to be at Willie (Nelson)!”

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Final thought: 2007 was the year Coachella bashed Bush. Could 2008 be the year Coachella feeds the world?

[Guest blogger Margaret Wappler is pretty sure Ibiza was made up by a group of really savvy publicists. Or reality TV producers.]

On Day 3 of this behemoth that’s going to close with a whole lotta Rage, the Outdoor Theatre crowd was ready to make out on grass-stained towels to Air’s glittery sunset electronica. But the sexy boys of Air delayed their set by 30 minutes before finally taking the stage under hot pink lights. Good thing too because the crowd was about to riot. Ha, not really. A riot before Air? Avant-pop fans don’t do that.

The French duo turned it out well enough, getting airport-lounge sedate in the right moments and cranking up the glitchy stadium rock to keep the fabulous quotient high. “Sexy Boy” was trotted out, as well as some bubbly “Virgin Suicides” score material.

But honestly? Coming out that late at some yacht party off of Ibiza is one thing but at Coachella, it’s just kind of obnoxious. So I turned in my visa and headed for Teddybears.

[Guest blogger Margaret Wappler isn’t happy that the VIP tent was barren of Gatorade today. What’s up with that?]

Finally, a Coachella dance band put the video screens to good use. The stepchild of the fest isn’t Evan Dando but the video screens that have been mostly abused with cheeseball psychedelic twiddle ripped off from some one-shot rave in Indianapolis. Kudos to these Swedish freaks in the Teddybears who will roam the VIP tent in heat-stroking temps in bear heads just to make some seventeen-degrees-from-Paris-Hilton ladies scream and point.

They photoshopped their Teddybears heads into several Criterion Collection movies, including “The Godfather,” “Taxi Driver” and “A Clockwork Orange.” Alex and the droogs will never be the same.

Photo: A Teddybear preys on unsuspecting passers-by in the VIP area before performing; by August Brown / LAT.

[Guest blogger Chris Barton has never dated Winona Ryder.]

A half circle of 24 cops was taking in the scene just outside the shoulder-to-shoulder mob absorbing all that was Rage, and we’re pretty sure they weren’t there to make sure Evan Dando got home safely. The back half of the grounds just beyond their perimeter was so deserted all that was missing was a single tumbleweed crossing your path toward a depressingly dramatic light display signifying that, yes, other acts were onstage at that hour, too, and one of them was the reunited Lemonheads.

Seriously, you almost have to feel bad for Evan Dando at this point. He got his act together for taut, focused comeback record, scored a prime closing slot at the biggest rock festival in the country and wound up playing opposite the biggest show in Coachella’s history. Dumb luck, that. But those who did turn out at the Outdoor Stage had plenty of elbow room for a set of perfectly fine, jangly power pop that without a doubt would’ve been crowd pleasing at just about any other hour of the weekend.

If nothing else, Dando can compare his struggles with darkwave staples VNV Nation and Israeli trance favorites Infected Mushroom, both of whom played tents that were barely a third full. Potty-mouthed irony-rap artists Spank Rock fared a little better, but their Gobi Tent was also the smallest. Rage against the schedule-makers, my brothers.

With bass lines that shook every bowel in the Sahara Tent, the Happy Mondays announced their return with a soulful set that featured guests, a lucky dancer and a surprisingly robust Shaun Ryder. It was 50 minutes for the “24 Hour Party People.”

Nailing songs such as “Step On” and “Hallelujah” as if it were the ’80s, the Mondays –whose influence as rock/soul hybridists is undeniable — showed the half-full tent, which included front-row denizens holding aloft ticket stubs from long-ago concerts, that the sound of Madchester still breathed. Guitarist Danny Saber (Black Grape) was among the contributors, as was L.A.’s own motormouth, Mickey Avalon. But it was also a night to remember for a magazine writer, NME’s Dan Martin.

Absent the staple of Bez’s dancing, Martin filled in onstage — despite a well-meaning security guy’s effort to drag him off, thinking Martin was a wayward crowd member. When after a moment’s absence he reappeared, throwing down some pretty decent moves. The crowd roared and the spirit of the Hacienda lived on.

Left: Ryder exits the stage with Danny Saber. Photos by Kevin Bronson / LAT.

[Guest blogger August Brown is into distribution. He’s like Atlantic.]

If ripping on Ol’ G.W.B. was the weekend’s big theme, pan-ethnic punk/funk may have been another. Gogol Bordello threw down for the Eastern Bloc, Konono No 1. repped the Congo, and the Spanish-via-Paris vagabond Manu Chao did his best to prepare the audience for the Rage to come in a half-hour.

Coachella fans heard Chao’s handiwork last year, having midwifed Amadou & Mariam’s Malian blues on “Dimanche A Bamako.” But on the main stage, Chao cherry-picked from countless cultures; English punk, bossa nova and cut-’em-fat reggae were all fair game.

It’s unfair to stick Chao in the ghetto of the World Music bin, because nothing he does emulates the music of other cultures — it’s the real article. Grinning in a sporty bandanna, Chao sung with a revolutionary energy, and his gangbusters backing band matched him step for step. His bassist, who looked like Henry Rollins after a few trips down a buffet line, laid down deep, vigorous grooves while his guitarist melted faces with a high-wire flamenco solo.

Chao’s a born provocateur as well, which is part of what makes him so beloved in Latin American politico circles. He dedicated one song to the “minor terrorist” we call President, before calling out Guantamo and random spying as part of the problem. But don’t worry, he still finished one roiling hardcore tune with the chorus “me gusta marijuana.” Back at you, Manu.

[Guest blogger Chris Barton finds it somewhat unsettling that he enjoys something on pop radio.]

Anyone stlll thinking the great, Internet-born Lily Allen craze had crested and been replaced by the Amy Winehouses of the world obviously wasn’t anywhere near her set at an overflowing Mojave tent.

Backed by a full band and horn section that would’ve done the Skatalites proud, Allen confidently bounded through material from her MySpace-bred debut album “Alright, Still” with a brash confidence that recalled a smarter, sassier Gwen Stefani — at least before Gwen became the eeriely airbrushed pop cyborg of today.

Beyond the superficial resemblances in sound and attitude, would the former singer for No Doubt have apologized for forgetting a few lyrics as a result of having a couple of spliffs earlier in the day? Would she so readily incite a tent full of women to scream in support as she bluntly introduced “Not Big,” a song about the hardship of living with a man’s, um, shortcomings? Not likely.

Dressed in her usual assortment of Lily-ana (hoop earrings, poofy dress, trainers), the London native strolled across both sides of the stage with the occasional cigarette and charisma to burn, not even letting the day’s elephant in the room shadow what must’ve been one of her most successful shows stateside. After the crowd cheered in appreciation at her passing mention of the night’s headliners, Allen was unfazed.

“I’ve never heard of them,” she said with a devilish grin. “But apparently they’re quite big.”

Photo by Chris Barton / LAT

[August Brown thinks that guest blogging is MDM-azing.]

Eraserhead hairdos? Shrieking feedback? The notion that a British guitar rock band can be truly dangerous? We got all that Friday with Jesus and Mary Chain, and we got it again today with Klaxons, who absolutely murdered the Mojave tent and announced themselves as the Reid Brothers’ most likely heirs. Yes, yes, we know we’re feeding the hype machine, but good god Klaxons deserve it this time.

The X’ed out teenagers packing glowsticks and candy bracelets in their native England were replaced by a filthy and rabid crowd pogoing with their jaws on the floor and hands in the air. The trio (with a hired-gun live drummer) tore through the hits off their debut “Myths of the Near Future” with a maniacal brashness equal parts PiL and actual pills. “Atlantis To Interzone” churned with grimy basslines and don’t-take-the-brown-acid caterwauling, while Jamie Reynolds and Simon Taylor traded deapan bon mots on the steely, propulsive single “Magick.”

Like the JAMC, Klaxons’ little secret is that they’re actually whip-smart tunesmiths, and shimmering pop turns like “Golden Skans” and an ace cover of old-rave staple “Not Over Yet” suggested they have a long future after this faux-techno kick dies down.

“Thank you for making special for us,” their swaggering, sweaty bassist Reynolds said.

“For that, we give you this,” and lunged into another ferocious electro-punk freakout. Say it as loud as an air raid siren: Klaxons just killed it.

Photo by August Brown / LAT.