[Guest blogger Chris Barton was indeed red hot earlier today; no peppers were harmed in the process.]

In a parallel universe somewhere, the Red Hot Chili Peppers are taking the Coachella 2007 stage after 15 years of inactivity, embarking on a much-anticipated and triumphant reunion appearance on one of the country’s biggest stages.

Ours is not that universe.

But, given the band’s struggle with a multitude of demons through the years, it easily could have been. Instead, this year’s Coachella is the Chilis’ second appearance, and they bang out shows of this size pratically without breaking a sweat. In fact, one could argue they’re bigger than ever. So big only a handful of classic hits like the inevitable “Under the Bridge” need be trotted out. So big John Frusciante can deliver a delicately falsettoed version of Fleetwood Mac’s “Songbird” with no one batting an eye. So big Anthony can bound around the stage in a creepy moustache and freestyle about being in band called “the Red Hots.” And so big Flea can pound out his umpteenth virtuosic bass solo and, when taken together, it’s almost like those 15 years never passed. Yet, somehow, they did, and the Chilis keep on keeping on–a brand name.

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Meanwhile, with the Chili Peppers preaching to the choir and LCD Soundsystem converting anybody in sight, the creaky strains of Sparklehorse — with Mark Linkous singing of “a spirit ditch” — were falling on mostly reclined bodies in a half-full Mojave Tent. It’s a tough polo field.

Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT.

[Guest blogger August Brown still can’t believe that “Love Will Keep Us Together/Tear Us Apart” mashup. Unreal.]

There’s probably no two songs with less in common that Neutral Milk Hotel’s “Holland, 1945″ and Khia’s “My Neck, My Back.” One is a stream-of-consciousness retelling of Anne Frank’s sexual awakening, and the other is, well, a bit more straightforward on the latter topic. But Greg Gillis, the erstwhile DJ/button pusher/super-stoked hypeman behind Girl Talk, somehow found a place in mash-up land where they can co-exist peacefully. Greg Gillis is the ur-hipster.

For a project whose live performances consist of little more than hitting spacebar a bunch of times (as bloggers, trust us that it’s not too exciting), Gillis had more unabashed joy flipping through his iTunes than most bands did playing instruments. He took a good chunk of the crowd with him onstage (Paris Hilton too — we’d know that vacant stare anywhere) with him onstage to grind in a fury of sweat, terrycloth headbands and general malnourishment. Your knowledge of top-40 hip hop and ’80’s pop arcana will determine how witty you find the whole ordeal, but his skill at assembling club bangers from unlikely sources (The bassline to “Lithium,” the verse from “SexyBack” and the chorus to “Carry On My Wayward Son” in one song?) is indisputable. “This is the greatest time of my life,” he screamed at the mass of sweaty bodies before him, and probably meant it. Gillis loves irony, but his party is no joke.

Oh, and we saw Justice too. Meh. We’ll see enough shaggy French DJ’s playing Ed Banger remixes at the after-party tonight.

Paris Hilton suddenly seemed to be everywhere — briefly backstage during the Arcade Fire’s set, onstage with Girl Talk and part of a celebrity triangle backstage during the Red Hot Chili Peppers‘ set. That triangle was something to behold. Rage Against the Machine guitarist Tom Morello stood, bobbing his head while watch his RHCP guitar rival John Frusciante; next to him, oblivious to the music, Courtney Love was furiously text-messaging. Just behind them, Hilton was doing jumping jacks to “Dani California,” at one point accidentally whacking a bystander with her purse.

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Lindsay Lohan and Danny Masterson were backstage for Arcade Fire, and probably a bunch of other people we didn’t recognize. … And Tara Reid apparently needed to be recognized — she was trying to talk her way to the backstage area during the Chili Peppers.

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Sometimes, you don’t ask questions, you just snap a photo:

[Guest blogger Jeff Weiss can do this every day, all the time.]

One of Ghostface Killah’s many aliases is Ironman, lifted from the Marvel Comics superhero. But his consistency after 13 years in the rap game recalls that of the other Iron Man, Cal Ripken Jr. Running through a 45 minutes greatest hits set-list, Ghostface covered everything from Wu classics like “Shame on a N–a” to 2006’s critically lauded “Fishscale,” to his legendary guest appearances on other Wu classics, including “Ice Cream,” “4th Chamber” and the immortal Raekwon single on which Ghostface is featured, “Criminology.”

Judging from the raucous crowd’s reception, 2007 is shaping up to be the year of the Wu, with Ghost trumpeting the Clan’s return with this summer’s much-awaited “8 Diagrams.” Intuition would have told you that the crowd would’ve been sparse with indie sensations Arcade Fire slotted opposite, but the lawn in front of the Outdoor Theatre was packed, chanting “Wu Tang” loud enough to drown out the Fire. The performance had a celebratory air, closing as usual with an impromptu dance party, with crowd members rushing the stage and dancing to “Cherchez La Ghost.”

Tomorrow, on the Sabbath, you get politics, when Rage Against the Machine figures to turn Coachella into a big, old soapbox. On Saturday night, the glowstick-waving crowd got religion. The Arcade Fire delivered a set so full of spirituality and verve that the main stage could’ve doubled as a giant, pyrotechnics-loaded pulpit. Nobody in sight — especially those who witnessed the band’s quick rise — sensed disappointment was around the corner, not from a polite collective of string-wielding Canadians. But in acknowledging that expectations were met, it is easy to take for granted the artful chaos that is Arcade Fire’s music. The only small question was whether their unhinged madness would work on such a huge stage.

It did, from the kitchen-sink percussion — these folks bang on anything that’s handy — to the majestic, almost funereal organ behind “Intervention.” The passion was not lost on sweltering crowd; the crowd’s affections were not lost on Butler, who thanked them for their kindness. “Manners,” he said, “are the cornerstone of a prosperous society.”

Photo of Win Butler by Spencer Weiner / LAT.

[Guest blogger Margaret Wappler believes if there was a family band fight between Kings of Leon and Lynyrd Skynyrd in their prime, the former — hate to say it — would be toast.]

You see some bands live, and you can just imagine their demise. Not for lack of talent, but because they just don’t want it enough. But Kings of Leon, a family band with an  evangelical preacher in the lineage, want it bad. Their radiant set proved that the Nashville crew are following the North Star of fame with keening ambition and an unshakeable faith in the powers of transcendent Southern rock. Although their self-seriousness can get a little much sometimes (really, Caleb, you can wear that black vest and huge cross without giggling at yourself?), there’s no denying that Kings of Leon have rock-star glory in their sights.

Ripping through most of “Because of the Times,” their third album, the grim-faced gentlemen showed that the album’s darker, more complex material plays as well as the lighter breakthrough work, “Aha Shake Heartbreak.” But did they have to be so stubborn and refuse to play “Fans,” my favorite KOL song? No one else seemed to miss it. The audience danced, rolled in the grass and pumped their fists. They’re ready to crown their Kings.

[Guest blogger Chris Barton ventures into the Mojave Tent for some vigorous punctuation lessons wth !!!]

When you name your band after a trio of emphatic punctuation marks (and don’t think there wasn’t some intra-band discussion as to just how many of those would be sufficient on their first playbill), understatement is not one of your strong suits. At any given time the Sacramento dance-funk-whatever ensemble embodied the more-is-more theory of dance music, with its nine-members at times boasting four percussionists, two guitarists, a horn section and three singers — not that they needed the extra help with lead ‘!’ Nic Offer serving as master of ceremonies.

Like some mutant cross between a funk bandleader, spastic Jazzercise instructor and Ron Burgundy, Offer worked either side of the stage in a way that would’ve done last year’s tent superstar Madonna proud. Mixing up a host of unabashedly goofy dance moves and it’s-just-too-funky-in-here facial expressions, the swimtrunk-clad Offer whipped the crowd into a frenzy as the band charged through crescendo after tent-rattling crescendo in a manic set taken from the band’s sophomore album “Myth Takes.” Mixing insistent guitar lines, seismic-level bass and trance-like rhythms that at times flirted with a twitchier take on Afro-beat, Offer said from the beginning his goal was to have sweat pouring from the ceiling once his band was through. Fortunately, the battery of supersoakers closing their set offered a much more pleasant alternative.

Pictured: Nic Offer (center) brings SexyBack with the help of three exclamation points and a pair of swim trunks. Photo by Chris

Barton / LAT.

[Guest blogger August Brown is swappin’ his blood with formaldehyde.]

Now that Patrick Wolf is apparently quitting music (or is he?), there’s a void in the field of completely bonkers violin-wielding pop savants. Andrew Bird is easily the best, and probably only, man up for the job. His newest record “Armchair Apocrypha” lagged a bit due to its micro-managed politeness. Live, however, Bird was suave and insousciant, blasting the Gobi tent with feedback and whistling through a bank of effect gizmos. “Fiery Crash” made the most of his loop pedal, stacking his harmonies and plucky violin licks, while sideman Martin Dosh bashed out a jazzy racket on drums and keys beside him. Bird never took off his sunglasses, a nice touch that made his show-off moments (like the time he swapped between guitar, violin, xylophone and whistling in a single verse) more charming than precocious. He has enough raw arranging talent to shame just about everyone playing Coachella, save maybe James Murphy. But with this set, he finally sounded a bit dangerous.

Pictured: Andrew Bird resists the temptation to perform “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” despite the crazy desert heat. Photo by August Brown / LAT.

Coachella’s recycling program is working so well it may be putting people out of work.

The effort lets festival-goers get one free bottle of water for every 10 empties they turn in. The empty plastic bottles are then crushed right away and carted off. An official says there have been 60% fewer garbage pickups in the first day and a half of of the festival, and some workers assigned to garbage detail are actually standing around with little to do.

Proclaimed Paul Tollett of Coachella promoter Goldenvoice: “This is the cleanest festival in the history of rock ‘n’ roll.”

A friend had a quick word when I answered his what’s-your-hurry query by saying I was dashing off to see Travis. “Wimpy.”

Wrong. Melodies have muscles too, and the Scottish band flexed them to an adoring, arm-waving crowd who treated gray-round-the-edges frontman Fran Healy as if he were a teen idol. Healy coaxed some beautiful chords out his guitar, practiced his American accent and told the masses assembled at the main stage they were “lovely” — which they were, after workers dashed down the pathways tossing water bottles and dousing them with wet stuff.

Then Travis played one its most familiar anthems, “Why Does It Always Rain on Me?” — bringing to mind the wishful thinking from the night before, when the Jesus and Mary Chain played “Happy When It Rains.” The highlight came when guitarist Andy Dunlop gingerly climbed atop a stack of amps (steadied by backstage personnel) and saluted the crowd. Then, like the rest of Travis’ set, he came in for a safe landing.

Pictured: Andy Dunlop channels his inner “golden god” (above). Left, Fran Healy wields the acoustic axe. Photos by Kevin Bronson / LAT