OK, so not quite everyone has fully embraced the cross-generational appeal of country music as it’s playing out at Stagecoach this weekend. Strolling from the Mustang Stage where cowboy troubadour Ian Tyson was spinning his tales of life on the Canadian frontier, I popped in to check out the nifty “Recharge and Relax” tent, a handy spot to plug in waning cellphones and Blackberrys, or dash out an e-mail over the laptops provided. Three preteens, commandeering several screens, are surfing YouTube for Lil Wayne videos. Yeehaw, dawg.

– Randy Lewis

P.S. This one’s at least set in the desert: Lil Wayne video.

Photo by Jim Marshall/Associated Press

Last year’s two-day Stagecoach Festival pulled a solid 55,000 attendees in its inaugural year. This year’s installment stands to do even better: Friday and Saturday saw an average of 35,000 fans each night, and that’s not counting today. It’s not quite at Coachella levels yet, and still far from the bellwether annual country gathering the CMA Music Festival (which drew more than 190,000 fans over four days last year). But for a festival still in its infancy, Stagecoach is beating all expectations.

– August Brown

Photo by Luis Sinco/Los Angeles Times

Dwight Yoakam wears the tightest pants I’ve ever seen on a grown man. Seriously, they’re snug enough to make the cover of the Rolling Stones’ “Sticky Fingers” album look like a JCPenney catalog. The guy’s cleared 50 and still uses “drainpipe” as an adjective. It’s a completely awesome look that hearkens back to his days as the lone honky-tonker on L.A.’s nascent ’80s hard-core scene. Yoakam’s Palomino Stage set gave constant affirmation to the idea that grizzled country vets really do get better with age, and never have to really give up the cocky flash of youth.

Yoakam began his career as a refugee in L.A. whose ideas were too country for ’80s pop-inclined Nashville. But in a way, his polyglot tastes foretold the coming of contemporary alt-country. Yoakam saw no borders between Rick Nelson, Willie Nelson and Exene Cervenka, and his deep quiver of hits like “Guitars, Cadillacs” and “Honky Tonk Man” haven’t lost an inch of their prescience or vigor in 20 years. Yoakam’s bulldog tenor only gets riper and deeper, and judging by recent solo work like “Blame the Vain,” his songwriting chops are still at full speed. It’s not quite pop music, but more like post-modern folk: songs meant to be passed down through generations of outcasts.

I saw a crazier crowd at Kenny Chesney’s Stagecoach-closing set last year, but I haven’t yet encountered another devoted lovefest like the one Yoakam got this weekend. Every alt-kid, rockabilly survivor, Latina hot-rodder and the rest of Stagecoach’s misfits all came under this tent to pay rowdy respect to a singer-songwriter who’s done as much as any to keep the fangs in modern pop-inclined country. Tim McGraw can keep the ballads, Chesney can do the party hits, but as long as Yoakam’s in the corner looking surly with a flask full of bad intentions, country music will be just fine.

– August Brown

Photo by Luis Sinco/Los Angeles Times

Banjo pioneer Earl Scruggs, age 84, a bit shaky but still fleet, has just finished his bluegrass classic “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” and Rascal Flatts is midway through the least funky version ever of James Brown’s “I Got You (I Feel Good).” I kid you not.

Somebody please … Make it stop.

– Randy Lewis

Photo by Luis Sinco/Los Angeles Times

The chemistry between Naomi and Wynonna Judd was irresistible when they rode high on the country charts in the ’80s, and tonight it’s obvious it hasn’t diminished a whit since mama Naomi bowed out of the act circa 1991.

“I’ve been rhinestone-free for 17 stinking years!” Naomi cracked at the outset of this performance billed as a “one-time-only reunion.”

The secret was the balance between Wynonna’s heart-on-sleeve emotionalism, which can turn syrupy on its own, and Naomi’s working mom-bred sharp wit.

Great to have them together again, even if only for a night.

– Randy Lewis

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

Where’s the community? If there’s anything missing from Stagecoach’s sophomore year it’s the sense of musical conversation among the participants.

With so many musicians representing nearly every strain of country-related music under the now-setting sun, it’s a shame there’s been so little in the way of surprise collaborations on stage. How much electricity would have shot through the Eagles’ umpteenth performance of “Desperado” if Trisha Yearwood, who’d been on the same stage a couple hours earlier, had jumped in for one verse, referencing Linda Ronstadt’s stellar version in the ’70s? Or how about John Fogerty inviting punk rocker Mike Ness up for a verse of “Fortunate Son”?

As I sit listening to the Dan Tyminski Band offering the leader’s “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” hit “Man of Constant Sorrow,” I salivate at the thought of torch-passing among generations if they were joined by Earl Scruggs, who’s due here on the Mustang stage a little more than an hour from now. Instead of operating as musical monologue, there’s a golden opportunity to expand the conversation with a genuine exchange of ideas through dialogue or even multiartist one-off sessions.

What a wonderful world it could be.

– Randy Lewis

My personal list of things not to do at Stagecoach includes: 1) Ask the barbecue tent if they have anything vegan. 2) Crack General-Sherman-burns-Atlanta jokes. 3) Tell anyone, “You know, Japanese trucks are just more reliable and a better value for my hard-earned Euro.”

Add to that a fourth: Don’t break Taylor Swift’s heart. (I know, I was totally planning to before…) She introduced “Should’ve Said No” with a warning: “This song is about a guy who cheated on me, but he shouldn’t have because I write songs,” and dove right into the sprightly castigation of loutish dudes. She’s far from the most virtuosic singer on the bill this weekend (as Randy Jackson might have said, “Dawg, that was a bit pitchy for me”), but her more esoteric charms outweighed that quibble. She’s a feisty little firecracker onstage, bashing floor toms and bounding across the stage with the confidence of someone who’s done this for decades. I can’t really get behind any song, even tangentially, about Tim McGraw, such as in her single “Tim McGraw,” but I believe her when she sings that Mr. Faith Hill will forever remind her of an old love (Aerosmith’s “Hole In My Soul” has a similarly unwelcome resonance for me). That guitarist with the Eddie Van Halen mock-ax sells it even further into grandiose pop territory, which is where she seems most comfortable.

She’s always quick to remind the audience that she co-writes all of her tunes, which I hope inspires her adoring packs of tween girls to pick up a guitar and do the same. After all, they’ll soon need the outlet to say things such as “Deep down I’m a nice person, but if you break my heart or hurt my feelings or mess with my friends…” before kicking off her single “Picture to Burn.” The world always needs more men-are-craven-dogs songs, and thankfully, Taylor Swift has a lot left in her.

– August Brown

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman’s 1974 chestnut “Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man).” More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

– Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

Pasty British pedalheads and Pemmican-fueled country fans generally keep a wide berth from each other. Ryan Bingham’s midday set on the Palomino stage, however, found an unlikely common thread between the head-spinning guitar ambience of Ride or Slowdive with the swaggering alt-country kick of Drive-By Truckers. Maybe it’s coincidental, but it might not be: Bingham’s deft slide playing, when pushed through a hot tube amp and a half-dozen effects, sure did evoke Kevin Shields in his more cathartic thrashy moments. We are thusly forced to coin a new genre: alt country + “swirling guitars” = Bootgazing.

– August Brown

Photoby Luis Sinco / Los Angeles Times

Un-Fortunate cover of the day? Bucky Covington followed a run-through of Elvis’ “Suspicious Minds” during a set that also included his take on Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall,” by trying his hand at John Fogerty’s “Fortunate Son.” Is it possible nobody had pointed out that the composer practically brought down the house with his definitive performance on the same stage less than 24 hours earlier? Bucky sang worthy of his status as an “American Idol” alum, but in context, even Paula would have called this one “forgettable!”

– Randy Lewis

Photo by Kevin Winter / Getty Images