[Guest blogger August Brown gets by with a little help from his

friends.]

Contrary to popular belief, music bloggers are not omniscient Greek gods able to see all that

happens before them on the Olympian grounds of the Empire Polo Field. We check in with

our spies about a few can’t-miss acts …

To hear him say it, Earl Scruggs hadn’t

played his theme to "The Beverly

Hillbillies" since 1962. But if Rage Against The

Machine can put down their shotguns long enough to reunite for Coachella, Scruggs

can certainly find it in him to tear up some "Ballad of Jed

Clampett" for the Stagecoach faithful. And so he did, letting the crowd fill in

the big sing-along moments while his multi-generational band of old guards and whiz kids

picked and plucked up a storm behind him. Oddly enough, Scruggs deferred to his son to

do the shucking and jiving with the crowd, waiting patiently in the wings before ripping

into another banjo number.

Miranda Lambert was the day’s first

country babe-turned-rocker chick, but she wasn’t the last. Lucinda Williams, decked out in her classic

tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, did her best to overcome the stray noise of Sara Evans’ set as she played from her

well-received new album "West." One new song, "Atonement," featured

Willie Nelson’s harmonica player and sounded like Patti Smith.  Downtown freak-rock

poetry as the new folk music? Bring it.

By the way, it’s seriously threatening rain right now. Satan just turned on his space

heater.

[Guest blogger August Brown has a few crazy ex-girlfriends himself. Kidding,

ladies.]

Reality TV has given us a few good things. "Since U Been Gone." Spencer Pratt of "The Hills" as the

twenty-something Iago of Hollywood nightlife. A world where Davis from "The Real World:

Denver" can now be roommates with a friend of mine from college (no joke!).

But Miranda Lambert (above) has to top

any list of people whom we’re thrilled that the TV foisted upon us in real life. Her

completely endearing, boot-scuffing set on the Mane Stage further proved that the best

country is like the best hip-hop: unafraid to be promiscuous with other genres while

keeping a wicked, self-aware sense of humor.

"Indio, are you drinking beer yet?" she asked, around, oh, five p.m. The

answer was yes, and she responded accordingly with a rock-dominated set that was loud,

raucous and as enjoyable as anything we’ll probably see this weekend. With a mohawked

bassist and a backing band that sounded more like the Heartbreakers than any Stagecoach

peers, Lambert strutted and sassed back at anyone who still won’t take her seriously

given her "Nashville

Star" pedigree.

She thrashed about on a lipstick-pink guitar and made full use of the whole stage on

her latest, self-
deprecating-yet-righteously-awesome single "Crazy

Ex-Girlfriend." Like her peer Gretchen Wilson, Lambert projected a hillbilly riot-grrl swagger just by refusing to

let the boys have all the fun. "Here’s a little cheating song," she teased,

and her girls in the house went nuts. Don’t worry, Miranda, we’re not straying

anywhere.

Eric Church, however, had fewer nice things

to say for the ladies. He used a pretty classless epithet to explain why his last

relationship didn’t work out, and the gesture was jarring on an otherwise friendly and

pro-everything afternoon.

Well, we should probably have expected as much at some point. But like Lambert, his

set was loud and brash, more the the Band with less wit and inventiveness, but his

amusing tune about being caught drinking underage, "Sinners Like Me," earned

him some goodwill back.

[Guest blogger August Brown is likewise a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the

waves.]

Only Nickel Creek could sing a tune about jailbait

teenage girls and not come off as petrifyingly creepy this weekend. But the lovely,

ferociously talented trio (with bassist) seemed like they could pull off just about

anything during their packed Appaloosa Stage

set. The band has grown from childhood prodigies to one of the most adverturous and

pop-savvy groups in the new-grass scene, equally comfortable tossing off a Pavement

cover as destroying traditional instrumental numbers with deft fretwork and heartrending

violin lines.

The set was split between their breakthrough self-titled album and their latest,

"Why Should The Fire Die?" Older numbers like "The Lighthouse’s

Tale" and "When You Come Back Down" have aged like a great bourbon. Violinist Sara Watkins (right)

added sweetly lilting harmonies while Chris Thile plucked scintillant mandolin melodies.

(He’s also, we just noticed, a dead-ringer for "FutureSex"-era Justin

Timberlake.) Accompanied by a bit of Tilly and The Wall-ish tap-dancing percussion, the

band charmed the crowd as they debated the proper plural conjugation of

"hippopotamus" and shouted out Radiohead. "I was home schooled,"

Thile said, unable to decide about the right way to pluralize a pachyderm. Wherever he

learned his tricks, more kids should attend there.

But the

great thing about country music is that you don’t have to look like Timbal

and’s BFF to be a god onstage. Raul Malo

(left) proved that there will always be room for a huge dude with huge pipes in the

world of outlaw country.

Dominating the Palomino stage in both presence and voice, Malo spun desert-gothic

country-rock numbers that bellowed to the mountains behind him. More guys should keep

their sunglasses on and the small-talk to a minimum while they tear up their guitar with

a tejano-spirited vengence.

Malo has roots in Latin jazz, rock and roll and classic country, and all of those

sides came through in his commanding, well-received set. Kenny Chesney, button your shirt already. Real

men speak with their riffs, not glistening pecs and puka shells.

[Guest blogger August Brown has PETA on speed

dial.]

Somewhere in West Hollywood, Alicia

Silverstone just shuddered awake from a nightmare and doesn’t know why.

[Guest blogger August Brown totally misses his mandolin this weekend.]

One nice side-effect of country’s retreat to its insular base over the last five

years has been the hip-ifying of bluegrass. Country has always admired authenticity (or

at least a well-svengalied version thereof), but veteran gunslinger Chris Hillman (above) saw a bright future in

breeding it with sunshiney California folk-rock.

The former Gram Parsons sidekick played a classy, harmony-rich set of mandolin and

banjo-inflected folk tunes that felt right at home amidst the picturesque palm fronds. A

brisk, pickin’-and’-grinnin’ take on "Heaven Is My Home" was a highlight, as

was a high lonesome Flatt & Scruggs cover that showed off his and sideman Herb

Pederson’s acoustic chops. The crowds are, disappointingly, still a bit thin as the

afternoon grows later, but those who made it out early caught a nifty set from a folk

mainstay.

Yonder Mountain String Band (bassist Ben

Kauffman, right), however, seems to be one of those groups that sound best betwixt the

walls of a sophomore dorm room with an elaborate glass pipe as the central piece of

furniture. The band had an undeniable camraderie, honed from years on the jam circuit,

but it’s still too early (and most folks are still too sober) to handle that much

noodling in a half-full tent.

"We’re not the prettiest bluegrass band at this festival," said mandolinist

Jeff Austin. True, because Nickel Creek and dreamboat frontman Chris Thile go on in a

few minutes. "But we’ve got it where it counts," Austin added. This is not a

weekend of subtle gestures, and whether he’s talking about his picking abilities or

other god-given attributes, his band would probably go over better in greener

pastures.

Because ".gov" was taken.

In the we-can’t-make-up-stuff-this-good category: The Road Kill Griddle comes with a

"History of Road Kill" and a "Kill on the Road" song. For reals.

[Guest blogger August Brown is also going to be rollerskate skinny after keeping

vegan for a whole weekend of this business.]

Rhett Miller successfully reinvented himself as

a rakish California pop dude on his last two solo albums, but his early afternoon set on

the Palomino stage took him back to the Old 97’s West Texas roots. Well,

relatively so, because Miller is far and away the prettiest fella playing today.

Tossing his indie-boy bangs while sashaying with a Prince-ly gusto, he led his band

through a cheerful set of catalog favorites like "Rolle

rskate Skinny" that brought a welcome bit of stylish misbehavior to the day.

But when it came time to banter with the small, sedate crowd, their country cred

seemed a harder sell. "Welcome to the Palomino Stage," said bassist Murry

Hammond. "Or as we say in West Texas, Pamolino." Tumbleweeds. "We

mispronouce everything…" he said, and chuckled as the band kicked up another

swaggering rock tune. Tough crowd, Murry. Largo will welcome you guys with open

arms. 

[Guest blogger August Brown has a snake in his boots.]

After last

weekend’s messy collision of Hollywood hipsterati and the soul-crushing heat of

Coachella, Stagecoach is looking to be infinitely more laidback, if a bit heavier on the

taxidermy. Big initial differences:

1.) Everyone is sitting down. The inclusion of lawn chairs on Stagecoach’s

acceptable-items-list (second-amendmenters do not like being told to leave dangerous

objects at home) mean that most folks have a safe place to park their tuchuses and

bucket-sized margaritas.This will probably change as the like of Kenny Chesney (who we

hear inspires more mayhem than our Rage boys) and Alan Jackson take the Mane Stage

(witty!). But until then, the Polo Grounds feel more like spring break in Panama City than the

art-and-sun-damaged fashion runway of Coachella.

2.) The crowd is, much, much older (think 40s) and as of 2:45 p.m. or so, families

bedecked in matching Stetsons seem to be the target demographic (along with some

priceless kids-in-profane-motorcycle-shirts whose pictures probably aren’t safe for

posting). It’s an eclectic bill today though, with some sexy L.A. alt-country,

tejano-influenced folk and loosey-goosey jam bands still to come, and we’re curious to

see what scruffy stragglers might have made it out for both weekends. Either way, the

crowd is friendly and seems really happy to have a whole weekend of collective

hell-raising ahead of them. Except for this cow in the VIP tent, who has likely seen

better days than this one.

Stay tuned this weekend while faithful correspondent

August Brown blogs live from the inaugural Stagecoach festival in Indio. Some of

country music’s heavy hitters will be on hand, and we’ll have reviews and photos here,

as well as August’s reports on this blog.