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Anyone stlll thinking the great, Internet-born Lily Allen craze had crested and been replaced by the Amy Winehouses of the world obviously wasn’t anywhere near her set at an overflowing Mojave tent.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

So maybe there should have been more breathing room between the Crowded House reunion show on the main stage and Rage Against the Machine’s headlining slot. Like two days.

The New Zealand pop quartet painted lovely pictures in the early dusk, harmonizing their way into the hearts of the throng gathering in anticipation of the festival climax. It might have come off as totally pastoral had not Neil Finn done the courteous thing and name-checked the bands that would follow. That sparked chants of “Rage, Rage, Rage” — to which Finn could only reply, good-naturedly, “It’s gonna be good. Go have a drink in the tent … There’s still time.”

The folks up front waving the colors of New Zealand stayed put, of course. They’d waited a decade for their heroes to re-emerge, and they couldn’t have been disappointed with the aplomb with which Crowded House delivered their hits. And when Finn’s microphone cut out during “Don’t Dream It’s Over,” he didn’t have to ask the crowd very hard to help with the vocals. They filled in, very likely as they have been doing for the past 10 years.

[Guest blogger Margaret Wappler thinks every band should toss drumsticks into the crowd after their set. Also, shout-outs to cities. Those are good.]

Cansei de Ser Sexy, Sub Pop’s Brazilian delegates of juicy dance-rock, chased after the rainbow of glam-hipster band fame every second of their performance. Purple unitard on Lovefoxxx? Uh-huh. A preponderance of bandanas and/or glittery scarves on every band member? You know it. Paris Hilton dancing on the side of the stage? Afraid so.

And check out this unholy amount of self-referencing: Lovefoxxx told the audience that she’d just met Hilton and then she proceeded to play “Meeting Paris Hilton.” And somewhere in Williamsburg, we’re pretty sure, an Urban Outfitters went up in flames.

Other stunts of the band’s aerobicized set included a souped-up cover of L7’s “Pretend We’re Dead” and a new song that showcased CSS’s sometimes-underrated songwriting chops. They closed with a scintillating trinity of CSS hits, including “Artbitch,” their ode to merlot-swilling gallery flies.

In her introduction to the last song, “Let’s Make Love and Listen to Death from Above,” Lovefoxxx said, “After Coachella, let’s go to my house. I’ve got some condoms and we’ll make love.”

Hmm. … I’m actually a lot more interested in some air conditioning at this point.

Coachella snapshot: A worker douses the crowd at the Do Lab in the center of the Empire Polo Field.

Photo by Kevin Bronson / LAT.

[Guest blogger Chris Barton has a thing about quiet crowds.]

While the Klaxons were exploring the rhythmic possibilities of an air raid siren in the Mojave Tent, Sweden’s José González was, against all odds, performing to a rapt crowd at the Gobi Tent.

Like Cat Stevens without the “Peace Train” homilies, the slight and scruffy González performed atop the stage’s drum riser, accompanied at times by conga and a young woman who offered a few gentle pats on a cowbell as well as an occasional vocal harmony. As the sun slowly set behind us, González’s breezy renditions of “Heartbeat” and “Stay in the Shade” needed little else beyond his honeyed voice and delicately finger-picked guitar.

Until, of course, the bass rumbles from the DJs spinning in the geodesic dome at the tent’s mouth elbowed their way to the front of the tent. Every coffeehouse troubadour knows the feeling.

Photo by Chris Barton / LAT.

Officials put the crowd total at 60,000 for each day of Coachella, though the grounds seemed more crowded Sunday. Maybe it was just the bigger-than-usual (for the time slot) main stage crowds for afternoon sets by Explosions in the Sky and the Roots.

Of the 16,000 campers at the festival, 30% were from outside the U.S.

[You don’t have to beat the bushes to find people who are beating up on Bush, as guest blogger Jeff Weiss is the latest contributor to find.]

If a common sentiment emerged from the hip-hop acts that rocked this year’s Coachella, it’s opposition to the Bush administration, with everyone from well-known political firebrands like the Coup, El-P and Pharoahe Monch to relative newcomers like Brother Ali and Lupe Fiasco. The latter dedicated his anti-imperialist screed, “American Terrorist” to a roaring crowd. But perhaps the highlight of the bunch was the Philadephia hip-hoppers, The Roots, a group less known for their subversive sentiment.

Indeed, the showstopper of the Roots’ 50-minute main stage set was a cover of Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War,” with soul singer Kirk Douglas handling vocals and bursts of psychedelic guitar and funky drums buoying the noise. The rest of the Roots set was less explosive and incendiary, as the band rattled off a series of covers ranging from funk classics like “Jungle Boogie” to “Push It” to “Egyptian Lover” to “Award Tour” to even Mims’ “This Is Why I’m Hot.”

Fiasco’s set earlier in the day was similarly captivating, with the Chicago-bred MC displaying an energetic stage presence, flinging water on on-lookers and even sprinting into the crowd during closer, the Beta Band-sampling “Daydream.”