Warning: Your level of productivity will be taking another hit come June. Sony has announced plans to create an online Minisode Network (first on MySpace, then possibly on a self-titled Web channel) that will air condensed episodes of classic Sony-owned TV shows like Charlie's Angels (pictured) and T.J. Hooker. The "minisodes" will be edited to under six minutes, and still, Sony insists, keep the stories intact.

While Sony Pictures Television prez Steve Mosko makes us a little nervous with his this-will-cost-us-nothing glee ? "'It's just editing. Our people are really having fun with this. We're not overthinking the process. You could almost look at this and say a group of college kids put this together" ? we still think this is a genius idea. Besides introducing these shows to a whole new generation, they can also use the Minisode Network to promote DVD releases to old fans, who may not realize they need to relive William Shatner's T.J. Hooker until they see new recruit Adrian Zmed in his undies.

Another thing to look forward to: Sony will also be miniaturizing episodes of Ricki Lake. "It's great,? Mosko told The New York Times. "The people get introduced, there's a big fight, then they come together, and cry and hug. You get everything in five minutes." On a personal note, I hope we also get to see the reaction shot Ricki's cameras once captured centering on my friend Mark, who was an audience member on "My Wife Is Sleeping With My Toothless Dad" Day. Trust me, that's classic TV, too.

Regular PopWatch readers know that American Idol's third-season champ, Fantasia Barrino, is among by most obsessed-over obsessions. (Does that phrase make anyone else think of Animotion?) Anyhow, after a rather lukewarm reception to the delectable "Hood Boy" ? Corporate radio? Can you handle it? I don't think they can handle it! ? I was pleased to see her lovely followup, "When I See U," has climbed to 14 on this week's Billboard R&B/Hip-Hop Singles chart.

The song's video clip, which just premiered on Yahoo Music (click here to see it), isn't anything revolutionary, but it looks like the folks at J Records at least spent a little money filming the pastiche of scenes most of us have seen in million different videos: Tasia belting in front of the Manhattan skyline, Tasia soaking in the tub, Tasia strolling the green-screened city streets ? and our braces-clad heroine looks great doing it all, too. I just wish I could figure out what the heck is that silver cylinder thing that the director uses to separate the various scenes. It looks a little bit like a garbage can, or maybe a street lamp. Either way, it's an unfortunate distraction to an otherwise cute clip. What say you, PopWatchers?

Adrian Pasdar turns 42 today, and I've been trying to come up with the perfect way to celebrate the occasion. A group rendition of "Happy Birthday" won't cut it, since he's married to Dixie Chick Natalie Maines, and our version will come up short by comparison. We could all tune in to Heroes tonight, but weren't you planning on doing that anyway? So instead, let's watch some old YouTube clips (here, here, and below) from Pasdar's terrific 1996 Fox drama, Profit, a series that was pulled before its time, but lives on thanks to the magic of DVD. Or, in my case, via VCR. Yeah, I'm one of the sad sacks who bought the entire (super expensive) series run off eBay long before it got an official DVD release. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Um, it was totally worth shelling out $100 for a tape of a tape of somebody's grainy, pre-digital-cable recording ? mid-'90s commercials and all. If that's not enough to make the birthday boy's day, then he could always get an ego-boost re-reading Mandi Bierly's PopWatch item about how one of our colleagues plans to make a test-tube baby using some of Pasdar's saved saliva. Would I make this stuff up?

I'm having some mixed feelings about last night's episode of Brothers & Sisters ? particularly in regard to Rebeccagate. For starters, I found it unbelievably  odd that Joe didn't just lie down and take his lumps after admitting his indiscretion to Sarah. I mean, buddy, you made out with your wife's recently discovered half-sister. You do not, under any circumstance, get to play the outrage card ? not even if wifey plays the "you're a failed musician and not the object of my sexual fantasies" card.

Secondly, while I was admittedly fascinated by the revelation that Rebecca was a more-than-willing participant in the smooch (and that, in fact, she wanted the encounter to go further), I'm also worried the writers have painted her character into a corner. At this point, she's become so unlikable (calling her mother a whore? Really?) that I'll find it hard to ever think of her as anything other than the show's resident twentysomething villain, albeit one with a penchant for really cheesy pickup lines like, "You have really good hands ? strong and soft at the same time."

Finally, is anyone buying the plot twist of mother lioness Nora willingly opening her guest bedroom to Rebecca? The idea that Nora would put anyone else's happiness before her own child's seems inconceivable ? and seriously out of character. I can't wait to see Sarah's response to mom's new houseguest.

On the plus side, it was fun seeing Holly return to action after being relegated to the sidelines in recent episodes, and Patricia Wettig seemed to delight in delivering the night's best zinger: "Keep your washed-up husband away from my little girl!" That said, nothing beat the subplot with Little Paige (Kerris Dorsey) distracting Uncle Kevin (Matthew Rhys, pictured) during a game of Connect Four by grilling him about the state of same-sex marriage and his own lack of a boyfriend. I loved his explanation that "Some people aren't relationship types. Like George Clooney. And me. And George Clooney," but better still was his observation that Paige will be a killer addition when she's old enough to take on the Jones family at game night.

a bullet in your head... a bullet in your head... A Bullet In Your Head... A BULLET IN YOUR F---ING HEAAAAAAAAAAAD!!

Oh! Excuse me, PopWatchers?I was just reminiscing about some of Rage Against the Machine?s performance tonight, or what will heretofore be known as THE GREATEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE. Um, or at least that?s how it seems right now. I?m sure I?ll remember other wonderful things that have happened to me over the last 31-some-odd years, but for the time being, it is awfully hard to envision that anything could beat standing on a picnic table, surrounded by like-minded strangers, and watching one of my favorite bands of all time reunite after seven years, screaming things like ?THE NINA! THE PINTA! THE SANTA! MARIA!? for all I?m worth.

For what it?s worth, I can?t believe everything lived up to my lifetime of expectations. It?s been a little over two hours since the last notes of ?Killing in the Name? rang out through the night sky, a little over two hours since I let loose the loudest profanity I have ever unleashed ? you know which one I?m talking about?but I haven?t yet quite come to terms with the fact that the show, and this weekend, are actually over.

After the jump, my recap of the final night of Coachella 2007, in which I will try and probably fail to talk about something other than Rage Against the Machine. Come along, won?t you? I shall try and keep the shouting to a minimum...

Let?s see. When last we spoke, I was sitting in a field listening to Willie Nelson as the sun set over the crowd. God, that feels like months ago, PopWatchers, and I?m just going to breeze through what transpired between him and the headliners, as, if we?re all being honest with ourselves, we?re not terribly interested in them and would prefer to cut right to the Rage, right? Right.

Willie was followed by a recently reunited Crowded House, who played to a dwindling crowd but sounded phenomenal. I didn?t stay for the whole set ? headed off to find food once they began a bizarrely faithful cover of the Dixie Chicks? ?Silent House? [Editors' Note: Actually, Finn co-wrote the song with the Chicks, and Crowded House later recorded their own version.] ? but I made sure that, before I left, I heard what I came for. Yes, I am a sucker for ?Don?t Dream It?s Over,? for reasons that have to do with warm summer nights and a broken heart resulting from an unhealthy crush on a boy from swim team, and I?ll admit to feeling another flash of unrequited love as those twangy opening notes made their way to my ears. But then tragedy struck: Neil Finn?s microphone cut out, mid-chorus, and the poor guy looked out at the audience and implored the group?at this point comprised largely of enormous men in ?Battle of Coachella? t-shirts and kids who were either not alive or not sentient when the song was released ? to sing. This did not go well. For the record, Neil, I tried.

From there by way of the deep-fried artichoke hearts stand (disappointing), I set a course for Lily Allen. This was less exciting for me than it may have been for you, as I just saw her at SXSW and she has not canceled any tour dates for which I have tickets. The prom queen seemed to be coping with her recent sobriety as well as can be expected, and while I noticed nothing all that special going on vocally, I did note that she was cursing far less than usual. My cue to leave her party was when she lit up a smoke after singing ?Littlest Things,? which she?d introduced by apologizing for her voice being ?really f---ed right now.? (And yes, for Lily Allen, that sentence structure constitutes cursing less.)

I swung past Amos Lee, who was doing his down-home thing (somewhat refreshing, actually), then hustled to the Outdoor Stage to catch some of Air, because it looked like everyone and their mother was walking in that direction. Sure enough, the grounds were packed... but damn you, Outdoor Stage: In the exact same place that Jarvis Cocker showed up 20 minutes late, the trippy Frenchmen were a full forty-five minutes late in beginning. That is too long to wait, PopWatchers, especially when the show on the nearby mainstage is booming with the smash of Manu Chao. Once the crowd started angrily booing, I took off.

Later reports confirmed that Air did in fact eventually play, although it was only for five songs, and yes, everyone could hear the thumping of Manu Chao throughout. (They also suggested that Air did not explain the delay, and spoke only through their robot.) It seems that boneheaded scheduling haunted a couple of the lovelier acts this lovely Sunday: Sweet little José Gonzales was stuck in a tent sandwiched between Placebo and the dance venue, which can?t have been fun for him, as he is somewhat averse to loud noises; Amos Lee was stuck contending with Lily Allen?s brass section; and, oh, yeah, a couple people had to play opposite Rage. (It?s a shame about that, isn?t it, Evan Dando of the Lemonheads?)

So, yes, this Manu Chao person. I had taken to calling him ?Manu What?s-His-Chops? until I got over there and actually saw what he was all about: Imagine Keith Richards fronting a band that plays reggae-tinged reworkings of Clash songs, primarily in Spanish.  Now apply some revolutionary political leanings to that music. (Manu: ?You cannot fight terrorism with terrorism! You cannot fight terrorism with Guantanamos! You can fight terrorism with education! Schools!?) Now make it really good and generally entertaining, and play it in front of thousands and thousands of starved Rage Against the Machine fans. What?s-His-Chops was a significantly more appropriate opening act for Zach de la Rocha etc. than, say, Crowded House would have been. Hey now, hey now, don?t dream it?s a bullet in your f---ing head...

And then we waited, and waited, and waited... and then the lights went out, and I screamed, and Tom Morello?s magical mystery guitar kicked into the first strafing, chilling notes of ?Testify.? And from that point on, I saw very little outside of my tunnel vision to the far-off stage where, for about an hour and a half, Rage Against the Machine was finally playing a concert, one I was at. Yes, it?s true, PopWatchers: I?d never seen Rage before tonight. It?s a long story, involving symphony musician parents, abject poverty, bad timing, crabby siblings, and Mike D from the Beastie Boys falling off his bike, and I?ll spare you the details (for once). Suffice it to say that this was a very, very special experience for me, one which I enjoyed thoroughly, much to the amusement of those around me. (One of the guys we were sharing a picnic table with turned to me mid-show and said, ?You seemed so mild-mannered before.? Yeah, not so much.) And now I?m torn between wanting to keep it all to myself, for myself, and wanting to do my job. Hmm. Well, let?s just describe the scene:

Every hand in the joint was raised and holding a digital camera, the blue view-screens speckling the dark crowd like stars. From my perch high atop a picnic table in the VIP section?yes, I wussed out, and yes, I fully appreciate the hypocrisy involved in screaming things like WE DON?T NEED THE KEY WE?LL BREAK IN from within a VIP area, thank you very much, but I wanted to be able to see, and write, and not die, okay??I couldn?t see if there was crowd surfing going on... but you know there was crowd-surfing going on. Rage worked through the set??Testify? into ?Bulls on Parade? into ?People of the Sun? into ?Bombtrack? into ?Bullet in Your Head,? and they could have stopped right there and I could have died happy?with just slightly less than their old zeal.  Sweat still drips from Tom?s baseball cap, and the rhythm section of Tim Commerford and Brad Wilk managed to survive Audioslave with their skills intact. But Zach de la Rocha, having finally abandoned that dream of a solo career, seemed to be holding something back. He said absolutely nothing between songs until he reached ?Wake Up,? where he finally, finally compared the Bush Administration to Nazis and said, in the only phrase that rang out clearly to where I was standing, ?The current administration should be hung, and tried, and shot.? Ah, Zach. We missed ya, buddy.

Back half of the set: ?Know Your Enemies,? ?Guerilla Radio,? ?Renegades,? ?Wake Up,? and probably some other stuff I didn?t write down, so busy was I with my thrashing. Then a short break, and a two-song encore of ?Freedom? and, inevitably, ?Killing in the Name,? and event whose power I cannot put into words. It was perfect. Except for the fact that, in general, everything was about 200 times quieter than I thought it needed to be. If my ears aren?t bleeding, it?s not loud enough. So who turned the speakers down? Respect for the neighbors... or government conspiracy? Don?t be fooled into thinking the latter isn?t possible. WAKE UUUUUP!  WAKE UUUUUP!! Oh, wait. There I go again. Sorry.

I guess that?s gonna have to do right now, unless you want to hear about watching a river of people stream towards the gates, or how it took us two hours to get home. I?m wiped. I left it all out there on the field, PopWatchers, and I did it for you. I?ve got nothing more to say, no conclusions to draw. I?ll try and come up with something more cohesive later this week, which I?ll post along with my pictures. Meanwhile, please share your own memories or experiences with Rage (the band or the emotion) down below as I go take a very long nap. Anger is a gift, people. COME ON.

UPDATE: The Editors have corrected the errors cited below by PopWatch readers. Whitney regrets the errors in this entry and would like to thank the commenters for thinking more clearly than she was at 3 a.m.

I'm trying my hardest to resist the urge to use the word "neat-o!" (tragic, I know) to express my excitement about the announcement that the co-writer of Batman Begins is working on a script focusing on one of my favorite characters from my favorite sci-fi franchise. Yes, PopWatchers, David Goyer (who's also responsible for directing The Invisible) will write and direct Magneto, a neat-o an X-Men spinoff that looks at the character's villainous origins -- or more specifically, about how his quest to avenge the Nazis who put his parents in Auschwitz turned him into a seriously disreputable dood.

Now, as fantastic an actor as Ian McKellen is, I'm guessing he's probably not the right man to portray the twentysomething version of his popular character. If I were casting the film, I'd go with Battlestar Galactica's Tahmoh Penikett (pictured), a PopWatch favorite who's got the good looks and charisma of a big-screen leading man, and more importantly, can actually act. (And for those of you who'd disqualify him for being too old, let's keep in mind that in most Hollywood circles, 31 isn't past the cutoff point for playing a high-school senior.) Are you on board with Penikett, or is there another young actor you'd cast as Magneto? Send your memo to the film's casting folks in the comments section below.

Ah, Sunday, how I feared one day you?d come. Your presence means Coachella is nearly over, and that this magical desert Brigadoon will once again disappear into the mist for another long, lonely year. It also means that the big Rage Against the Machine show is tonight, and I have not yet decided whether I am going to remain studiously aloof and stand outside that fray, or if I?m going to let my inner 15 year old enjoy the slamming, fist-pumping pit action I never got in my teens (for reasons I'll explain later). I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 4 hours to come up with a decision. If this is the last you hear of me, you?ll know what I went with.

Right now, though, it?s time to settle down on the cool grass and listen to some Willie Nelson-- happy birthday, sir!-- while I reflect upon my afternoon so far. After the jump, Kaiser Chiefs, Grizzly Bear, Explosions in the Sky, and why a Rodrigo y Gabriela (pictured) show should be mandatory for anyone who?s ever taken a guitar lesson.

Aw, Willie?s playing ?Pancho and Lefty.? Is this song sad because Merle's not here, or is this song just sad? ?All the Federales say... they could've had him any day... they only let him slip away, out of kindness I suppose..." That takes me back.

Also taking me back (nice segue, Whittlz!) was the sounds of The Feeling as Josh and I rolled in this afternoon: They were playing ?Video Killed the Radio Star,? which for some reason at the time I kept thinking was a Thomas Dolby song, something which I now realize is patently untrue. Whatever. I really had to pee. Anyway, Feeling = cute, flirty little Beatles-esque thing that put a spring in my step as we crossed the field to Asian Village, or whatever we?re calling the food area that?s got rice-paper screens and bamboo around the tent. There, we snagged a little lunch during the hyper hip-hop of The Coup before shuffling next door to whirl with the dervishes of Grizzly Bear. As their wails disappeared into the sun, we could hear Explosions in the Sky starting their instrumental genius on the mainstage, and trekked back across to lounge in the shade.

Attention: Willie would like all you mothers out there to remember that allowing your children to grow up and become adults of the cattle-herding persuasion is just a bad call. A good call, however (damn, Whittlz!), would be to pick up an Explosions in the Sky CD at your earliest convenience, even if it?s just the soundtrack to the Friday Night Lights movie. Their hour-long set was uninterrupted by chatter, just waves of guitar effects washing over us, valleys of sweet silence that rose into crescendos, cresting and breaking over a surprisingly loud crowd...

My god, I love you, Willie Nelson. The man just literally sang, ?I?m crazy... crazy for feelin? so lonely...? then tossed out a perfect ?Thank you very much? to the smattering of familiar applause. It?s like I?ve traveled back in time to 1983. I am in heaven right now.

After Explosions had collapsed on the stage, thanked us for coming, and sweetly expressed a hope that we?d come back someday, Josh and I headed for the non-Rage show I was most looking forward to this afternoon: Rodrigo y Gabriela, who missed SXSW due to a conflict at the U.S./Mexico border. (You might remember an interview I did with Apostle of Hustle?s Andy Whiteman, who wound up filling in.) I?d heard endless things about what these former thrash metal bandmates-- one guy and one lady-- could do with a classical guitar, and if I hadn?t overused the word ?mind-blowing? yesterday, I?d use it again now. The Mexico City natives (since relocated to Dublin, Ireland) are a strictly instrumental duo, in which Rodrigo (he?s the guy) plays these amazing flamenco solos while Gabriela (she?s the lady) handles the steady background and tosses out devil horns; they both manage to pound a heavy rhythm line using their instruments and their feet... hell, I don?t know how they were making half the sounds they were making. Gabriela?s strumming technique is not to be believed; she cocks and flails her wrist and spins her fingers around the strings, thwacking them in a circular pattern. I?m sure I?m not doing a very good job of describing that; here's a video that might help. I?m also probably not doing a very good job of describing their music, but for the record, even Rodrigo admitted ?We have no f---ing clue what we play? in the middle of the show. They peppered their already-flavorful set with tidbits of metal songs-- a little Metallica here, a little Rage there (IT?S JUST ANOTHER BOMBTRACK)-- led the crowd in a singalong of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here,? and in the most stunning moment of the set, played an absolutely gorgeous version of ?Stairway to Heaven,? weaving traditional sounds and nightclub jazz into the too-familiar solos and showing all of us in the crowd who have ever thought it was a good idea to play that song just because we've taken a few lessons that it is not, unless you can play it like that. Then Roderigo played slide with his beer, and I was sold. I glanced behind me-- Josh and I were standing just inside the back of the packed tent-- and realized that the audience was spilling 10, 15 rows behind us, craning their necks to see where this music was coming from. And, as I promised, we have in fact gotten better at clapping along.

Willie?s son Lukas is currently playing the fierce guitar blues of "Texas Flood." I don?t know why I?m surprised, but he?s really, really good! He also looks kind of like a hipster! How amazing and odd and wonderful all at once!

Finally, before coming over here, we checked in with the Kaiser Chiefs, stayed long enough to hear ?Everyday I Love You Less and Less? and ?Ruby? and ?Modern Way.? They were in good spirits and the crowd towards the front was merrily pogoing along, but I kind of think they?re a night-time band. You know. Better post-cocktail, when you and your chums are out on the town looking for a good time. Something about blinding sunlight wasn?t quite right for their dancey sound, and though frontman Ricky Wilson tried to get everyone ?from the spider to the... onion things? to clap along, I think a number of people were just killing time until we got where we are now: Willie.

Willie is singing a song he wrote after a recent bout with illness called ?Superman.? ?I ain?t Superman,? goes the chorus, but I believe I shall respectfully disagree. Everyone out here-- with the exception of the disinterested teens standing in front of me, pondering their scruffy hairstyles-- is having a grand ol? time. Once again, happy birthday, Mr. Nelson. Many very happy returns of the day.

And I shall return later, PopWatchers (how did you get so good at transitions, Whittlz??), if I survive the rage. I WANNA BE JACKIE ONASSIS I WANNA WEAR A PAIR OF DARK SUNGLASSES I WANNA BE JACKIE O O PLEASE DON?T DIEEEEEE...

As part of a brief but ongoing series, EW Photo Editor Michele Romero checks in with the following tease:

When my editors decided to ship me out to Coachella to rock the music fest photography assembly line for my job as a Photo Editor here at Edubs, I thought, me no like 60,000 people surrounding me in a dusty field in 1000 degree heat and that too tall guy always in front of me at a show. But I love photography and music and so I decided to take advantage of my job and check out what two of my photographers know well, the pit in front of the stage is the real front row. (Yes, in this episode of Survivor: Coachella you develop cockroach-like coping mechanisms to see your favorite bands.)

Of course, my photographers also know that you need to remember a synch cord to upload your pictures (see you soon, Best Buy!) and in reality I would've fired me if I had hired me. But you'll see and read about my digital adventures in front of some of my favorite bands as soon as I figure out how to upload pictures on this sweet D80 camera on loan from Nikon.

Look for her awesome shots-- as well as observations about our fellow festival-goers that only the extraordinary Roms could make-- early next week. I've seen some of the shots. You LCD Soundsystem fans will want to check back in.

I had a phenomenal day at Coachella on Saturday, PopWatchers, one that?s going to be near impossible to top, today or at any time in the future. From the wake-up pop of Fountains of Wayne to the come-down buzz of the Rapture, I danced like a crazy fool in flip-flops for nearly 10 straight hours. And while I'm a little sad I missed the out-of-control Girl Talk set (where Paris Hilton was rumored to be among the 50 scantily-clad people dancing on a stage that was described to me as "where the Cobrasnake threw up"), I regret nothing. Not even the strange, spastic thing my arms started doing in the middle of the Arcade Fire?s ?Neighborhood #3 (Power Out).? I certainly don't regret missing the reportedly awesome Kings of Leon, because 1) I enjoyed them plenty two months ago and 2) the Decemberists changed my life.

Yet amidst all that greatness, my biggest epiphany occurred, ironically, at the beginning of the set I was least excited to see: When the Red Hot Chili Peppers took the stage, it was as though the skies opened and God spoke directly to me. Although kind of not in the way that you?d think.

Read on, darling PopWatchers, for an explanation, plus: Arcade Fire! LCD Soundsystem! Black Keys! And reports from our celebrity and fashion correspondents! All that and more... after the jump!

So for all my enjoyment of this year?s festival, I?ve still spent an inordinate amount of time wandering around, staring at people, and trying to figure out what, exactly, is wrong with them. And I'm not just talking about the usual fascinations (people who can't apply sunscreen properly, people dressed inappropriately for their body type, people who puke and just keep on walking) or the serial song-samplers (reports from Peter, Bjorn and John indicate the place pretty much emptied after they played "Young Folks"). No, this year I have been truly amazed at all the people, the thousands and thousands of people, who appear to have no abiding interest in the music at hand. Whether screaming nonsense to their buddies during Björk's set, posing in their bikinis for photographers during the New Pornographers, or jostling past you to stand closer to the stage and then spending the entire set gabbing and blowing bubbles, these people have made the last two days in many ways a challenge for those of us who actually, you know, want to see bands. My question all along has been, Why would anyone put up with all of Coachella's challenges-- heat! sun! expensive food! traffic! tall guys in sombreros who stand right.in.front.of.you. at every.single.show!-- if they weren't intensely committed to the performances? I'm certain there are other places in the Palm Springs area where one could sun themselves while drinking to excess. And I'm certain the tickets to get into those places are not $100.

For me, this phenomenon really came to a head during the Arcade Fire's set, an especially historically significant show, given that the Montreal collective's appearance at Coachella 2005 launched them into stratospheric levels of indie rock fame. In my opinion, they more than rose to this occasion. I could tell because once again, the instant I heard the first few notes of "Keep the Car Running," I was back in the field, skipping towards the stage, adrenaline rushing through my veins and forcing me to move, move, keep moving. I found an empty patch of grass off to the side, dropped my backpack for the first time all weekend, and, against my better judgment, did the dopey hippie dance I think I picked up at art school. Win et. al. surged into "Black Mirror," and I kept flailing, and then I heard a pipe organ, and I knew it was time to get serious. From out of my cargo short pockets I pulled: Blackberry, cell phone, notebook, pen, pack of cigarettes, car keys, wallet, digital camera. I placed these things on the ground next to my backpack. And I lost all control. By the time "Wake Up" came along, my calves were burning from bouncing, my throat was dry from singing, and I could feel the sweat pooling in unfortunate places, but I didn't care. I looked up on stage and Win and Richard and Régine were sweaty and looked exhausted, too, but Win took the microphone and plunged into the first rows of the crowd as his wife imped and grimaced for the cameras, and if they could continue, playing their guitars and keyboards and hurdy-gurdys like the fate of the free world rested in their hands, then the least I could do was go all spastic during "Power Out" and chime in on the "Hey!"s of "No Cars Go." This was the very, very least I could do, to pay them back for all they were giving me. If the Decemberists were a spiritual awakening, this was transcendence.

But even as I was wigging out, a little part of my brain was looking around at my friends and neighbors on the grass. This is what I saw: Several couples taking digital pictures of themselves in various positions. Many people lying on their backs, staring at the sky. A variety of heated conversations involving cocktails and marijuana. Girls wandering aimlessly in packs, talking on their cell phones. Mostly, I saw people casually paying attention, if at all. There was mild clapping. There was the occasional wooo. But where the folks up front were jumping and pumping their fists in the air (and, according to Josh, being hosed down by security), by the time it got back to where I was-- about even with the sound board-- folks looked like they were waiting for a bus.

So, okay, I get it: You don't have to like the Arcade Fire. You don't even have to pay complete attention to the Arcade Fire. But if you want to chat, or fight, or make calls, or grope each other, isn't there someplace else you can go, away from those of us who are trying to enjoy this? Why are you here?

(This is the part where God spoke to me.)

For after the Arcade Fire left me broken, jelly-legged and schvitzing in a field, it was time for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I had decided to stay for a couple songs-- they were the headliners, after all, and it is my job to cover the headliners-- so I used the set break to send off yesterday's blog from the press tent. Just as I was emerging from VIP, a cheer rose from the crowd unlike any I've ever heard, a deep, needy, masculine cheer, and I looked up to see that 3/4 of the RHCP had taken the stage. They began a funky instrumental as I started walking back towards the mainstage, but I suddenly found my progress slowed almost to a stop by a phenomenon I was in no way prepared for: Every single person in the field was standing, riveted, staring at the stage. The kids who'd been dry humping on blankets were up. The stoned nappers were awake, pointing their spliffs towards the sky. A pack of girls ran past me to get closer, one of them tripping and sprawling on the ground in her haste; she got right up and kept on running. I looked back at the VIP section to see a sea of white faces beyond the fence, packed in like sardines, not a soul distracted or otherwise occupied. And as I took a slow lap of the grounds-- as far back as the food court, as far east as the trance dome-- the view didn't change: The entire festival had come to a halt, anticipating the arrival of Anthony Kiedis. When he finally emerged and the band launched into "Can't Stop," I heard a crack above me and looked up to see a large man with a long white beard, who closed his eyes, sighed, and then said, with some resignation, "This, Whitney. This is why they are all here."

I've never been impressed with the Chili Peppers live, but something about the Dave Grohl-esque mustache Kiedis is currently sporting must be acting as a kind of magical talisman to ward off his persistent intonation problems. And the songs themselves-- "Dani California," "Otherside" (which inspired a throaty groan of satisfaction from the men around me), "Higher Ground," and my current fave, "Snow (Hey Oh)"-- were rich and full, anchored by the thwacking of Flea's bass lines. Even John Frusciante's weird falsetto takes on Fleetwood Mac's "Songbird" and Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" (seriously) were kind of pretty. I wandered to LCD Soundsystem (they sounded good, but I couldn't fit into the tent and didn't feel like shoving anyone), dropped in on Sparklehorse (poor little guys were playing to like 120 people), but kept getting pulled back to the mainstage. By the time they hit the high-school singalong of "Under the Bridge," there was no fighting it anymore. The Chili Peppers had won. The beast was sated.

My last full show of the night was the Black Keys, who were mind-blowing, but I'm out of adjectives. I'll just keep saying "mind-blowing." It's a two-man southern blues outfit from Ohio, similar to the White Stripes with none of the artistic pretension: Dan Auerbach slides, hammers, and nearly strangles his guitar to create the most mind-blowing sounds, while Patrick Carney creates entire mind-blowing worlds on his kit. They are my new indie-rock-boy crushes, and I wish you all could have been there to hear this show. The good news is that, post-Chili Peppers, everyone who was there to hear the show was there because they wanted to hear the show-- not because they were saving a spot for something later or killing time until the headliners-- which lead to the most mind-blowing cheering (per capita) I'd heard so far. There was a real feeling of cameraderie as we all bounced and bobbed our heads and hollered for more at this late-night hootenanny, which ended (too soon) with the stomp of "Have Love Will Travel," and sent us all jukeing out into the night.

Whew. Is that enough for ya? It was certainly enough for me. I'm rather thankful it's a slow Sunday today, all leading up to the reunion RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE OMG. Two thoughts on that: Having experienced the Chili Peppers' fans, I'm a little worried about who Rage will bring out of the woodwork, but then again, the band I was most excited to see coming in here was Rage, so I'm not one to talk. And second, I'd better hurry and come up with more adjectives. I don't think a blog consisting solely of F--- YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME and WE DON'T NEED THE KEY WE'LL BREAK IN written over and over again will suffice.

LORI MAJEWSKI HAS STOPPED LOOKING AT FACIAL HAIR AND STARTED LOOKING AT TORSOS

"On the whole, both sexes were all about wearing as little clothing as possible. But every once in a while, there'd be a fun tee to give your eyes a rest from the seemingly unending sea of flesh. Four of our favorites:
Everything you like, I liked five years ago
Modern art makes me want to rock out
NKOTB: Summer Magic Tour '90
Fountains of Wayne's Adam Schlesinger in a Huey Lewis and the News Tour '85 tee"

IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHERE THE FAMOUS PEOPLE ARE, ASK SHIRLEY HALPERIN

"Got the lowdown on the Scarlett - J&MC hook-up from a friend who was hanging out with her late last night. Scarlett was telling everyone (including Drew B.) that the guys "just called" her and asked if she would do it. They thought it would be a good fit with the whole Lost in Translation connection. She was also decribing how nervous she was just before she went on stage.

For Kings of Leon, Drew [with new beau Spike Jonze in tow] was standing on the side of the stage while [ex-bf] Fab [Moretti] was on the other. Drew also met Regina Spektor on sidestage and was gushing about her set earlier."

Other sightings: Nicky Hilton. Paris Hilton. Tara Reid. Elijah Wood. (Not all in the same group.)

Unconfirmed star rumor of the day: Britney Spears. [Whittlz notes: I wouldn't be surprised. Wigs are a popular fashion statement here.]

Today?s a big day, PopWatchers: It?s Saturday, the heat is overwhelming, and a bunch of my favorite bands are playing right in a row. The Coachella Math is getting hard -- how to weigh the Rapture against the Black Keys? Or LCD Soundsystem against the Red Hot Chili Peppers? New Pornographers vs. Peter, Bjorn & John? What about Kings of Leon vs. the Decemberists?

That last one was easy -- Colin Meloy and his merry band (pictured) released what was easily my favorite record of last year, The Crane Wife, and I hadn?t seen them play that stuff live yet. Was my confidence in the Portland songsmiths rewarded? Hell yeah. To quote Colin himself, it was a perfect, a perfect, a perfect, a perfect, a perfect, a perfect, a perfect, a perfect show. There's always that Coachella moment, I think, when the sun is finally behind the mountains and everything starts turning from an endurance sport into sheer pleasure. Last year, I experienced it when the Yeah Yeah Yeahs played "Maps" just as the first searchlights were shooting into the desert sky. That made me cry. This year, it came in the form of a man in a giant whale costume, and a thousand screaming strangers, and a show that made me feel like I was on a giant, pirate-ship-shaped rollercoaster.

After the jump, the results of all my Saturday Coa-Choices... plus Shirley Halperin does some more spotting of the famous, and Lori Majewski brings your attention to the trend that?s sweeping the faces of our nation.

So, I'm writing this from the VIP section, but only because I haven't found reliable internet access anywhere else on the grounds, and I am committed to bringing you this action as it happens. I guess I learned my lesson yesterday: VIP is fine for working, not so fine for concert enjoyment.

Everyone learns a couple lessons on the first day of Coachella, whether it?s how not to get sunscreen in your eyes (still haven?t figured that out), the best way to collect 10 empty water bottles to cash in for one full bottle (let?s just say I haven?t seen too many lids actually on the recycling bins), or where to park. Thanks to figuring out that last aspect, Josh and I rolled in with plenty of time this morning, and found ourselves right back inside the sweat lodge better known as the Mojave tent, where Brit-rockers the Cribs were chanting to a packed house. We liked them... but we were melting, and Fountains of Wayne were calling us with promises of catchy harmonies and bar-band guitars. The sound of a car radio being tuned to a news station came across the speakers (?Traffic and weather on the 8s?), and like moths to a Jersey flame we came a-walking. They opened with ?No Better Place," played a jaunty ?Hey Julie," and had you been watching when Chris Collingwood sang the first lines of ?Mexican Wine,? you would have seen me and my backpack go skipping across the field to whoop and cheer and jump up and down in front of the stage. This was the moment I was missing yesterday, that flash of total joy that made me forget the heat and the laptop in my backpack and the perfectly coiffed L.A. girls in their thousand-dollar dresses and heels cruising around VIP land. I just jumped up and down. Because of this thrill -- and because they played ?Radiation Vibe? -- I will forgive Fountains of Wayne for omitting ?Stacy?s Mom? from their set. I will only say, dude, come on. It?s a hundred degrees out here, and we?re still bouncing. Throw us a bone from the hit parade, can?t you?

Over at Hot Chip, I didn?t need to know the names of the songs to dance; the electro-pop outfit laid down INXS-worthy beats and had bodies spilling out of the Mojave, girls twirling on the grass, boys jiving in their track shorts (seriously, what is that trend). As they say, it was ?going off.? Still, I couldn?t stay, for one of my sure things was about to begin across the grounds: Everyone?s favorite Canadians, the New Pornographers. Yes, that?s the choice I made, despite the buzziness of Peter, Bjorn & John, who I just saw at SXSW, anyway, and who were back in the sweat lodge. I don?t need to prove that I?m ?cool? or ?in the know.? At this point, I just needed to jump up and down some more, in the fresh, clean, dry air. And so I did, to ?Twin Cinema? and ?From Blown Speakers? and ?Mass Romantic,? getting a little out of control on that last one and slamming into the dude behind me. (Sorry.) The rest of the crowd wasn?t nearly so active (except the people who were launching handfuls of red and white confetti), and I couldn?t tell if they were just hot, or bored, or what. Maybe the problem was starting with ?Sing Me Spanish Techno,? which is nearly impossible to top. Maybe the problem was the slightly sloppy guitar work that marred the set. Maybe people just can?t cope without Neko Case (although, to her credit, cousin Kathryn is getting better). I can rule out one possibility: I don?t think people were upset to be missing Travis, based on the sarcastic laughter drummer Kurt Dahle got for singing along with ?Why Does It Always Rain On Me,? which we could hear wafting across the field. This pretty much brought the show to a halt, as Carl Newman seemed inescapably distracted by the other band's set. It was funny. Unless you didn?t think it was funny. I personally thought it was hilarious. Carl encouraged us to mope along with the other song, and some of us did, until we realized we knew no words beyond the title. (Best piece of dialogue: Carl: "Keep it down! We're trying to play a show over here!" Kathryn: "Are we?") Ah well. I did know the words to ?Use It.? And used them.

This brings us to the Decemberists, one of those shows that was so special for me I almost hate to ruin it by attempting to put it into lame-ass words. Colin & Co. -- in seersucker suits as opposed to the more practical t-shirts I'd seen them sporting in the press tent this morning -- kicked off with "Crane Wife 3," then performed the entire 12-minute operetta "The Island," a master class in band choreography as they jumped from instrument to instrument without pausing the flow. They dipped back to the past for ?July, July!? and then made my heart soar with ?Oh, Valencia." Next was the retro rock of ?Perfect Crime #2,? which led to a (still unresolved) dance contest, which led to the entire crowd pogoing. Unbelievably, it was then already time for the last song (damn you, 12-minute operetta!): ?The Mariner?s Revenge,? and the aforementioned whale costume. People who had been standing, stuck, sweltering, were suddenly waving their hands in the air, jiggling their fingers, singing ?Find him! Find him!? in silly falsetto voices, and then, when the whale appeared, we wailed the lament of the dying as loud as we could as Colin danced a jig before us. It was, if you will please excuse me for getting cheesy for a second, the most entertaining spiritual awakening I have ever experienced.

Speaking of spiritual moments, the Arcade Fire are upon us. Check back in tomorrow morning for news of this, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and whoever wins the Rapture/Black Keys battle!

LORI MAJEWSKI'S 'STACHE WATCH

"One of the most ubiquitous male accessories of the fest? A Sonny Bono 'stache, most recently made cool again (or not) by Brandon Flowers from the Killers. Why would anyone want to look like (My Name Is) Earl, especially at Coachella, where the extra hair equals extra sweat? Well, the aforementioned Bono was the mayor of Palm Springs. And Cisco Adler -- rocker son of producer/director Lou -- has one and seemed to do quite well with the ladies in the VIP area (and Mischa Barton, for one, must not have found his not-quite-a-fu-manchu facial hair to be a turn-off). Coming soon: the throat-only beard made popular by Captain Ahab?!"

SHIRLEY HALPERIN WILL SPOT THE CELEBRITIES FOR YOU

?Friday night, Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan made the scene at an ultra-exclusive after-hours party at Palm Springs' Vicery hotel.?