Saturday was a study in contrasts.  Where one stage may began with the dramatic Perfume Genius owning the stage in drag, it may end with Flosstradamus and Axwell ^ Ingrosso turning it into the outdoor version of the dance-exclusive Sahara tent. Take my favorite stage of the festival, the Mojave – I opened things up with a buzz-building performance by Ryn Weaver, who dedicated a song to her late grandfather, who lived in the Coachella valley, and later jetted over there to catch a bit of Run The Jewels, all while somehow missing out on Toro y Moi, Tycho, and SBTRKT. It’s a cliché, but if you can’t find something you like on any given day here, it’s probably on purpose.

The heat that finally drove me away from Perfume Genius’s blistering set and a temporary stop to see Canadian synthpop star Lights took me to the one place the temperature was actually almost hotter inside than out: the constantly jacked up Sahara tent. Here, ecstasy could generally be found corroding the brains of America’s future leaders from the moment the festival opened to the time it closed and its denizens went out to chase the dragon in the campgrounds. Normally I’d wait until I didn’t have to look people in the eyes to check out the Sahara, but the promise of an amazing light display from resident visual geniuses V Squared labs kept me around for Dirty South’s criminally early 6 o’clock set.

But first I had to endure a set from Amsterdam trap juggernauts Yellow Claw, who threw down the most ridiculously ham-fisted set of the weekend; and I mean that in the best way possible. I mean, I suppose you’ve made it when you have your own hype man, and while Yellow Claw’s MC Bizzey is pretty hilariously dumb to listen to, one couldn’t deny the effect the band’s outrageously loud, pummeling beats had on the crowd. Mosh pits were formed; people were crowd surfed; my insides felt like they were being carefully removed via a buzzsaw-edged scooper. It’s as if the Dutch trio set out to make the most obnoxious, offensive, drop-heavy set of the weekend, and no mercy given. At one point, MC Bizzey declared that they were “going to fuck Coachella right in the pussy,” right before an air horn announced another filthy choon. The claw sunk into me deep.

V Squared Labs’ visuals didn’t disappoint during Dirty South’s aggressive set, but it was a disappointment that they were scheduled while the sun was still making its way down the mountains and diluting the impact. After the twin gut punch of those two Sahara sets, the only proper remedy was faceplanting in the grass at the Outdoor stage for Belle and Sebastian. While the four-on-the-floor groove of new tune “The Party Line” was predictably a hit, other songs were sidetracked by miscues and sound and light issues. But Stuart Murdoch is a veteran, and these were minor missteps for a band that nevertheless had the dedicated crowd in the palm of their hand. Their summoning of several people from the audience to dance on stage to “The Boy with the Arab Strap” and “Legal Man” was fan service at its finest.

Run the Jewels’ punishing set in the Mojave, meanwhile, was an obvious highlight of the festival, beset by no technical difficulties because, for the most part, Killer Mike and El-P handled everything themselves. There was, of course, the expected assist from Zack de la Rocha on “Close Your Eyes (And Count to Fuck),” but it was the little things – like Travis Barker on drums, El-P announcing Killer Mike as his “best friend” – that augmented what was an unrelenting assault of vigorously received beats into a sublime set. A vicious set adored by a crowd that stretched far beyond the capacity of its tent.

The most theatrical set of the weekend was, of course, that of Father John Misty. Josh Tillman so inhabits the persona he has created over two albums that it’s nearly impossible to see the real man beneath it. Misty ran about the stage like a man possessed; in the first song alone, the title track to his latest record, I Love You, Honeybear, Misty somehow climbed atop the drumset and slid down his own microphone pole – or that’s what it looked like from the field. His banter was impeccable – at one point, Misty asked the audience, “who’s peaking?” mid-verse, and then resumed “When You’re Smiling and Astride Me” without a break. Aside from the crowd rocking “Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings” and a raucous, terrifying rendition of “The Ideal Husband” that closed out his set, Misty’s finest performance occurred thirty-five minutes in, when he picked a random girl out of the audience. Misty had the girl, Amy, sit on a grandiose throne brought out for the song, surrounded her by women in white robes, pasties, and Kubrickian masks, huge teddy bears, flowers, and balloons, and proceeded to serenade her with Leonard Cohen’ “I’m Your Man.” As he practically crawled up her leg and kissed her hand, the look on Amy’s face on the video screen was hilarious. “Sorry about the nightmares you’re gonna have tonight,” he apologized at the end.

Try as he might, though, Father John Misty was pushed back to my second favorite set of the weekend after Jack White burned down the Main Stage over nearly two hours of hits. While I love the White Stripes and appreciate the Raconteurs, White’s solo stuff has largely been hit or miss for me. And White is an easy guy to make fun of – he looks like a bad Johnny Depp impersonator, and his public outbursts, jealously guarded guacamole secrets and refusal to smile are off-putting, to say the least. When White plays the guitar, you forget about all that stuff. Immediately. His guitar playing is a series of virtuoso movements that create shapes you’d never imagine coming out of a guitar. It’s undeniably visceral, this ability to transform an instrument into what sounds like seven different animals.

That he was aided with a crack band that included the incredibly talented fiddler Lillie Mae Rische and drummer Daru Jones, who stood up, grinning, as often as he was murdering the skins. Occasionally White dipped into typical Jack White-isms – calls to support your local artists, a repeated chant of “music is sacred,” shout-outs to his festival peers (he’s a Run the Jewels fan!) – but for the most part, White was content to melt faces. By God, he did: “Icky Thump” into “High Ball Stepper” to open; a wrenching, screaming steel version of “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground”; an extended, seemingly limitless demolition and reconstruction of “Steady, As She Goes.” White seemed content to transform old hits into new, festival-sized behemoths – his live version of “We’re Going to Be Friends” was surreal, gorgeous, and magical, a seamless integration of his live wizardry and an intimate connection with the tens of thousands of people singing along. That’s not even mentioning his five-song (!!) encore, which started with a mind-numbingly complicated “Ball and Biscuit” and ended with, of course, “Seven Nation Army,” perhaps creating the world’s largest sing-a-long. For all his pretentions, White isn’t above giving the people what they want. White may seem like an asshole when he talks about music being sacred, about being “authentic” and real.” When he plays, though, there’s no questioning his sincerity, and, more importantly, his power.

Quick Hits

• Duke Dumont matching Dirty South and Yellow Claw for the best Sahara tent set of the day (and certainly the most crowded), while giving Dirty South’s visual display a run for its money.
• Speaking of the Sahara, Ratatat’s long-awaited return was a bit disappointing – after coming on nearly fifteen minutes late, the band meandered about far too much, exploring the lines of their new songs in interesting ways but making the fatal flaw of failing to make the audience move. Annie Mac in the Yuma was a far better option to close out the night sweating.
• Australian electro-soul singer Chet Faker nailing a cover of “No Diggity” as the sun beat down on a crowded set at the Outdoor Stage.
• Tyler the Creator telling Kendall Jenner, standing in the VIP section at his set, to go fuck herself was 100% Tyler: totally redundant and clichéd, yet it wouldn’t have felt right if he didn’t.
• Bands like Drive Like Jehu and Swans making a case for Coachella catering to a different clientele than the predominantly DJ-oriented college-age set, and doing it well. It was disappointing to see the size of their crowds, but it never appeared to make a difference to either band.

Day 1

Day 3