arcade fire

two years ago this spring, i bit the bullet and flew to the coachella festival in indio, calif., outside palm springs. a college buddy sprung for festival tix, so i couldn't say no. besides, gang of four was on a reunion tour at that point, and coachella was the closest i was gonna be to seeing these brits.

if you haven't been to coachella, go. yes, bottled water is $7 (give or take), yes smokes are about as much, and yes, you'll probably wind up with a sunburn. but, next to bonnaroo, you'll won't see more cutting edge bands huddled together in one sitting.

the empire polo fields double as the festival grounds every year, with roughly six stages, some DJ tents, some open-air, strategically placed so the sound from one stage doesn't bleed into another.

gang of four was on the main stage, and they know how to make an introduction. the sound men cued up a tape of native american drumming until one of their crew, their manager, can't remember which, walked out before their set began and addressed the audience. loosely paraphrased: "you are about to hear the most musical thing to come out of punk, and the most punk rock to come out of england, but for now, listen to the sound of your own cultural imperialism."

this wasn't white guilt. this was fact. gang of four holds sway like few other punk bands do. they were the fugazi of their day, and everyone was paying attention.

45 minutes in, GOF is off to the races, proving its mettle. they're older, fatter and generally wiser, but no one can deny their stamp on every band, large and small, indie or not.

then, east of the main stage, the dirge guitar of arcade fire's "wake up," off 2004's funeral, compelled a tidal wave of bodies to jump ship on legend. writhing and galloping, the crowd flew to the front of the stage, stripped of all inhibition, watching win butler, regine chassagne and the rest of these montreal troubadours put on a clinic. it was, simply put, unforgettable.

Slackin'

dammit.

no one told me blogging is such a bitch. i feel like i'm doing jumping jacks or stuck on some sort of virtual obstacle course sucking wind. a proverbial rat scampering in the proverbial wheel, proverbially speaking. it's homework.

enough whining. LEO sprung for smoketown bbq, and i wolfed down my weight in swine. if you're not from louisville, google for directions and get your carnivorous chops to the corner of oak and logan streets. sweet, sweet 'cue, not the processed BW3's crap you drown in hot sauce in order for it to kick. yeah, smoketown ain't exactly gentrified, but trust me, this is an oasis. yet another reason i refuse to go vegetarian.

my roommates and i bought showtime last week, which is akin to giving patchouli to a deadhead. horrible for my motivation to do practically anything. paying bills, working in the yard, reading about post-9/11 conspiracy theories. NOPE! on saturday, my white irish ass was up at 9:30 a.m. devouring "californication" episodes. eight in, duchovny kills. brash, sarcastic, irreverent, insert superlative. makes great use of the entourage model: half-hour tops (more like 22 min.), no filler, fluff or hackneyed crap. best of all, nobody's sacred. and like i have to tell you natasha mcelhone's attractive …

in short: duchovny sheds geek-chic persona in favor of schleppy writer status, hates l.a., barely but still loves new york, can't shit a word out. his ex (who really isn't his ex-wife) shacks up, plans to marry his boss, who wants more words, less hang time with fiancee.

the only thing more annoying and cliche than a tortured writer is an actor who plays a tortured writer, but duchovny embraces self-deprecation so enthusiastically, i'm not left gagging on hyperbolic cliches. especially after this dart, thrown during drinks with an unwitting foil: "now you're giving me this look like i just finger-banged your cat."

i broke off my visual crack addiction mid-day saturday and soaked up civilization until sunday night, when the second season of "brotherhood" premiered. a bartender friend of mine says it might be better than "the sopranos." bold prediction. sopranos beat brotherhood to the punch as far as mob-family dynamic first, but let's put it this way, HBO's gonna have to do a lot more than pile on psychodramas to survive in The World Without Tony. "tell me you love me" isn't bad. It moves like a turtle, and so far, skews feminine. I doubt many men like it. But couple this with the forthcoming "In Treatment," and you can't help but wonder: how many times are you gonna sit on the couch (literally) to sit on the couch (metaphorically)?

they've gotta be careful. beat the sex motif to death and people tune out. one is enough, two's a stretch. we know what three is: when you start channel-surfing, and where i live, that usually means flipping over to ESPN. —MH