Getting ready to return for day two of the Coachella festival, I’m of the opinion that if California destroyed the idea of peace, love, happiness, music and consumerism with Altamont, then they have just about made up for it. Life on the grounds of the festival, once you’re in, is heaven as Tim Burton would draw it. The biggest surprise of the festival this year is the visual appeal—while the sound quality in the valley is, well, at the level your average geek experiences inside his brand new Volkswagen Jetta, which is to say outstanding—the visual stimuli, what is there and what isn’t, one-ups the music.

Offering a “caption for the festival,” Rufus Wainwright told the crowd that “I look great but smell like shit…” which seemed about right… desert heat doesn’t make for good odors, but desert vistas, especially combined with an energetic gallery in the center of the festival, and, of course, the beautiful people on the many stages, make for something gorgeous. The two visual highlights, for me, would include then Bjork and her young Icelandic back-up band dominating the main stage—Bjork dressed in a polka dot shower curtain wrapped into a turban, her back-up band dressed in various shades of neon shower curtains worn as togas, carrying samurai style neon flags, standing under thousands of watts of blacklight. And then there was the sight of Canadian math teacher Peaches screaming out to curious Rage Against the Machine fans “Impeach my Bush”, clad in tight, gladiator style leather, standing atop a double bass drum, as the sun set over the valley.

Before that there were a number of remarkable performances, a number of likable musicians, with Bjork of course showing not only how to dominate a stage, but showing how to bypass affable and step into icon.

Extended coverage below…

My festival experience began with two hours of waiting to park and get in—due to traffic mishaps in LA before that, this meant missing Of Montreal and Nickel Creek. When I got in, there were the Arctic Monkeys, a band I’ve always considered to be the least original and most overhyped of the Brit pop scene. But it is one thing to dislike teenagers for by-the-numbers rock with lyrics that confuse sneer for wit, syllables for intellectualism, it is another to see these kids get up before thousands and play these songs with a sense of humor, and tighter than any band I’ve seen. Had I never seen them on a magazine cover, or in the New York Times, had I never listened closely to the lyrics, I would have been a fan for life.

Rufus Wainwright presented a bewildering performance. From the start, with a peculiar wardrobe malfunction involving a to-die-for butterfly broach, he offered causal quips between his smooth, honest and awkward songs. Here’s an explanation of how bewildering the show was: the self-described “Gay Sinatra” joked, nightclub style, “It’s great to be here in the desert where all the rejects have to go… you know, the gays the homosexuals…” to hoots and hollers, and then jumped into A Town That Has Been Burnt Down, with the refrain “I’m so tired of America”, a performance that would bring a theater crowd to their feet, and, having captured our attention and intellect, he declared he was hot, he was taking off his clothes, and pulled off a robe to reveal a red white and blue striped shirt and shorts combo.

Among other remarkable moments Friday: Felix the Kat getting a sing-along going from a small but vocal following, Jarvis Cocker showing up late, talking through the vast majority of his set but saying almost nothing except, I think, that it rains less in the desert than in England, and Interpol getting on stage and taking over the festival.

Interpol had the best response of the evening, something this reviewer found a little shocking. Yes, all dressed in black, their singer kind of looked like Mark Hamill in Return of the Jedi, which is neat, and their songs sounded like they did on the radio only a little more full. It was an odd moment, for all the eclectic performances of the night, Interpol’s straight-faced, straight-laced show, with no antics save the bass player growing a moustache, was the show of the night.

Later, Sonic Youth would play to an older crowd, and Bjork would play the main stage, drawing adoration, but also more than a little frustration. Bjork’s visual performance was stunning, but as she ain’t exactly tall, and as the video monitors that helped the crowd get a guess as to what was going on were focused on the motions of her DJs hands, not too much of the crowd saw more than the singers bobbing head. Her material, from her forthcoming album Volta, was mostly in minor keys and a little more laid back than her stage antics suggested, or than the crowd probably wanted.