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Depeche Mode bassist Martin Gore, who also plays guitar, keyboard and writes songs for the band,

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Slug (aka Sean Daley) of hip-hop group Atmosphere melds words and music together.

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Cat Power’s Chan Marshall puts on a rather animated performance Saturday evening.

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Viewers stand back from a large-scale tesla coil entitled “CauaC” made by Syd Klinge.

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In between spinning the microphone stand around his body and running around on stage in the middl

Fourth annual Coachella diary

With eight reporters on the scene, the Daily Bruin fulfills its yearly duty and offers to everyone who was (all 60,000) and wasn’t there the fourth annual Coachella diary.

2:45 p.m. As I stand near the back of the Sahara Tent (the “dance tent,” as those giant disco balls prove), feeling every bit of myself – including the Quizno’s sandwich I had for lunch – vibrating to the deep pulsing rhythms of Hybrid, my just-gotta-dance and just-gotta-rock sensibilities are at war. But since the day has only just begun, and Daft Punk comes on in only eight hours, I suppose the dancing can wait. So I make the trek across the polo fields to catch the Walkmen in progress. – Richard Clough

3:15 p.m. My ears are nearly bleeding as I leave the main stage after the Walkmen’s afternoon set. With lead singer Hamilton Leithauser’s yowl audible across the festival at the Sahara Tent, the garage revivalists tear through some promising new material as well as hits such as “The Rat” and “We’ve Been Had.” The band closes with its upcoming single “Louisiana,” for which it brings on a trumpet player and a saxophonist, presumably to complete its aural assault on the people of Coachella. The Walkmen leave me hurting but happy, as any good rock band should. – Nick Rudman

3:46 p.m. Some observations as I wait for Wolfmother to take the stage: • The old man in the straw hat has wandering eyes. • I seem to be standing at the nexus of the smoking universe, where at least three distinct varieties of smoke have all converged into an acrid haze. This makes me irritable at first, but gradually I become curiously relaxed. • A very white-haired young man has made his way near me – Jim Jarmusch Jr. perhaps? – Richard Clough

4 p.m. After jazzing it up with The Zutons’ saxophone player in the Outdoor Tent, I walk over to the Mojave Tent, which rocks most of the indie acts of the day. I pass by a random guy wearing a loincloth and some dude in a khaki kilt, only to find myself transported to the ’70s. Well, the late ’60s/early ’70s, with Wolfmother (yeah, Wolfmama), calling forth the divine acid bearing of Robert Plant (and the decayed one of Ozzy), which satisfies the classic rock fix I can never have again. With his sneering face and ’70s afro, Wolfmother frontman/guitarist Andrew Stockdale kicks up in the air while churning solos on his Les Paul in the highlight songs “Dimension” and “Woman.” – Taleen Kalenderian

5:12 p.m. Perhaps more than any other set Saturday, Animal Collective’s sends listeners fleeing for the more inviting environs of the beer garden and the Virgin Megastore Tent. Arriving at the Outdoor Theater as the band takes the stage, I find it rather easy to move near the stage as droves of people realize Animal Collective is not, in fact, for everyone. But those who leave early are worse off for it. The band’s recent tours have been a testing ground for newer and increasingly uncompromising sounds, and this show proves no different, proving to be a fascinating elaboration on the eclectic experimentalism of last year’s album “Feels.” Rather than play a more traditional set of three-minute pop songs, the band prefers to blend its songs into expansive musical soundscapes, harsh and rhythmic, peculiar and frightening. Lead singer Avey Tare, who starts out the set looking like a harmless middle-schooler, is by the set’s midpoint spasming with the music, his face smeared with what I can only assume is purple face paint, screaming and singing noises and words in an exotic, almost tribal performance. To be honest, I’m amazed the band manages to corral their music when their 45-minute set ends. – Richard Clough

6:35 p.m. Perhaps Kanye West’s infamously formidable ego finally meets its match in the tens of thousands of people watching his set at the main stage. The two feed off each other beautifully, with the crowd responding with more fervor every time West rips his way through another hit (and they’re all hits). I’m disappointed that West starts late, but it’s almost worth it to hear his barely off-mic comments regarding his allotted performance time (along the lines of “Tell them to make time for me!”). The truncated set length causes West to discard his planned song list and ask the crowd what they want to hear. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what West, his small orchestra, his backup singers and his DJ play – he has the audience in his pocket. Kanye keeps up a good rapport with the crowd (during “Gold Digger”: “White people, this is your only chance to say the word ‘nigger,’ so take advantage of it!”), and finishes by bringing the (metaphorical) house down with a shortened version of “Touch The Sky.” – Nick Rudman

7:05 p.m. I don’t expect less of TV on the Radio. Actually, I don’t know what to expect – it doesn’t come around too often. It features some of the more unique instrumental sounds of the day: wind chimes on the bass guitar, interesting brass percussion and wavering synthesizers to set the mood. It is a very moving, blue-mood set, with dreamy bluesy tones and electric progressions and long winded vocal harmonies. – Taleen Kalenderian

8:10 p.m. Watching Damian Marley, I remember suddenly why I don’t listen to reggae. It’s not that I think reggae music is bad – on the contrary, it is actually quite pleasant. However, every time I hear reggae I get excited and listen intently, only to turn it off after 10 minutes. Maybe it’s the perceived monotony, or maybe the vibe isn’t right, but for whatever reason I cannot take reggae in more than 10 minute spurts. “Jr. Gong” plays for one hour. You can imagine how this turns out. – Mark Humphrey

8:20 p.m. Goth-pop fashion plates and electronica band Ladytron, back for their first performance in three years, trances the kids at the Mojave tent with its poppy synths and black garbs. Chicks had been lining up for an hour waiting to hear the all-time favorite “Playgirl,” which is hauntingly and fashionably delivered by the female keyboardist and lead singer. Bleak-chic at its best? You bet. All the more, it is just a warm up for the Daft Punk set that is to come. – Taleen Kalenderian

8:25 p.m. Shirtless and with mountain-man facial hair on full display, Devendra Banhart looks every bit the media-designated gypsy king of the freak-folk movement, ready to share whatever idiosyncratic poetics he might capture from the dusk air; that is, until he and his backing band unveil their set. They are, unexpectedly and in a word, fun – decidedly soulful, yet with no qualms about daring to funk. Banhart has people clapping and dancing almost throughout, and even when he pulls out “This Beard is for Siobhan” and “Little Yellow Spider,” he drives those more folky staples to celebratory, crowd-pleasing heights. At one point, an audience member is invited to perform. The young woman shakes off whatever nerves she might have had and begins to sing slowly, improvising with the band and channeling, for a moment, whatever energy they were feeding off. When she runs out of words, she stays on stage, swaying, dancing. It is the kind of unrehearsed genuine expression nowhere to be found in most of the day’s top-billed acts. – Alfred Lee

8:30 p.m. I join my fellow drum ’n’ bass-heads to MC T-Power’s wicked rants over DJ Shy FX’s bass lines, which deliver like a baseball bat upside ya head in the Oasis Dome. Even a 2-year-old in her mother’s arms is throwin’ up a pair of glow sticks in a room that is packed too full to dance. Wind chimes made of driftwood and bells adorn the jungle-themed tent, as Shy FX shocks the crowd with an Isley Brothers “Between the Sheets” jungle remix. – Skye Mayring

9:35 p.m. Cat Power (Chan Marshall) is a timid animal with a long history of stage fright – most of her national tour was canceled recently because of a mysterious ailment – so it’s no surprise that, 10 minutes into sound check, the empty stage is quiet as a mouse. Finally, she does appear, triumphantly raising her arms like a boxer before launching into “The Greatest.” Marshall looks confident and go-lucky on stage, throwing her jewelry into the audience and dancing around like a giddy teenager on prom night. The performance ends up being Marshall’s coming out party – with the Memphis Rhythm Band behind her, she is a whole new animal. – David Greenwald

9:45 p.m. It’s a winter wonderland with a “Goonies” twist. In the “winter” dome designed by Keith Greco, a huge ice-like pirate ship serves as a lounging area for the lazy. Faux snowflakes fall from the ceiling, while “frozen” pirates statues guard their ice booty. A freezer is located in the back of the tent, though few notice. I open the door and find a room of ice sculptures. A girl slides belly-down through the mouth of one of them, a shark. – Skye Mayring

10:23 p.m. I would rather shake it than rock out, so naturally I am drawn to Atmosphere, and frontman Slug (aka Sean Daley) delivers a flawless, smooth, meaningful performance. Though comfortably free of contrived gestures, Atmosphere’s show fully rocks the stage with all the practiced presence possible. It is hard to stop dancing to get pictures. Mid-song, while furiously blending old hits with new album tunes, Slug stops the music completely to see if a questionably disheveled audience member is all right. Before I know it, I’m crying; he had stopped mid-sentence, silenced his musical cohorts, and it is the most devastatingly real thing I experience all day. I am moved to tears, not by the music but the silence. – Dharmishta Rood

10:30 p.m. While Depeche Mode plays on the main stage, electronic group Audio Bullys pulse and sweat all over the Sahara Tent, complete with neon raver light show. Judging by the exhausted concertgoers resting against the back stage barrier, though, the monotonous performance is a chance to recuperate before Daft Punk, Coachella’s marquee closing act. – David Greenwald

11 p.m. “I’m surprised more of them aren’t fat and bald,” a friend of mine says as Depeche Mode takes the stage. And really, as some of the festival’s elder statesmen, Depeche Mode looks and sounds great. After a while, however, the set begins to run together and I gradually lose interest, although it momentarily piques again when someone comes crashing down like a downed redwood due to dehydration. Overall, Depeche Mode’s set is solid and decently entertaining for nonfans, but probably absolute ecstasy for the hardcore. – Mark Humphrey

12:30 a.m. The entire day is building to this. The festival basically shuts down at 11, as thousands upon thousands pack into the Sahara Tent, chomping at the bit, chanting “Daft Punk!” over and over. The frenzied anticipation is slightly less than that of some kind of ritual sacrifice. The French electronic duo finally appear in robot costumes that can only be described as awesome, performing on a futuristic contraption that double as a light show. They play that robot dance music like the world (in their case, probably Neptune, maybe Jupiter) was going to end tomorrow, and the only way to save it was to party. The recognizable hits (everything except “Digital Love”) are melded into a relentless attack, a series of waves building and crashing repeatedly until the audience reaches its limit and can’t dance another step or sweat another bead. Then it keeps going for another half hour. And so does the audience. – Alfred Lee