It was a psychedelic trip at The Fonda with a solid double bill of The Black Angels and The Horrors. Photos by Matt Draper.

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Not too long ago there was an article about the state of music videos in some relevant culture magazine. The alt suits were basically saying at print time (last year) that it was the best time to make music videos because of no budgets. That was the dumbest shit I have ever heard.

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Dear Rock Concert Gods,

I’ve put off writing this letter to you due to my admiration, love, and passion for good music. But it’s time. Please, dear gods that rule our eyes and ears—our hearts and our dancing feet—can you please put a cap on how many a-holes are allowed per venue per show? I’ve been to so many shows lately where the bands rock it to the max while the audience stands staring like a vacuous black hole of suckage. If you plan to grow roots in the middle of the dance floor only so that you can stare at the band with an “I just pooped my pants” expression, please, leave.

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We flopped happily far up front at mainstage as lengthening shadows set the mood for My Bloody Valentine. Management was handing out earplugs at the gate and small wonder, since toward the end of “You Made Me Realise,” guitarists Kevin Shields and Bilinda Butcher (the latter impassive as a Xanax-bombed soccer mom) loosed a gorgeous fifteen-minute-plus feedback annihilation that was easily the loudest thing I’ve ever heard in decades of doting on amplified music. It was less a solo than a hideous (and hideously effective) evocation of nightmare; a compressed and aestheticized variation on the opening bombardment at the Somme, another historic din that produced few actual causalties.

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Although we have yet to toy around with the Coachooser, we present here (via Goldenvoice and Coachella) the set times for this weekend:

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