Hella Coachella

•We passed up boring Queens of the Stone Age for a chance to witness the Mutaytor, a troupe of performing artists who play with flaming Hula-Hoops and stuff. We tired quickly at the spectacle—so Lollapalooza '92—and instead opted for the Subjagator, who offered a chance to view fire-breathing, remote-controlled robots, wanton destruction and shit blowing up. After nearly an hour's worth of delays, though, the guy who was apparently running the show announced that what we were about to see was a mere dress rehearsal for the "big" show on Sunday night. Dick.

•The Blue Man Group were splendid—mostly just added musicians to their already-percussion-laden stage show. They slid a video camera down the throat of a security guy so we could all see what he ate for lunch; banged away on their plastic-pipe contraptions; floated techno-fried jellyfish and dragonflies around; morphed into traffic warning signs brought to life; and covered both "White Rabbit" and "I Feel Love" in fascinating, danceable ways that made neither song seem dated or goofy. Plus, we didn't have to pay exorbitant Las Vegas prices to see any of it.

•Speaking of goofy, what business is it of KROQ's to have their lame on-air personalities (we don't dare call them DJs) hop up onstage and yelp, "Hi, I'm from KROQ! Woo-hoo!" at an event where the vast majority of the bands playing will never, ever get spun on the station?

•We especially loved all the new Beastie Boys tunes: "The U.S. Is Going Around Acting Like a Bully," "We Need to Allow the UN to Play a Major Role in the Reconstruction of Iraq" and "When These Next Elections Come Up, Please Vote for Anybody But Bush." Indeed, it has been a long ride from "Cookie Puss" to here.

As for Sunday, well, we had tickets; we wanted to go. But around 3 a.m., the nasty Mojave winds had kicked our allergies up with a vengeance. To stem the river of snot, we stuffed toilet paper up our nose, which made sleeping damn near impossible. Faced with a day of sneezing and watery eyes just to see the Stooges reunion, we bailed Sunday morning and drove home—we'd rather be able to breathe, thanks. But next year, we'll be sure to pack the Claritin. (Rich Kane)

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