Call them actors if you must, but Ryan Gosling and Zach Shields are performers. And with their band, Dead Man’s Bones, they are proving that there is a difference.

This weekend at Eagle Rock's Center for the Arts the band—joined by magician and former Possum Dixon front man Rob Zabrecky—will stage its second series of L.A. shows (after the October release of its self-titled debut album on Anti) in what Gosling and Shields hope to cultivate into an ongoing series of vaudeville-style special events featuring a rotating cast of characters, music and supernatural art forms.

They’ll play their music—a dark and murky-sweet stew of 1950s-style do-wop singed with the organ-heavy longing of early ‘60s lo-fi acts like the Zombies, and flavored with a dash of the aching minimalism harnessed by the traveling minstrels of the ‘30s.

But that’s just the beginning. Channeling a postmodern ethic, Dead Man’s Bones intends to make the audience as much a part of the show as the performers on stage. The result being that this is not a band of actors turned musicians, but rather a pair of like-minded friends exploring the rich depths of their creative potential, be it theatrical, musical or otherwise.

“We’re treating this particular show more as a party—a birthday party vibe, or a dance party with kids,” said Shields.

“There’s gonna be a bouncy castle and a chocolate fountain,” added Gosling. “And when they walk in everyone gets a cupcake.”

The seminal indie rock band Pavement played close and tight on the main stage at Coachella on Sunday night. In fact, members played so close together and with such an easy intimacy that it felt as if they were playing on a small stage at a little club in the early 1990s, when the album "Slanted & Enchanted" drove a stake of joy through the heart of every emotional kid in high school or college with multiple piercings.

I was one of those kids, and that record is still the touchstone of my youth. I discovered it in the vast Tucson desert of my teens and played it over and over again during snowy Boston nights in college, pining away over some boy in some band that I would eventually spend the next 10 years of my life with.

So when I sat in the grass to watch Pavement at Coachella, more than just an hour of my life was at stake.  I was subjecting myself to a journey of reminiscence. And that, after all, is what the best music is about. Your past, and if you can still connect with it as you age, your future. 

Fortunately, Pavement, from the looks on the faces of the devoted crowd, was successful in helping its fans take that journey. Stephen Malkmus' lilting vocals modulated from high notes to low notes to a playful growl at the drop of a dime, while the guitars ripped and soared with tender sorrow, and when the band launched into the anthemic "Perfume-V," the audience was reminded why Pavement still matters: It makes us feel OK.

As the set concluded, Malkmus asked, "Are you happy to see Pavement again?" The crowd screamed the affirmative. "We're happy to see you," he replied. At that moment, the couple next to me grabbed one another around the waist and melted into a deep kiss.

They had first kissed, long ago, they said, to a Pavement song.

-- Jessica Gelt

There are them, and then there are the rest of us. They are perfect, we are flawed.

They have taut stomachs that always look lightly spritzed with summery dew; we have that little pooch thing that we claim makes us feminine.

They have long, slender legs that taper into perfect ankles attached to feet dressed in high, strappy heels on which they appear to glide across the field; we have little Shetland pony legs jammed into sensible sneakers padded at the heels with the orthotics we just had made at the Happy Foot, Sad Foot clinic in Silver Lake after we ran around Echo Park Lake in bad shoes and ruined our ankles.

Their clothes are designer, usually made by their friend who owns that one cool label; we are secretly wearing American Apparel underwear and think that cut-off jean shorts will do just fine, thank you.

They are everywhere, every year at Coachella. But so are we. And people really love our personality.

-- Jessica Gelt

Photo: Leya conquers the heat in a bikini and a white headband at Anthem Lagoon. Credit: Jessica Gelt / Los Angles Times

"Cheeseburger, cheeseburger, pumping gas, what we do is what we do," sang Devo as the headlining act in the Mojave tent at Coachella on Saturday night. And watching the band, which has been around for nearly four decades in a variety of incarnations and inspired countless would-be nerds to seek rock stardom via computer-programmed music, it was easy to agree with them.

What Devo does is what Devo does -- and although "it's all the same -- it's nothing new," as the song goes -- it's still revelatory in its own way. When Devo delved into the idea of a digital future in the early 1970s, that future was still science fiction. Now it's here, and so, still, is Devo. The result being that what's old is somehow made new again, and Devo's sugary beats, executed with military precision, prove timeless.

Nobody in the packed tent wanted to see Devo change the formula either. Members of the band (their once angular bodies softened and rounded out by time) wore gray uniforms that resembled spaceship commander costumes. Flanking them was a man dressed like a Secret Service agent with a set jaw, sunglasses and a no-nonsense suit.

Projections of retro, early-MTV-style cartoons (people marching, a cheeseburger, a gas pump) streamed behind them, driving home the point that although that type of kitschy imagery is experiencing a huge resurgence of popularity -- Devo has been employing it all along.

-- Jessica Gelt

Photo: Devo's Mark Mothersbaugh keeps the group's intergalactic vibe alive. Credit: Noel Vasquez/Getty Images.

I'm in love with a robot. It's true. His name is Hotshot and he has dreamy digital-screen eyes, wears a motorcycle helmet and roams the VIP tent, flirting on three gray wheels. He caught me off-guard when we first met by drawing near and asking me my name.

"What's your name?" he asked with a low, robotic growl.

"Jessica," I said, as the Earth stood still.

"You're beautiful, Jessica," he said.

I sighed and my right hand fluttered briefly over my heart.

"How come a robot is the only person who has told me I'm beautiful this weekend?" I asked.

His digital eyebrows rose in a sympathetic arch and he said, "Oh, I'm sure a lot of guys think you're beautiful, Jessica. They just don't know how to say it."

I melted and glanced to my left and then my right. Did anybody else hear that? Was I alone in a moment of tenderness with a machine?

About five minutes later, he offered to give me a massage while I wrote this blog post. He may or may not have his hard, metallic fingers in my shoulder blades right now.

Coachella, it turns out, is for lovers.

--Jessica Gelt

Photo: Hotshot the Robot, one of the many art pieces at Coachella, interacts with music fans at the Coachella Valley Arts and Music Festival, on the Empire Polo Club grounds in Indio, Ca. Credit: Jay L. Clendenin/Los Angeles Times

The Kogi Korean BBQ taco truck has been camped out in the grass beside the VIP area since last night. I saw it there yesterday and immediately walked to its window and ordered a kimchi quesadilla and a short-rib taco. Delicious. Made even more so by virtue of the fact that the truck -- famous for launching the nouveau food-truck craze of 2009 -- had absolutely no line.

When Kogi first appeared on the L.A. scene in late 2008, it became notorious for attracting throngs of fans who were willing to stand in two-hour lines for the chance to sample its novel Korean-Mexican brand of street-food fusion.

At Coachella, word of the truck's presence has spread, and currently the line of thrill-seekers waiting to sample its signature fare is at least 40 people deep.

Good for Kogi, bad for me. If there is a line anywhere, I refuse to wait (Short Stop dance party be damned). But the thing is, I can't stop gazing longingly at the truck and fantasizing about its juicy meats seasoned with fermented cabbage delight and topped with a light spritz of fiery siracha sauce.

I may fall in line yet as a voracious nighttime hunger overtakes me, but until then I will play hard to get and savor the gooey, cheesy tang of Spicy Pie pizza.

I'm not yours yet, Kogi. Not yet.

-- Jessica Gelt

Photo: Tacos from the Kogi truck. Credit: Barbara Davidson / Los Angeles Times

Each year Coachella is the perfect excuse for Anthem magazine to throw a pool party of epic proportions. The sun-and-alcohol-soaked celebrations hosted by the glossy rag, which specializes in indie music and hipster fashion, hold a magnetic attraction for the kind of young party people who are generally found only in Cobra Snake photo galleries.

This year's party was headquartered in a palatial stucco faux-villa that reps say is owned by a chemist who lives elsewhere most of the year. The chemist thing -- true or not -- is kind of funny because the weird science of an Anthem pool party is anything but academic. Women dressed in the tiniest of bikinis ride the shoulders of tattooed men with sunburns holding metal bottles of Budweiser and fancy margaritas garnished with basil and pomegranate seeds. Pool toys -- mainly outsized inflatable rafts perfectly calibrated to keep tipsy adults afloat -- almost outnumber swimmers.

The only chemistry that counts is the kind that takes place between tanned and perfect bodies propelled toward one another by the thump of hard-driving dance music. That and the chemistry of the pool water, which resembles a murky petri dish of messy humanity. By the end of the day there is a dark glint to it, colored as it is by mud and sweat.

Inside the house another scene unfolded as those with extra-special access (mainly musicians and friends of musicians, as well as that special breed of party-goer who serves as a self-absorbed but lovely space-filler in every scene) mingled on three levels, flitting back and forth between a VIP third-floor balcony and a basement gifting suite in a home movie theater that was handing out free sneakers.

Mannequins in snazzy attire lined the hallway leading to one of the gifting suites. Tellingly, all of their pants had been pulled down to their plastic ankles. Just another day at the Anthem Lagoon.

-- Jessica Gelt

Photo: Vicky Wang and Sandra M. turned heads at Anthem Lagoon on Saturday. Credit: Jessica Gelt / Los Angeles Times.

There is something fresh and very now about the youthful and optimistic virility of Vampire Weekend. Taking the stage after an aged and somewhat (although deservedly) pompous Echo & the Bunnymen, the boys of Vampire Weekend looked very much like well-groomed hooligans on spring break in the Hamptons.

It's a look they have carefully groomed, and one that suits them more than ever as they establish themselves as one of the most promising going concerns of 2010. Their carefree world-music grooves were the perfect antidote to Coachella's earlier and heavier offerings. And throughout their set they maintained a palpable sense of wonder -- an I-can't-believe-this-is-happening-to-us shuck and jive.

"Thank you so much Coachella, you've been a wonderful crowd," said singer Ezra Koenig, looking every bit the roguish deer in the headlights. "You've been a very wonderful crowd. Is your weekend off to a good start?"

The crowd howled its approval.

"So is ours," said Koenig before launching into a revelatory rendition of "Walcott."

"Don't you want to get out of Cape Cod? Out of Cape Cod tonight?"

And for a brief but vital moment, we all breathed in the salty essence of the Eastern Seaboard's turned-up collar.

-- Jessica Gelt

Photo: Vampire Weekend on the outdoor stage Friday. Credit: Jay L. Clendenin / Los Angeles Times

From across the field, I could just make out the strains of a song that I grew up loving, "Lips Like Sugar." Echo & the Bunnymen were onstage hosting a retrospective love-in.

Through the copious amounts of smoke that shot into the air from machines beside the stage, Ian McCulloch and the boys looked just how I remembered them from when I was a depressed tween who relished dying her hair purple and piercing her own navel with a sewing needle. So real was the mirage of youth that I did all I could to avoid looking at the giant screen next to the stage that showed the band up-close and revealed their actual age -- and, by proxy, my own.

"This is the greatest song ever written," said McCulloch before launching into a keyboard-heavy version of "The Killing Moon." A great song, true, but McCulloch could have skipped the pretentious hyperbole and simply relied on the goodwill of the aging and sentimental Friday night crowd.

-- Jessica Gelt

Photo: Musician Ian McCulloch of the band Echo & the Bunnymen performs Friday at Coachella. Credit: AP Photo / Chris Pizzello

Somewhere, somehow, someone had underestimated the popularity of La Roux. The British redhead with the 1980s synth sound drew an outrageously large crowd to her Friday night set in the Gobi tent.

The crowd was so deep and so thickly gathered that I could barely make out the pop singer's visage through the yards of distance between myself and the stage. And let it be known: I'm no slouch when it comes to making my way through concert crowds.

The distance between me and the stage was hugely disappointing -- at first. If there ever was an album that I have been in love with, it is La Roux's latest effort. Fellow Pop & Hiss blogger August Brown gave it to me last summer and it has been just about the only album I have listened to at work since then.

There is something about the synthetic quality of La Roux's brand of electro-pop that strikes a deep and human chord in me -- and from the looks of the crowd on Friday night -- many others.

Standing amidst the masses of fellow fans, hearing the music without seeing the face of it (literally), I suddenly felt small and happily insignificant, which is exactly the kind of relief that only a massive festival such as Coachella can bring.

When La Roux concluded her last song, a triumphant rendition of the I-will-survive-esque anthem "Bullet Proof," the boy in front of me looked at his friend and said, "Good call, man."

A hearty fist bump was then administered. Good call, indeed.

-- Jessica Gelt

Photo: La Roux performs in the Gobi tent on Friday. Credit: Jay L. Clendenin / Los Angeles Times