Coachella--and, for all intents and purposes, the entire summer concert season--kicked off Friday in California's Indio desert, and the three-day mega musical festival was a sold-out affair despite the current recession and ongoing whiny complaints about this year's "weak" lineup. (Um, hello: Kanye West, Duran Duran, the Strokes, the comeback of Britpoppers Suede, recent Album of the Year Grammy champs Arcade Fire, and many more? How is that "weak"?) Really, the festival offered everything any self-respecting fan of music (or just fun) could want: carnival rides, art installations, abundant (some might say over-abundant) sunshine, cute girls in gold lamé American Apparel bikinis, bacon-wrapped hot dogs, and of course, more hipster bands than you could shake a disco-stick at.

But it wasn't all good vibes on Coachella's first day, unfortunately. Surprisingly, a dark cloud fell over the festival in the form of the usually jolly Cee Lo Green, whose set gave his hit "F*** You" a whole new,

Back when Duran Duran first reared their perfectly coiffed, heavily hairsprayed heads in the early '80s, they were the absolute epitome of new wave cool, inspired by Bowie androgyny, Eurodisco glam, Chic's funky groove, and Roger Vadim's '60s sci-fi thriller Barbarella. The Birmingham boys found themselves at the flouncy, foppish forefront of the New Romantic movement, and enjoyed underground dance club success with the 1981 future-classics "Planet Earth" and "Girls On Film" (along with that no-no-notorious "GoF" video that provided many whipped-cream-and-other-delights fantasies for adolescent new wave boys).

But then something happened. Duran Duran got HUGE. Their sophomore effort Rio and heavy MTV rotation made them an international phenomenon, and Durania swept the globe, with Duran Duran plastered on every conceivable piece of merchandise and on the covers of practically every girlie teen magazine. D2 sold millions of records (and posters, and stickers, and tote bags, and pins,

Although this is often forgotten amid the haze of Shiner Bock and BBQ grill fumes, the annual South By Southwest conference is supposed to be work. It is a business convention, after all (the music industry's biggest), on the surface hypothetically no different from networking conventions for medical supply salespeople, dental hygienists, or morticians. Business cards are exchanged, hands are shaken, backs are slapped, industry panels are attended, expense accounts are maxed out, etc. And at the same time, this weeklong whirlwind of conspicuously branded hipster soirees, open bars, and Texas-sized barbeque buffets isn't all that different from the mythical seven-day weekend known to frat boys the world over as "Spring Break" (or "Spriiing Breeeaaak!!!!"). But South By Southwest (or SXSW, as it is affectionately nicknamed by those too lazy to type out the whole thing) is different, because in the end, this much-hyped Texan pow-wow is really all about the music, man. At least to me, it

I was forewarned, and I should have listened.

When someone from a rowdy group of drunk teenagers behind you taps you on the shoulder and says, "FYI, we're gonna push when the Strokes come onstage," it's probably wise to move. It had been a long time since New York-based band had performed in the U.S., so any warning of chaos--however calmly delivered--should have been well-heeded. We were in the fancy, carpeted ballroom on the fourth floor of the freshly opened Cosmopolitan Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas. Cups and lemon slices littered the floor, and various kinds of smoke billowed around us. These people were ready. But alas, this Y! Music writer thought she could roadblock in five-inch heels when the time came...

This year, the Strokes return with their fourth album Angles, five years after their last release, First Impressions Of Earth. Before their Vegas show last March 12, they hadn't performed much since their 2006 tour, save for the 2010 Outside Lands and Lollapalooza festivals