Laurie Scavo

I don't need to explain the Playboy Mansion. You've probably seen Girls Next Door, the E! Entertainment show that managed to successfully de-mystify the estate like the channel did Saved by the Bell, Puff Daddy, and Fabio. But despite the camera's depiction of Heff as goofy and groping grandpa with three ditzy but well-meaning Barbies, the mansion still retains a certain cache.

When you tell other males that you're going to a party there, they tend to lapse into Pavlovian response, as though the per capita rate of orgies and salvers of strawberry cocaine hadn't been on the decline since Dynasty was canceled. At least, that was the response when I told people that I was going to attend the Marijuana Policy Project's fourth annual fundraiser gala at the legendary Gothic-Tudor mansion.

The economy isn't entirely moribund, it's just that the real money's in wish fulfillment. At least that's the logical conclusion gained from last night's star-scarred Jay-Z and Eminem concert promoting DJ Hero, the latest sure-to-be-blockbuster installment of the Guitar Hero Franchise -- an event that suggested that alternate titles for the game include So You Think You Can Be a Celebrity DJ? How to Press the Space Bar to the Delight of Millions, and Who Wants to be DJ AM? The only things missing were a Samantha Ronson sighting and an impromptu Girl Talk mash-up.

Timothy Norris

Superstar DJ Andy Milonakis

De La Soul, back in the day

Only a handful of rap groups can be bandied about as G.O.A.T: Wu-Tang, Outkast, EPMD, Tribe Called Quest, Public Enemy, Run-DMC, UGK, The Geto Boys, and De La Soul. If you need an introduction to the De La -- Posdnuos, Dave/Trugoy the Dove, and Maseo -- you obviously haven't listened to their seminal first four albums.

Since the release of their most recent full-length, 2004's The Grind Date, the trio has largely kept quiet, save for receiving a VH1 Hip-Hop Honors Award, playing last year's Rock the Bells, and turning the Gorillaz' "Feel Good Inc," into a Grammy-winning, radio-conquering smash. This week, the Plug Ones announced their return, with Are You In?, an iTunes-only Nike Run Mix, that finds them following in the footsteps of Aesop Rock, LCD Soundsystem, and A-Trak.

Slowly, my brain is slinking its way towards sensible shape. Three days of Coachella are not for the faint of heart -- if nothing else it requires a quarter-ounce of weed, an array of narcotic edibles from potcorn to cannabis cakes, several brightly colored pills of indiscriminate origin, copious spending money for wine, water, and whiskey, plus the heart of a three year-old Labrador to handle the strain.

So who am I to knock Coachella? It puts you in a position to win, and that's all you can really ask of a coach or a festival. Even if the Clipse cancelled at the last second, that's the brothers Thorton's bad. Abandoning throngs of people waiting for Pitchfork-approved trap-rap is an unwise move. Is Lupe Fiasco supposed to provide the kids with minimalist nihilism?

Or maybe Clipse know that no matter how many new bad puns they devise involving the word, "brick," they can't match the freak show promised by Throbbing Gristle. After all, lead singer Genesis P-Orridge wears gold grills. She used to be a he. He once nailed piercings through his dick. That's either the most incredibly hardcore gesture possible, or the dumbest. Either way, Genesis is a better rapper than Paul Wall.

Timothy Norris

M.I.A.'s dancers: Working it harder than Maya

As I wriggled out of the teeming crowd that clotted for M.I.A, I eavesdropped on the Spalding basketball-bronzed sorority sisters speaking behind me: "If I was like a dude, I would totally want to do M.I.A." Personally, M.I.A. doesn't really do it for me, but I get where they're coming from. After all, I've long suspected that at least a modicum of the unchecked praise tossed her way stems from the fact that hundreds of thousands of her fans, "totally want to do [her]." Big deal. "Pop star's success aided by looks," is a story so spavined that it could only be broken by the Onion.

But--of course--there's more to Maya Arulpragasam than just looks. Her back-story was Slumdog Millionaire before it was a glint in Danny Boyle's eye. Between the radical politics, the day-glo clothing, and a savvy iconography befitting a former visual artist, she's emerged as the first true pan-global pop star--the type to send writers to their keyboards binding the viral nature of "bird flu" to the viral nature of the Internet. Like the faces of the overly tanned acolytes standing behind me: it's a slam dunk. Critics love nothing better than a good narrative, and let's not kid ourselves that globetrotting, caps lock-impaired, Tamil Tigress isn't a whole lot more interesting than Katy Perry--or god forbid, Lady Gaga.

Randall Roberts

All hail the Queen

Bret Easton Ellis once pointed out that the inhabitants of Los Angeles never stop babbling about the freeways. Then again, he penned, Less than Zero during the comparatively halcyon Tom Bradley days, prior to the total arteriosclerosis of the 405 and 101. Nowadays, surviving requires a serenity towards the iron inferno of rush hour. Consider Coachella a proxy for the city itself--if you're going to survive, you have to channel your inner Gautama towards the terrible, tortuous lines. Waits for everything: the asphyxiating grind down Jefferson to park, lines to pick up your press ticket, lines to enter the actual festival grounds, lines hoovered in the bathrooms of the VIP section. It makes sense--this shit's held at the Empire Polo Grounds: do as the livestock do, learn to queue.

If you can accept this basic reality, the festival continually lives up to its reputation. Three days in the desert, a backdrop of swaying palm trees and chocolate cake mountains, and every diletantish Angeleno trekking east to partake in a bit of cultural tourism. Thankfully, there's a VIP section to contain the anti-rabble, ostensibly to provide them with cleaner bathrooms, shorter lines, and a place to wear their fedoras unmolested. But really, the place is a Twilight Zone-type netherworld--the clubs of Los Angeles turned inside out and dropped in the middle of the Mojave.

Rivaling Fela Kuti, King Sunny Ade, Franco, Tabu Ley Rochereau, and a handful of others, Mulatu Astatke ranks among the most influential African musicians of all-time.

The father of Ethio-Jazz, the Berklee-trained Mulatu was the first of his countryman to fuse American jazz and funk, with native folk and Coptic Chuch melodies. The leading light of the "Swingin' Addis-"era, Astatke is often acknowledged as the star of the epic Ethiopiques Series, At least, according to filmmaker Jim Jarmusch, who included songs from the Mulatu-arranged and composed, Vol. 4, in his ode to midlife melancholia, Broken Flowers.

His latest album, Mulatu Astatke & The Heliocentrics-Inspiration Information 3, finds him collaborating with the titular UK-based jazz-funk eight-piece. Born out of a serendipitous turn that led to the band backing Mulatu's first UK gig in 15 years, Mulatu and the Stones Throw-signed outfit decided to record a new album composed of originals and re-worked older compositions. Released yesterday on Strut, the finished product ranks among the year's finest, and adds another succesful chapter to Mulatu's unimpeachable legacy.

Almost 25 years have elapsed since the Rick Rubin-helmed, Licensed to Ill found the Beasties staking their claim as the first major rap group to incorporate guitar-hero rawk ("Rock Box" aside). Such juxtaposition seems prosaic today, but it's almost impossible to grasp how revolutionary sampling Led Zep, The Clash, and Sabbath once seemed---and that was just on the first track, "Rhymin' and Stealin."

Throughout their career, the Beasties have been unfairly maligned as ciphers manipulated by mastermind collaborators--from Rubin, to the Dust Brothers and Matt Dike, to the Dalai Lama (dude is lights out on the wind chimes)--an assumption that trivializes their abilities. Do you know how hard it is for ex-Bar Mitzvah's to be that good at rapping? It's on some Augean labors type shit. Trust. But beyond the peerless discography, including three classics (Check Your Head, Paul's Boutique, Licensed to Ill, two very good albums (Ill Communication and Hello Nasty) and one post 9/11 aberration that no one shall mention by name, the Beasties remain the gold standard of rap-rock fusion.

Other than freshman Delta Sigma Theta rushes at Cal-State Chico, no substrata of the American population has worse taste in rock than rappers. Sure, your little brother likes Fall Out Boy, but eventually, he's going to grow up and discover The Clash, then weed, then hopefully Junior Murvin and Lee Perry, until ultimately he's repudiating his past like a music writer with Jim Morrison posters still taped to the walls of his childhood bedroom (I stand by them). Your dad* might take his tips from Paste Magazine, and laud the wood-chip lull of Sky Blue Sky, but at least when he retreats to the basement to filch out a roach and wallow nostalgically, he'll probably spin Springsteen, Dylan, or Hendrix.

But whenever journalists asks rappers what rock they're listening to, it's ultimately some milquetoast mediocrity: Phil Collins, Journey, Coldplay, Linkin Park, John Mayer, Maroon 5, The Killers--and that's just Kanye. So why should anyone be surprised that when B.o.B. and Lil Wayne play rock star kabuki, they do it with a crude caricature suggestive that the Shop Boyz aren't the only ones who still think of rawk, as a mire of aggro-douchebag overcompensation set to Wes Borland riffs. Then again, this would explain Nickelback.

Maybe we ought to blame Kanye--even though this trend started well before him, and will likely persist long after he retires to pursue French anime interior spaceship design. Like it or not, 'Ye's massive success re-removed a lot of barriers into the major label rap game. No longer did you need street cred, or an ice-grilled veneer, no longer did you need to kick raps about the bodies under your belt, the weight you push, or the clips you hold (though--of course--doing so didn't hurt).

The game had ossified and theoretically, lifting arbitrary notions on what it means to be a "real rapper," should've been the the best thing to happen since Biggie and 2Pac got shot and hip-hop turned mausoleum--yet all it did was create a new set of problems. Namely, that a new generation emerged with "Can't Tell Me Nothing," as their mantra. Thing is, it's not that "kids today" are inferior to their forebears, but rather that they need editors, or at least a legitimate set of checks and balances.