I can’t quite say the same for the War on Drugs and Tame Impala. They’re the two bands to emerge in the 2010s as "festival-ready"—expansive, melodic, not-quite-overtly psychedelic guitar music that makes heavy use of phaser pedals and songs that often go over five minutes. And yet, they’re not really bands, but rather the projects of two professed introverts who forgo space travel for convalescence within a broken heart or the impenetrable walls of their mind. War on Drugs were put on this earth to play sundown sets at major music festivals until they decide to call it a day, and as wonderful as it is to hear them in that particular setting, they don’t appear interested or capable of transcending it. Tame Impala’s Kevin Parker seems genuinely surprised that he’s fronting the best new rock band of the decade. He apologized numerous times for being nervous and the flow was interrupted by"“this one’s called…" banter. Tame Impala’s limitless musical capabilities are obvious when they just play and are freed from the obligations of acting like a major festival band.

Both of these bands provided sharp contrast to AC/DC. Adam Granofsky and Kevin Parker are amongst the few people who can identify their bandmates by name; you know Angus Young and Brian Johnson by their hats alone. "I hope you like rock music, because that’s all we do," Johnson croaked and AC/DC are so single-minded, it’s actually innovative. Their latest title track "Rock or Bust" fit snugly within their living jukebox of a set and you don’t realize it’s actually "Rock or Bust" until the chorus—it’s also amazing that AC/DC did not use the phrases "in rock we trust" and "it’s rock or bust" for two separate songs.

But after the welcome, relative strangeness of Friday (Lil B, Todd Terje and Reverend Horton Heat? Sure!), most of Saturday reverted back to the stereotypes of "Coachella music." You know these bands because they’re typically described by using "kinda" as a qualifier—they’re kinda folky, kinda electronic, kinda pop, kinda EDM. At times, you get HAERTS and Ryn Weaver and Lights and Bad Suns, some combination of Beyoncé, Chvrches, Passion Pit and the 1975—their calculation makes their popularity seem depressingly preordained. Other times, it’s the more folky blandishments of Vance Joy and Milky Chance. Either way, they’re all the sonic equivalent of the third-most expensive shirt you own.

The more natural crossover acts appeared to be almost entirely persona-driven singer-songwriters—appealing to music fans who know better than to agree with those "It Took This Many People To Write a Beyoncé Song" memes, but at least they’ll entertain the argument. Ryan Adams and Jenny Lewis—we know them after all these years. Hozier, not so much. Better still were the ones that act like pop stars. Showmanship is a major component of Father John Misty’s entire enterprise and it’s totally unfair how he’s even more wickedly charming in person: the targets of scorched-earth L.A. stories "Nothing Good Ever Happens at the Thirsty Crow" and "The Night Josh Tillman Came to Our Apartment" are right there in front of him by the thousands, singing "she says like literally, music is the air she breathes" and overlooking the fact that the joke’s on them.