They show up as it’s getting dark. We line up before the grounds open. They buy tickets at the door. We’ve had ours for months. They miss music to wait in food lines. We snag churros racing from one stage to the next. Just who are they? You know, those guys. Them.
Saturday, 12:30 a.m.
Where they’ll be: Blissfully unaware Vegoose has kicked off.
Where we’ll be: House of Blues, shaking it to the sounds of Rob Garza and Eric Hilton, better known as down-tempo D.C. duo Thievery Corporation.
Saturday, 12:45 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Sleeping in.
Where we’ll be: Hating that we have to choose between the Gypsy-punk of Gogol Bordello and the math-rock of Battles, two of the weekend’s top live acts, inexplicably pitted against one another.
Saturday, 2:30 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Driving over.
Where we’ll be: Blonde Redhead, for a dose of rocking estrogen—courtesy of frontwoman Kazu Makino—from a festival offering far too little of that hormone variety.
Saturday, 4:15 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Parking.
Where we’ll be: Trying to figure out why, from 4:15 to 6 p.m., there’s literally nothing but hip-hop being offered. Not that we have anything against Minnesota’s Atmosphere, but we thought Vegoose was supposed to be about endless musical diversity.
Saturday, 5 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Public Enemy, shouting “Flava Flav!” while rubbernecking to see the star of The Surreal Life and Flavor of Love.
Where we’ll be: In the same vicinity, appreciating Chuck D’s perpetually relevant lyrics while marveling at Vegoose’s single dumbest conflict: P.E. vs. Cypress Hill. Um, aren’t those fanbases, like, exactly the same?!?
Saturday, 6:45 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Midway through The Shins, even though the band’s Sunday late-night show provides a great opportunity to pass now and see something else.
Where we’ll be: M.I.A. We’ve been practicing our Sri Lankan-by-way-of-London accents, you know.
Saturday, 8:15 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Queens of the Stone Age, ’cause Dave Grohl used to play with those guys.
Where we’ll be: Iggy & The Stooges, ’cause Fun House is a legit contender for the greatest album of all time.
Saturday, 10:15 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Partying on the Strip.
Where we’ll be: Daft Punk, wondering how badly security would beat us if we actually climbed to the top of the pyramid. Would it matter if we wore our homemade robot helmet?
Sunday, 1 a.m.
Where they’ll be: In line at LAX, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Ed Banger crew spinning inside.
Where we’ll be: (Shameless self-promotion warning) Beauty Bar, worshipping at the feet of psycho Gogol DJ Eugene Hütz, headliner for Las Vegas Weekly’s “Big Honkin’ After-Goose.”
Sunday, 1:15 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Nursing their hangovers.
Where we’ll be: Pharoahe Monch. There’s music playing; was there ever a doubt we’d be through the gate first?
Sunday, 2 p.m.
Where they’ll be: In front of a mirror, practicing Rage mosh-pit moves.
Where we’ll be: Ghostface, hoping a Killah MC fronting a killer 10-piece live band sounds as cool as the concept.
Sunday, 3 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Vegoose sports lounge, checking their fantasy football teams’ progress.
Where we’ll be: Robert Randolph, checking out a steel-guitar demon whose next bad show will be his first.
Sunday, 5:15 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Umphrey’s McGee, since somebody told them they were going to be the new Phish.
Where we’ll be: Infected Mushroom, since Israeli psych-trance duos don’t grow on trees around here ... do they?
Sunday, 6:30 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Muse, waiting to hear that one song they used to play on Area 108.
Where we’ll be: Muse, digging oldies from Absolution, Origin of Symmetry and Showbiz.
Sunday, 9 p.m.
Where they’ll be: Rage Against the Machine, dodging elbows and wishing they hadn’t let their buddy talk them into getting so close.
Where we’ll be: Rage Against the Machine, enjoying the politically-charged mayhem from a safe distance.
Monday, 1 a.m.
Where they’ll be: In bed, nursing their bruises.
Where we’ll be: The Shins, wondering how we ever got this smart ... or this snarky.