Strokes singer Julian Casablancas may be one of the ultimate New York icons of the past decade, but it seems like he's adapted to West Coast life quite readily during his month-long "Phrazes For The Young" solo residency at the old Palace movie theater in downtown Los Angeles (which has become pretty much the place to see and be scene for the last three Fridays in L.A.).

Along with performing in front of a stunning visual backdrop projected onto the Palace Theater's old-Hollywood-style movie screen, Julian has made the following City Of Angels-championing cover song a staple of his solo set:

Yes, you heard that right: That is indeed a uniquely Casablancan interpretation of Randy Newman's 1980s sunshiny shoutalong, "I Love L.A."

Granted, with Julian's signature tin-canned vocals, deadpan drawl, and oddly altered lyrics, the song does take on a certain Lou Reedish, unmistakably New Yorker quality, making it more suitable for L.E.S. dive-bar crawls than Pacific Coast Highway convertible cruises with a big nasty redhead at one's side. But still, consensus among native Angelenos like myself is..."We love it!"

However, here's Julian back in a New York state of mind from another one of his Palace residency gigs, doing "Ludlow St.," in any East Coasters were concerned that he'd gone too Hollywood:

QUESTION: How could Echo & The Bunnymen ever improve upon the post-punk genius of their epic 1984 album Ocean Rain?

ANSWER: Perform it in its entirety with a full orchestra, of course.

QUESTION #2: How could Echo & The Bunnymen ever improve upon the post-post-punk genius of an orchrestral Ocean Rain?

ANSWER #2: Perform it while a record-setting number of zombie dancers traipse leadfootedly in the Nokia Plaza courtyard, staging a re-enactment tribute of the Michael Jackson "Thriller" dance. Duh!

Yes, after debuting their orchestral Ocean Rain revue at the Royal Albert Hall last September and subsequently staging similar shows in New York and Liverpool, Ian McCulloch and his cohorts finally brought the show to the West Coast this week, with concerts in Oakland and Los Angeles. And Saturday's Ocean Rain show at L.A.'s Nokia Theater ended up being one of the oddest unintentional '80s-nostalgia mashups ever, as Jacko fans in shoulderpadded red leather biker jackets and monster makeup shamon'd out in the Plaza at "Thrill The World" (an event to establish the world record for the biggest global execution of the late King Of Pop's iconic, zombie-rific "Thriller" video), and Bunnymen fans in long black trenchcoats and pasty pancake grooved somberly to crashing-and-swelling, majestically symphonic Echo classics.

But either way, it was truly a magical night of musical resurrection for all comers. Only in L.A.!

Enjoy this amateur mashup here:

35 years old might seem washed-up to some ageist Angelenos, and I can only imagine how old 35 is in cat years. But Japanese pop icon Hello Kitty was looking fabulous (has she had work done?) when she celebrated her 35th-birthday milestone at a girly gala held Thursday night at Los Angeles's Royal T Café, and attended by Kitty enthusiasts like Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance, Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy, Jane's Addiction/Red Hot Chili Peppers man-about-town Dave Navarro, Paris Hilton, tween queen Miranda Cosgrove, ex-Guns N' Roses guitarist Gilby Clarke, and hip-hop model/wife Kimora Lee Simmons, as well as by many other catty L.A. types.

(FYI, that's me in the cathead photo above, impersonating the guest of honor, I must admit.)

An avant Asian artspace where Lolita maids in frilly kneesocks and candy-colored wigs served sushi, cupcakes, and bubbly Kitty-branded pink champagne, the Royal T Café rolled out the pink carpet for bow-bedecked famous fans of the much-loved mouthless feline icon, as well for various artists whose twisted and inspired modern-day depictions of Hello Kitty filled the gallery (and, later, haunted my dreams).

But the real showpieces in the gallery were a series of stunning Kitty-inspired portraits starring Lady Gaga (the outrageous stuffed-animal frock she rocked in one of the photos was also on display), all of which nearly put Katy Perry's recent "Kitty Purry" alter ego to shame:

Meow!

So happy birthday, Miss Kitty. You've still got it after all these years.

"Does anyone know off the top of their head how long it's taken me to get here?" Kylie Minogue peppily asked the audience at the world-famous Hollywood Bowl Sunday night, during the first (yes, FIRST!) Los Angeles show of her nearly two-decade-plus career. "But I wouldn't have it any other way. It was worth the wait."

Damn straight, it was. From the moment that Kylie descended like some space-age Venus on the half-shell, goddess-like atop a giant mid-air glittering skull, it was clear that this was an EVENT 22 years in the making:

It's pretty astounding that it took Kylie so long to launch a U.S. tour, but it should be noted that while she has always been a superstar in most other parts of the world, there was a long lull--basically between "Locomotion" and "Can't Get You Out Of My Head"--when she was virtually unknown in America, except as a one-hit-wonder footnote on '80s-themed "Where Are They Now?"-type programs. But Kylie always had her diehard U.S. fans here who never forgot her--and they turned up in droves, and in sequins, and in fun fur, for Sunday night's big Bowl event.

Kylie completely compensated for her fans' long wait, delivering hit after hit after hit and at one time even rapping the intro to Madonna's "Vogue," a head-cavingly improbable diva-mashup moment that practically had Kylie kooks reaching for their smelling salts. And speaking of smelliness, throughout Kylie was so future-shocking fembot-like, her production made a Lady Gaga concert look like Phoebe from Friends warbling "Smelly Cat" at Central Perk.

Take, for instance, the performance of "Speakerphone," in which Kylie (attired in a stainless-steel-armor, bullet-bosomed mini-dress and an orb-flecked solar system headdress) was flanked by a marching army of molten-metal Daft Punk robots...

Or "Can't Get You Out Of My Head," set against a backdrop of crimson-lipped Kylies that resembled giant Patrick Nagel paintings come to life...

Or "Slow," craftily choreographed around handful of nuclear-neon rods, TRON-style...

Or "In My Arms," in front of a background of rainbow test patterns and Warholian Kylie faces, assisted by a troupe of frenetically boogie-ing C3P0s...

But what struck me the most was how retro-yet-futuristic Kylie's music sounded. Every song was timeless, ageless--much like Kylie herself--sounding as if it could have come out in the disco '70s, new wave '80s, housey '90s, this millennium, or even the next. Thus the songs could appeal to all concertgoers, whether they'd been waiting 22 years or just 22 minutes to see her perform. This was even true of her new single, the infectious and perhaps prophetically titled "Better Than Today":

Of course, Kylie delivered old-Hollywood glamour at the Hollywood Bowl too, like when she appeared in an Oscar-worthy red carpet gown, accepted a cocktail from a stage-dwelling manservant while reclining on a velvet loveseat, then belted out "White Diamond" and the would-be Bond-theme "Confide In Me" in front of a Hollywood sign and beside a gilt MGM lion...

Or when she performed absolutely fabulous remakes of her vintage '80s hits: a burlesque "Locomotion" in a latex teddy and a near-a cappella torch-song rendition of "I Should Be So Lucky"...

Or, of course--knowing who her audience is, and wanting to offer some eye candy for male audience members of all persuasions--she crooned "Red-Blooded Woman" in a sequined Catwoman outfit, while all around her gyrated hunky men in polkadot speedos and on the video screens behind her ran loops of homoerotic imagery (basically beefy, shirtless himbos showering, pumping iron, and straddling gymnastic equipment)...

"I can't believe I'm standing here on hallowed ground; if I think about it too long I'll get emotional," Kyle told the Bowl audience before launching into her confetti-strewn "Love At First Sight" finale. And for patiently waiting Kylie fanatics, it was an emotional night as well.

Let's hope another near-quarter-century doesn't pass before she returns to Los Angeles...although, if it does, she'll probably look just as fabulous and sound just as current as she did this past weekend.

Over the past 10 years I've had the good fortune of seeing the Manic Street Preachers three times--at the Reading Festival, V Festival, and most excitingly at Brixton Academy--but never on Los Angeles soil. The last time the Manics toured the U.S. was way back in 1999, when This Is My Truth, Tell Me Yours was released. So the band's long longed-for return to L.A.--Friday, September 25 at Hollywood's Avalon--was cause for celebration indeed, reason to get all gussied up in feather boas, white jeans, and "4REAL" temporary tattoos and rock out under the neon loneliness.

I'm not really sure why the Manics stayed away so long. I'm sure their little Louder Than War live-in-Cuba PR stunt and accompanying Fidel Castro photo opp didn't exactly ingratiate them to U.S. visa authorities, although in a conversation I had with MSP drummer Sean Moore a couple years ago he insisted that never prevented them from embarking on another American tour. The Manics' absence probably just came down to simple economics--while they can certainly pack a club in L.A. or New York, they're still incredibly unknown for the most part in almost every U.S. city in between, so a coast-to-coast tour just wouldn't make sense. And no doubt it would probably feel a little deflating to go from playing U.K. stadiums filled with fans openly weeping to "A Design For Life" to dinky half-full Stateside clubs attended by casual onlookers who don't even know who Richey Edwards was.

But whatever the reason, with the release of ninth album Journal For Plague Lovers (featuring lost lyrics entirely penned by the late Richey), the Manics finally came back to L.A. this past weekend, and plenty of open weeping (and some front-row Welsh-flag-brandishing) ensued. The Avalon was fill with adoring fans (I personally brought an entourage of Manic maniacs, and we were more giddy than children at a Miley Cyrus concert), and it was worth the 10-year wait. I'm certainly hoping another decade won't pass before they return.

Stay beautiful, Manics, and come back soon...

At some point during Green Day's final gig of their U.S. tour, Tuesday night at L.A.'s Forum--it was either when Billie Joe Armstrong whipped out a NASCAR-style T-shirt gun and started lobbing free tees into the 17,000 capacity crowd, or maybe when the red/white/blue confetti cannons went off, or when the band started covering "Stairway To Heaven" (seriously)--I reached for my mobile and texted a friend somewhere inside the stadium:

"Wow. I guess Green Day really aren't a punk band anymore," I typed.

"Nope," he texted back straight away. "Just a GREAT AMERICAN ROCK BAND."

And my friend was right. From the moment Billie Joe kicked off Green Day's positively Springsteenian three-hour L.A. concert by hollering, "This is the last show of our tour and we're gonna fucking play all night long!" (following not-at-all slouchy opening act Franz Ferdinand, who ended their own set accompanied by kilt-clad bagpipers and swathed in reams of toilet paper), this was a giant rock 'n' roll circus.

I'm talking "Radio Gaga"-style clapalongs; enough pyro explosions to singe the eyebrows of the fans in the Forum's most distant nosebleed seats; breakdancing courtesy of bassist Mike Dirnt; a saxophone player dressed up as Thriller-era Michael Jackson; Billie Joe's multiple Christ poses; a drunk furry pink bunny leading the crowd in a group dance to the Village People's "YMCA"; and an unexpected series of bizarre covers (along with the aforementioned Led Zep classic, the band also played snippets of Van Halen's "Ain't Talkin 'Bout Love," Guns N' Roses' "Sweet Child 'O Mine," the Isley Brothers' "Shout," the Beastie Boys' "Girls," the Doors' "Break On Through," the Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction," Tom Petty's "Free Fallin," and Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama" reimagined as "Sweet Home California").

No, it was not very punk. But so what? Anyone who's followed Green Day's two-decade transformation from pimply Gillman Street teens to world-dominating rock-operatists shouldn't have expected anything less than an all-out extravaganza. ("This is a rock show, not a motherfucking tea party," Billie Joe informed those in the Forum who'd dared to sit down during a rare downtime moment. "You listen to Coldplay on your own motherfucking time!") And I'd personally rather see Billie Joe Armstrong prance around in a cop cap and feather boa in front of a giant electrical American flag while dousing fans with a Supersoaker than watch some grimy little punk show, anyway.

Highlights of Green Day's triumphant L.A. show included....

The band bringing a fan onstage to sing the entire lead vocal on "Longview," which was probably The Best Moment of that kid's life:

Another fan hopping up onstage to play guitar on all nine minutes of "Jesus Of Surburbia" (after a chugging a full beer upon Billie's orders), then stagediving back into the fray:

Billie Joe scaling the bleachers for his "Know Your Enemy" guitar solo:

Billie Joe in full-on evangelical preacherman mode, "saving" two sinner children plucked from the audience:

Now that is a great American rock 'n' roll show, people.