Consumption Log 07: Dispatches from the Desert

For all its faults, Coachella still retains some of its sparkle.

There have been three separate times in my life that I seriously thought I was going to Coachella, all of them while I was at college in LA. Freshman year, I bailed on the plans to be in pit orchestra (I know, the high school band nerd in me was still hanging on by a thread at that point). To make up for it, I bought a ticket sophomore year without consulting anyone, assuming someone would accompany me. And that’s how I learned you shouldn’t assume. I’ll let you guess what happened the next year. (Hint, it was five years ago).

So, I didn’t hold my breath when, while watching the Coachella 2024 livestream from our Big Girl living room, those same college friends and I impulsively booked an Airbnb for Coachella 2025. This whole time, it felt like a made-up plan. April 2025 wasn’t a real date. I was waiting for something to happen to ruin our plans, sure it would fall apart in the final moments.

I wasn’t even sure whether I was going to have a good time. Isn’t Coachella just a backdrop for Instagram reels? Isn’t its festival culture dead? Would the costs of flights, tickets, rental cars, and lodging feel worth it once it was all said and done?

But by March, I’d made it closer to Coachella than any of my previous attempts, so I figured I should start getting ready. I got a fanny pack, broke in a new pair of Docs, attempted to pick some outfits, and spent the whole month rushing to simultaneously make and check off a list of things I need to buy to make sure I have a chance of surviving the desert heat. It still didn’t feel real, though.

It only felt real once I was in an Uber to JFK at 5am.

So yes, this year, I finally made it to Coachella. It’s been a long time coming, and I honestly, personally, couldn’t have asked for a better lineup for my foray into the desert.

For a self-proclaimed music snob, I’d only ever been to one festival before this, but I barely count it as such. I only went to one day, I was in high school (it was 2016, to be exact), and I was horrifically oblivious to the fact that Caroline Polachek was playing in Chairlift mere feet away from me while I was watching Chance the Rapper for some reason (I guess he wasn’t that cringe at that point).

It was also in the Citi Field parking lot, so it felt more Vans Warped Tour than it did Coachella. RIP Meadows, you had a rough two years.

A lot of people shit on Coachella, and it’s definitely become more influencer-fied in recent years. I’ve never morally agreed with how expensive the whole thing is, and I know they’re not necessarily known for treating their musicians the best. There’s no doubt that I was met with some of the stereotypes I’d seen all over the internet for the last eight years.

Yes, there were plenty of people there just taking pictures in front of SPECTRA. Yes, there were weird brand pop ups all over the place (for example: Takis, Tampax, Red Bull, and Neutrogena, just to name a few). And yes, the tension between the GAs and VIPs was palpable. Did you know it costs $15 to go on the Ferris wheel? Haven’t we already sacrificed enough? You’d surely think a $500 ticket would get you a spin on the wheel and a bathroom that wasn’t a porta potty, but you’d be wrong.

There were also the token frat bros on drugs (I saw one guy pull out a dime bag in the DoLab in broad daylight), high schoolers whose parents don’t know where they were, and people only there for one specific act. There were packs of tie-dyed acid trippers, and a pretty insane number of assless chaps (you’d think James Charles ruined that one for everybody, but I guess not).

Each night as we walked back to the shuttle, scalpers were trying to get us to sell our wristbands, which wasn’t unlike people trying to sell you bootleg t-shirts after any show, but it felt more like if they didn’t go home with a wristband, they were gonna get in some serious trouble. There was also a truly absurd amount of hot dog carts, each with a person behind the portable grill yelling for us to stop, which served as a slightly off-putting reminder of how much money is traveling through this whole operation, and the different ways people try to capitalize on that.

This is all to say that there are a lot of things inherently weird or wrong about Coachella. It’s turned into something completely different than its original premise, both internally and thanks to the internet. Photos of the festival from the early/mid 2000s have been circulating nostalgiacore Instagrams, with so many pointing out the sheer normality of the crowd. No one’s wearing body chains or thigh-high gladiator sandals. There’s not an assless chap in sight. Just overalls, a fedora, and vibes. There’s an overall lack of put-togetherness that puts into perspective the fact that Coachella, at its core, is and should be about the music. The festival experience as a whole is surely enhanced by all the food and the art and the activities, but the music is what brings (or should bring) the people there.

What I learned from my weekend in Indio is that, for all of the critiques about Coachella’s loss of relevance, it’s still a mirror. It’s exactly what you expect it to be—or what you allow it to be. Coachella is what you make of it. You could spend the entire weekend at the Sahara tent. You could spend 12 hours there. You could spend 2 hours there. You could see a few full sets or chunks of a bunch of sets. You can be there for the music, or you can be there to take photos. It’s your experience. I legitimately lost control of my bladder from jumping up and down so viciously when Lorde came out during Charli’s set. But at the same time, there was probably some guy in Yuma getting his face melted off by Infected Mushroom.

It’s individualized but also communal—whenever you choose a certain set, there are at least 1000+ (sometimes more like 50,000+) people who made the same choice as you. You’re all experiencing the same thing, but you internalize it differently. I felt my soul leave my body when I heard the opening of Gaga’s “Schieße” (I never thought I’d see it live), but others felt seen by her gripping rendition of “Paparazzi.” It feels like I’m circling the general idea that yes, music is subjective. But it feels like more than that in a setting as sprawling and massive as Coachella.

Multiple people stopped my friend to take a photo of her shirt. I love her so much

For all its faults, Coachella is still representative of the culture in which it currently operates. This year, the churning of cultural moments was palpable. Whether it was Gaga’s cinematic masterpiece of a Friday headlining performance or Charli’s guest-filled set, I could often feel in the crowd that I was witnessing something historic. Coming home for the night and going on Twitter only to see an endless stream of videos of the performance you just witnessed in person was a pretty jarring experience; it felt like the first time I was ever ahead of the internet.

Some artists even acknowledged how special the moment was for them: T-Pain notably paused his career-spanning set to say “It took me 20 years to get on this stage, and I’m so fucking happy I kept at it.” Post Malone’s gratitude he expressed between each song was enough to make me tear up, even though I wasn’t crazy about his set.

And that’s the thing about Coachella: the name itself calls for a sort of pull-out-all-the-stops approach from artists. It’s become tradition for surprise guests to pop up (I saw not only Lorde, Troye Sivan, and Billie Eilish during Charli, but also Addison Rae at Arca and Danny Brown at AG Cook, and Clairo literally had Bernie Sanders introduce her set on Saturday), and Beyoncé’s 2018 performance has certainly set a certain bar when it comes to headliners. Whether or not it’s an influencer minefield, Coachella births moments we will continue to refer back to. Where there is a Coachella, there are people watching, and the livestreams have only solidified that, now making the festival accessible to everyone around the world. I had that realization a few times, that the artists were not only performing for the crowds in front of them, but the millions of people watching online.

Anyways, to stop myself from my rant, here is a breakdown of my Weekend 1 experience.

Friday

Eager as anything for our first day, we got to the grounds at around 4pm and caught most of Thee Sacred Souls, who were a perfectly groovy and psychedelic start to the weekend. Friday was mostly spent bouncing between the Outdoor Theater and the Main Stage: from The Go-Go’s (fucking legends) to MARINA (who surprisingly has not forgotten her roots), then later on the Marías and Parcels and, of course, Mother Gaga. We also swung by Gobi to see AG Cook tear it down. His set was filled with remixes and mashups (“Britpop” x “Mean girls”), and Danny Brown came out to rap over the instrumental for Charli’s “party 4 u.” I loved every second of it.

AG Cook at Gobi

We had dinner between MARINA and AG Cook. The iconic Florentine sandwich/panini shop, All’Antico Vinaio, which I loved while abroad, had a stand in the Central Market. I got one with mortadella, pistachio cream, and stracciatella on focaccia, and it was honestly the perfect thing to revive me for the night. Dare I say it was my favorite thing I ate all weekend?

I was super happy and excited to see The Marías for the first time, and they didn’t disappoint. My friend leaned over in the middle of their set and said Maria reminded her of a mix between Caroline Polachek and Khraungbin’s Laura Leezy, and I kind of get it. All the operatics and hypnotics, but also all the groove and mystique. Parcels went expectedly hard, albeit I watched them from afar as I needed to lie horizontally for an undetermined period of time before Gaga. She went on after 11pm and I was jetlagged! Sue me. Love them though, they ate.

And then Lady Motherfucking Gaga. We honestly got a lot closer than I was expecting, a little bit in front of the end of the runway, in the middle of the right side. And I was impressed and relieved that the crowd didn’t end up feeling nearly as overwhelming as I was anticipating. I hadn’t been in a GA that big, really ever, and the fact that it was pretty endless on all sides was a little anxiety-inducing. But we all had a good amount of space (and made even more when we started dancing and jumping up and down), and I kind of forgot about all my claustrophobia once the opening started.

Lady Gaga at the Main Stage

Stefani Germanotta continues to show the world that she was born to be a performer. Nay, she was born to be THE performer of our generation. She created a cinematic, four-act experience that was as detailed in presentation as it was in execution. (I will personally fund the Little Monster shrine to Parris Goebel.) There were countless outfit changes, new renditions of classics (the “Poker Face” chess game is now canon, and the wind-blown “Paparazzi” felt like something out of an Old Hollywood movie), some of the most intricate dance moves in her repertoire, and NO backing track. The mic was on, and she made sure we knew it. Gaga also played the piano, the guitar, and the drums at one point, and she got up on a platform with Gesaffelstein and geeked out on the synths during “Killah.”

Gaga’s performance was a perfect blend of her old classics, some hidden gems, and their Mayhem counterparts. The “Bloody Mary”-“Abracadabra”-“Judas”-“Schieße” run left me speechless, breathless, and dripping sweat. Everything was thought through; the “Paparazzi” crutches, the “Poker Face” chess piece, the “Disease” sequence with the same Gaga-next-to-a-skeleton imagery as the “Bad Romance” music video. Unafraid to reference or not reference. Sorry, Charli, but Gaga might be the queen of self-referential pop.

She really solidified herself as one of the greatest to ever do it. I love how many people are finally recognizing her artistry, her unmitigated talent, and her entrancing stage presence. It makes me emotional, sorry!!!

Justice for ARTPOP, though. I would’ve loved “G.U.Y.,” I would’ve loved “Venus,” hell, even “Applause.” And I selfishly hope Chromatica’s finest don’t get lost in the Mayhem shuffle. I’m looking at you, “Replay.”

Saturday

Saturday was refreshing, if only because I already knew what I was walking into, so I didn’t feel nearly as turned around as I did on Friday. But it definitely felt more crowded! That’s for sure!

We started at Japanese Breakfast, who played two of my favorite songs (“Diving Woman” and “Mega Circuit”) and a sneaky Gorillaz cover. Michelle Zauner was wearing a cutie little paper crown, old cartoons played on the screen in the background, and her set had waves and clam shells that looked straight out of children’s books in the best way. And she tore on the guitar. Definitely a weekend highlight.

Japanese Breakfast at the Outdoor Theater

I popped my DoLab cherry, fittingly, with a DJ set from Trixie Mattel, which was as chaotic and iconic as you’d expect it to be. I loved the rainbow trees that hung overhead, and was equally thankful for the mists they sprayed onto the crowd. The area around the DoLab and Sahara was pretty packed just in general, but it felt like the DoLab had a good amount of space for everyone to spread out and find their own pockets.

After the DoLab, we got some noodles and then found our spot for Charli. We were in the same general area as we were for Gaga, but about 50 yards closer to the stage, which already felt like an impossible feat. It was also equally as insane seeing Charli’s inherent ability to make a crowd of tens of thousands of people absolutely lose their shit, sometimes without even really doing anything. It’s the first time anyone’s seen me and Charli in the same room together. So the rumors can now be put to rest.

Now I don’t know who on the Coachella scheduling team thought it’d be a good idea to put Clairo right after Charli on the next stage over. After Charli ended, pretty much everyone traveled across the grass like a herd of sheep to go to the Outdoor Stage. There were endless groups linking arms and holding hands so as not to lose each other in the shuffle, and at times it felt like we were all moving together as one overwhelming mass.

As we were making our way closer to Clairo, where we were expecting to see the 26-year-old and her live band, we instead saw the outline of an old man. Who is that? Where’s Clairo? What’s going on? Once we got a little closer, we realized it was Bernie Fucking Sanders, and we all lost our minds. The idea of having just experienced Charli, which included three surprise guests (all of whom made my blood pressure rise and fall in their own unique ways), only to walk up to the next set expecting to see Clairo and seeing Bernie Sanders. It felt like a simulation. I’ve had his little “Ladies and Gentlemen, Clahh-row” line on a loop in my head for the past five days.

Clairo herself was wonderful; groovy and silky smooth and so so fun and cute. It felt like she was belting out a little bit more, which I loved to see. And I loved loved loved her live band. I love a girl who gets down to the roots. Going from synth-heavy hyperpop club music to breezy, sauntering music for a jazz club was another insane juxtaposition for the senses.

We had some time after Clairo until the next act we wanted to see, The Dare, who went on at 11. We took a detour back to the DoLab to see what was up and how the nighttime vibes were. LA-based EDM duo Ship Wrek was in the middle of their set. I prefer the melodic, Kaskade/ODESZA-esque side to electronic music, and cower in fear of the literal beeps and boops that have become so prevalent and, honestly, fucking relentless. We were pleasantly surprised by their schtick. It was a fun way to dance around and kill time, and another reminder of the many different worlds you can step into throughout the festival grounds.

We caught the end of horsegiirL, who was the act at Mojave before The Dare. Since we were at the stage as horsegiirL’s crowd was clearing out, we unintentionally ended up on the VIP barricade for The Dare.

The Dare at Mojave. Like, ick.

I’ll sidebar here to say that I find The Dare to be extremely cringe and icky. But I also cannot deny that some of his songs go extremely hard and are very catchy. I approached his set with an honest curiosity and a hope that I’d be proven wrong about what I assumed to be his general demeanor. Unfortunately, I don’t think I was. But I still had fun! I just hated enabling his ego. My friend leaned over to me at one point and said, “I don’t want him to see us cheering for him,” and I couldn’t have put it better. As I admittedly rocked out to “All Night” and “LCA,” there was part of me that didn’t want to give him that validation and satisfaction, just on the sheer pretense that he seems like an asshole. Girls were waving their underwear in the air and throwing bras at him! We don’t need to be doing all that. He’s just some guy in a tie and sunglasses who thinks he’s the second coming of LCD Soundsystem-meets-Julian Casablancas.

Sunday

Sunday was one of those days that showed me the endless possibilities that exist at a festival like Coachella. I’d previously mostly opted for full performances rather than bits of a bunch of acts, but, mostly because the acts I wanted to see on Sunday were all at the same time, I ended up bouncing around more.

We had a late start, and I got there around when Amaarae was ending. I was happy I got to see her, even if briefly. We took yet another trip to the DoLab and caught Confidence Man’s set, which was surprising and fun and disco-centric and made me feel like maybe the art of DJ-ing isn’t dead just because every deadbeat with a mixing board thinks he’s the next Skrillex. This set also confirmed to me that daytime DoLab is my preferred DoLab.

Daytime DoLab - Confidence Man

The main event of the night was Arca, whom we once again unintentionally ended up at the barricade for. It was the only Sunday set we saw all of, and it was epic. There was a swing, there was leather. There were two (!) guests: Tokischa for “Chama” and the people’s princess and my personal Princess Di, Addison Rae, for the live debut of the “Arcamarine” remix. Addison also took that opportunity to share the release date of her debut album in the most Addison way possible: written on her underwear.

The rest of the night I bounced between Post Malone, Amyl and the Sniffers (my fucking queen), Ty Dolla $ign (honesty just because I hadn’t been to the Sahara tent yet), and Polo and Pan, who were pleasantly groovy. Jumping from hip-hop to punk to synthy EDM felt like physically shuffling through my Liked songs. It was thrilling to be able to get so many different experiences at once.

I wish Post Malone didn’t give every single one of his songs a country twang, because I forgot how many bangers of his were so formative to my early college years. It was harder to jam along when everything had a misplaced acoustic guitar and a random banjo. But Post seemed truly grateful to be up there performing, so it was hard not to feel a little heartwarmed watching him.

And yup, that’s it! Nothing else of note happened that is worth talking about or sharing here.

Oh, well, except for the fact that while we were out on the last day, probably while we were having a transcendental experience watching “Arcamarine,” our Airbnb was broken into. And yeah, three of our laptops got stolen. And yeah, cash got taken from our wallets. And of course, the door was busted down, we assume with a crowbar of all things. What followed was three hours of nervous breakdowns, tears, and a middle-of-the-night drive to LA to find any hotel that would let us check in after 3am. So yeah, that put a slight damper on things. But at least the robbers waited until the last day to fuck our lives up.