Coachella Festival Empire Polo Club, Indio, CA
Contact: Goldenvoice
Web: coachella.com
Players: Multiple bands over three days, repeated over two weekends
Sure, Coachella is full of litter bugs, clout seekers, and pukers, but it’s also abounding with beautiful people and beautiful things (like a misting fan that feels like the breath of God). Every detail is considered, from first-aid tents to bean bags under inflatable daisies big enough to make you feel like a pocket-sized Alice—and while the rabbit hole may have felt more like a hell-plunge in terms of the heat, it seemed that I had wandered into the oasis: Wonderland, but with wristbands.
I caught the tail end of Thee Sacred Souls, who closed their set with “Can I Call You Rose?” as screens bloomed in hypnotic tie-dye.
The Go-Go’s reminded me talent doesn’t melt at 104 degrees. Belinda Carlisle bounded around like time was a myth, belting hits like “Vacation” and “Our Lips Are Sealed.”
Then there was Djo. Joe Keery looked blissed out, which is rare in a space where many are far too cool to smile. “It’s hot, but it’s nice,” he said, which felt like the festival’s thesis. The band leaned into retro visuals and rocked tracks off their new album The Crux.
Benson Boone, gleaming in a Sgt. Peppers-esque sleeveless white suit, had a moment with his “Bohemian Rhapsody” cover alongside Brian May. The legendary Queen rocker rose up nonchalantly from center stage, absolutely shredding. Boone debuted his new single “Mystical Magical” and announced his upcoming album American Heart.
The softest gut punch of the weekend was Parcels. Toward the end of their set, the band sat cross-legged on stage, arms around each other, singing a stripped-back “Leaveyourlove” with the kind of gentle intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve intruded. In a festival built on spectacle, this was the opposite—and more powerful for it.
The highlight of the weekend, the reason for all the “Goo Goo 4 Gaga” tees, was Lady Gaga. And she did not arrive—she descended. Preceded by a poetic film in which two Gagas (Mayhem in red and her ghostly twin in white) recited in unison like stylish, deranged Shakespeare villains, she emerged in a towering red velvet dress that doubled as a dancer cage. “Welcome to my house of mayhem,” she declared after opening with “Abracadabra.” And from there, chaos had a conductor. Gaga’s set, broken into five acts, orbited the battle between her past and present personas. It was theatre. It was opera. It was pop. It was perfect.
Yes, Coachella curates chaotic absurdity, but it’s more than that. It’s a place where strangers dance together under giant flowers, where a band can whisper “I never wanna leave you” and you believe them. And yeah, it’s hot. But it’s nice.
Photo courtesy of Coachella.
