I arrived to Coachella on Friday, April 11, expecting elaborate displays of art and outfits, immaculate sets on the largest of stages (and all that they imply: crisp lighting, sharp choreography, outrageous costumes, and, of course, the anticipated performances themselves), and also, naturally, the unexpected. What I didn’t expect was to cry during a Parcels set, question my sanity under giant flowers, and willingly chant falsetto after a man in a sleeveless white suit begged me to. But here we are.
Don’t get me wrong, Coachella is full of its litter bugs, clout-seekers, and pukers, but it is also strikingly abounding with beautiful people and beautiful things (like a misting fan that feels like the breath of God). It’s a place where every detail is considered—from first-aid tents that treat heat-induced regrets to bean bags under inflatable daisies big enough to make you feel like a pocket-sized Alice—though while the rabbit hole may have felt more like a hell-plunge in terms of the heat and desert desolation, it seemed that I had wandered into the oasis: Wonderland, but with wristbands.
My Coachella began in medias res—I caught the tail end of Thee Sacred Souls, who closed their set with “Can I Call You Rose?,” as screens behind them bloomed in hypnotic tie-dye. It was beautiful. It was vibey. It was also the moment I realized I should have gotten there earlier.
The Go-Go’s reminded me that talent doesn’t melt at 104 degrees. Belinda Carlisle bounded around like time was a myth.
Then there was Djo—A.K.A. Joe Keery, A.K.A. Steve “The Hair” Harrington from Stranger Things, A.K.A. someone who deserves way more musical credit than he’s getting. Keery looked like he was having the time of his life, which is rare in a space where many are far too cool to smile. He called out the heat with a casual “It’s hot, but it’s nice,” which felt like the thesis of the festival. The band leaned hard into retro visuals—grainy VHS fuzz across giant screens—and rocked tracks off their new album The Crux.
Then came Benson Boone—earnest, gleaming, and glammed out in a Sgt. Peppers-esque sleeveless white suit. If Coachella’s about “moments,” Boone had one. The real showstopper? Brian May. The legendary Queen rocker rose up nonchalantly from the center of the stage between a choir and Boone for a “Bohemian Rhapsody” cover that caused several spontaneous spiritual awakenings. Boone even dared to Freddie the crowd, asking for a call-and-response that probably sounded better in his head than it did in ours. Still, the man swung for the fences and mostly connected. He debuted his new single “Mystical Magical” and announced his upcoming album American Heart (out June 20), whose cover art doubles as a thirst trap: shirtless, dirt-smudged Boone, posing with an American flag like a sweaty, Gen Z Springsteen.
And then… Parcels. The softest gut punch of the weekend. 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 on something sacred. It was quiet, vulnerable, human. In a festival built on spectacle, this was the opposite—and all the more powerful for it.
But the crown jewel of the weekend, the reason for all the “GOO GOO 4 GAGA” tees, was the Queen of the Little Monsters herself, 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 she opened with “Abracadabra,” still in a death drop. And from there, chaos had a conductor. Gaga’s set was broken into five acts, all orbiting the battle between her past and present personas. There were heads shouted off, bodies contorted, voices belted to Venus. It was theatre. It was opera. It was pop. It was a little terrifying. It was perfect.
Yes, Coachella curates chaotic absurdity, but it’s so much more than that. It’s a place where strangers dance with each other under giant spinning spacemen, where a band can whisper “I never wanna leave you” and you believe them. And yeah, it’s hot. But it’s nice.
Photos by Ruby Risch
