This year’s edition of Coachella was one for the books, featuring some of the hottest dance music moments and unforgettable campground side quests.
I awoke in my tent early Friday morning at E 1403rd Street when the inescapable sun inevitably started baking me in my hideaway. Squinting, I crawled out into the cloudless day and posted up in the chair at my 10×10 square with my Celsius, a water bottle, a vegan protein shake, and a notebook. I smoked a Camel, and the day was young. I had shade, nicotine, and caffeine, and nobody bothered me.
I was at Coachella for the first time, and I was determined to make it the best time.
I opened my phone from the sweaty seat of my camping chair and read Nicholai Rip’s Coachella Diary for i-D Magazine. A pang of jealousy shot through me when I saw the candle-lit welcome dinner (it looked to be air-conditioned, for sure) and the casual, aloof, star-studded mishaps of partying at the Guess Jeans compound. But no matter. It was me and my EZ-UP against the world. “Camping at a festival is always the move, it’s where the real party happens,” I told myself. I threw my socks off in the direction of the tent, the same socks that got patted down at the entrance to car camping the night before.
The night before, I arrived at the campsite in a reasonable amount of time with the other latecomers, around 1am.
I figured there would be less traffic at the time, and I was right. The only thing I had to worry about was pitching the tent faster than my neighbor (I’m not competitive; you are) and keeping track of the stakes in the dark. I shook hands with a few neighbors and got busy setting up my spot. I punched the manual blow-up cot until it filled with air, poked the stakes into the ground, prayed that they stayed there, and launched the EZ-UP into space.
Finally, after an hour of set up, I slipped into the sleeping bag and zipped the tent shut. I eventually dozed off to the giggles and screams of a small but mighty band of little miss too many tequila shots. For a split second, I yearned for the Guess Jeans Compound, or at least for a bit of peace and quiet. But it was GA car camping after all, and I was glad to be there, in the thick of things.
Now it was Friday, it was 8am, and we were at Coachella.
There I sat in the shaded desert breeze with the quiet mountain view above the endless sea of pointed canopies and the neat rows of dusty, parked cars. The bass of soundcheck boomed, the lines to the showers inched, and the shots of tequila flowed in the neighboring campsites. It was hard to imagine anything could go wrong so long as I was smart about things. Coachella had officially commenced.
I lost my toothpaste, and the general store operator was in no rush to get set up. While I waited, I went to the Coachella Arts Studio to see what was going on. There was music and people creating little bakeable clay trinket keychains. I snagged a copy of the Coachella newspaper “Group Project.” Back at camp, I tried to do the crossword but failed miserably.
The anticipation was mounting. It was my first Coachella, and I was eager to witness the beautiful chaos of the festival grounds.
I packed my little festival fanny pack with the essentials: lip gloss, saline spray, a pen and notepad, earplugs, car keys, and electrolyte pills. I hooked my Nalgene onto my belt loop with a carabiner, and off I went, prancing down the Green Path. It was very windy. My big, floppy hat immediately blew off my head and landed in the dirt. I tied the strings inside the hat to my scarf and knotted the scarf around my shoulders. The wind kept blowing, but at least the hat would stay around my neck if it blew off.
The Ferris Wheel got larger and larger until I was through the white tents and standing right under it. I breathed in and watched people swerving, jumping, and running around on the grass (it was still green!).
For a minute, I strolled aimlessly in the blazing desert sun and didn’t know where to go.
That was when the rainbow fluttering of the Do LaB stage beckoned me like a desert mirage in the distance. I headed there. Carola was tearing it up when I arrived. I remembered that I was on the guest list for the backstage area, but the line to get a wristband was long, so I decided to keep exploring.
I caught SAINt JHN at Mojave and booked it over to Yuma for Damian Lazarus. There was no line to get into Yuma, but they had set up a maze of stanchions like at airport security. A couple of people behind me started to complain about how useless the stanchions were and how they should open a quicker path when there was no line (they did on Saturday and Sunday).
I laughed because it looked so silly watching the lines of people move back and forth, seemingly going nowhere. When we finally got to the doorway, I joked, “Jeez, I now have grey hair and aged ten years!” Someone behind me gave me a pity laugh. The unrelenting winds were making me loopy.
It had barely been two hours, and my thrifted cowboy boots were already killing my feet. Once inside Yuma, the blast of A/C felt godly, and I made myself at home, jumping out of my boots and tucking them under my arms. We had a grand ol’ dance party there, and the crowd was fully getting down. I forgot about the heat, dust, and wind outside and surrendered to the feverish beat.
I reluctantly put on my shoes and shot over to Sahara for Sara Landry.
I had already livestreamed her set during weekend one, but that did not ruin seeing her live for weekend two. The crowd was courteous, and I shook out my angst to her hard techno tempo. The sun was beginning to sink, and it got to be a bit cold.
I pulled my hat further onto my head, hoping it wouldn’t blow off this time (it did), and set out towards the press tent, conveniently on the absolute other side of the festival, where I was set to interview South Asian collective Indo Warehouse. After a meaningful, action-packed meeting followed by a smashing set from the group that was filled with folk dancers and undeniable beats, I was lured back to the Do LaB by Max Styler, and I stayed for some hearty DnB from Hybrid Minds and surprise guest Claude VonStroke.
I had the sudden and disconcerting urge to climb to the top of the Spectra tower if only to get out of the wind, so I did. I skipped up the ramp and sang along to Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” which was playing in the distance before ending the night at the Do LaB with the second surprise, a back-to-back from Amémé and Coco & Breezy.
At this point, my cowboy boots were simply not going back on my feet. I refused. They were going right back in my suitcase for a time-out. I ran down the Green path in my socks, collecting dirt and feeling carefree.
Saturday: It’s a Party, It’s a Party, It’s a Party
“Lost on You” played softly in a nearby campsite. It evoked a vivid memory: someone on the E line in Los Angeles played that song from a portable speaker, and it was so beautiful that I had to ask what the song was. Music is a throughline for memory, for life, it pulses and forges connections that otherwise could not exist. I was feeling grateful to be at the heart of this massive celebration.
I forced myself out of my cozy little cocoon, rubbed my tired eyes, and slipped on my running shoes. I was about to run the first-ever Coachella 5k. I was on my health-chella streak. I spoke to some other runners, and most of them were training for marathons. Meanwhile, I had barely run two 5k’s in my life. I cramped up badly and fell behind the crowd, but I crossed the finish line strong. The horseback security cheered us on along the way, and that carried me through.
After the run, I hopped into a morning yoga class at Desert Sky and then went straight to the cold plunge in Lot 8. It was a day of personal records and prioritizing wellness and balance. The natural highs of breathing, pushing physical limits, and moving my body began to kick in, and I felt almost godly, lounging in the sun-soaked warmth of my tent. The wonderful thing about ice baths is that for hours afterward, the sun doesn’t feel sweaty or stifling; it feels heavenly and just right. The warm, dry desert air reached deep into my bones and stayed there.
Saturday was a frenzy in the best way.
From Layton Giordani at Yuma and Disco Lines dropping filthy bass in Sahara to Indira Paganotto and Infected Mushroom keeping the party going at Yuma. Not to mention Tripolism raging during a back-to-back with EREZ at Quasar. Coachella was not messing around with the dance music selection.
As the day softened into the night and the harsh winds from Friday were gone, the festival came alive.
“I don’t care, I love it!” I screamed along as Charli xcx closed out her set. The energy was mounting, and the festival was in full swing. The lights from the stages, art installations, and Ferris wheel blurred as I spun around and jumped up and down. “I crashed my car into a bridge; I don’t care!”
There is nothing like a music festival, and Coachella delivered that unspoken, treasured magic that can only be unleashed underneath all the chaos, artistry, and collective energy. Someone races past us with a glittery blur of a backpack. This was our playground.
At the Do LaB, there was a rager going on – Sammy Virji went back to back with Interplanetary Criminal, salute, Oppidan, and Conducta. All I really have to say about that set is, “Sheesh, what a heater.” I don’t think I could have much more fun if I tried. The crowd vibes were immaculate, and it felt like the dance floor was united as one.
D.Nice came out to close the Do LaB and brought out Estelle as a special guest. Listening to he rsing “American Boy” and Madonna’s “Borderline” live was a heavenly treat. D.Nice dropped into absolutely filthy versions of Icona Pop’s “I Love It” and Lola Young’s “Messy.”
“It’s a party, it’s a party, it’s a party” (“Grove St. Party,” Waka Flocka Flame) boomed as D.Nice spun a DnB version and got the whole tent jumping from front to back. I didn’t want the party to end, and I was sad that there was only one day left.
On the walk back to camp, I overheard someone say to a friend, “Oh my god, you’re such a brat!” It reminded me that I was at Coachella, the land of the young, home of the free-spirited and best-dressed.
I strolled down 803rd Street looking for a friend’s tent, “halfway down, to the right.” I thought I would never be able to find it. Pans were sizzling behind cars, and the aroma of fresh hot dogs filled the air. Happy voices and chitter-chatter created our campground soundtrack. Little glowing, colorful garden lights lit the way and kept the party going in the camping spots. It was the pulse of Coachella. I was happy to be camping after all.
“I hope you had the time of your life,” crooned Green Day’s Billie Joe Armstrong earlier that night. The verse lived rent-free in my head as I settled down under my EZ-UP. Yeah. I did, and it wasn’t even Sunday yet.
Finally, it was Sunday Funday, but it was also a bittersweet symphony.
I was getting ready for another jam-packed day of fun in the sun. The only problem was that I couldn’t figure out what to wear. It was the hottest day of the weekend (still nothing like the first weekend’s heat). I wasn’t feeling the outfit I had planned, a flowy but long-sleeved boho dress and those dreaded cowboy boots.
I mulled it over in my head and, in the meantime, ran over to the cold plunge and breathed through another three-minute 37-degree bath. The result was outstanding; I cannot recommend it enough. I could hang out in the heat without feeling anything – like an internal A/C unit that lasted for hours. Plus, the cold plunge crew were some of the best vibes the entire weekend. They had their drum going to keep time, which really helps you stay focused on your breath.
Fueled by post-ice-bath clarity, I figured out what to wear. I blended the comfortable luxury of Rhude basketball shorts with a chaotic-chic denim top from Noend Los Angeles. I was a little nervous about my interview with Tripolism that afternoon, so I decided to get there early and hang out at Yuma until it was time. Turns out I had no need to be nervous. Bryn, Fred, and Ras were just as thrilled to be at their first Coachella as I was, and that shined through in our conversation.
The day went by in a blink, but operating someone’s bubble gun at a packed Yuma tent for Tripolism was a core Coachella memory.
Azzecca b2b Annicka slayed at Quasar, and the view from the Red Bull Mirage was unparalleled. I was planted at Quasar for Gorgon City b2b Alesso. I peeled myself from the railing and sent it back to Yuma for Dennis Cruz and then all the way across to Heineken House for a killer set from Afrojack.
Zedd brought out the LA Phil for an unforgettable finale, and Kraftwerk cleansed my dancing palate and sent me into a dreamlike reverie, while Amyl and the Sniffers got me amped again. The grand finale was near: a surprise set from the one and only Mau P at the Do LaB to seal the deal.
There I was, smoking my last cigarette backstage at Mau P. It was a bittersweet ending. Mau P disrupted the airwaves and got everyone on their toes. He had been paying attention and dropped into a sick version of “Grove St. Party,” which had become our personal Coachella theme song at this point. He spun a sultry edit of Chris Lake and NPC’s “A Drug From God,” and the dancefloor heated up beyond belief. We were locked in.
And then, just like that, it ended.
The Do LaB emptied, and the soft house lights glowed with yearning for more dancing. I paced around and didn’t really know what to do. I followed the crowds back to the Camping Activities Center, where the food vendors were still slinging chicken tendies and the Desert Sky stage was bumping some good ol’ fashioned dubstep. At some point, the night had to end, though, and we all knew it.
In the final moments of camping, as we were packing up our things and getting in our cars, my neighbor and I exchanged names and our Instagram handles because he had eavesdropped on my conversation about writing and thought it was cool. “Oh, half the fun of camping is eavesdropping,” I said and smiled warmly.
I rolled out of the Coachella campground, tires bumping along the grass with the newly risen sun. The radio was spotty but happy and right, and I rolled my windows down to the tan folds of the mountains all around. Tepid fresh air rolled over my face, and it felt good.
I got to the exit road in two minutes flat, smiled, and tossed up a peace sign to the police officer directing traffic. He smiled and waved back. I thought it was sort of unfair that some people had to wait for hours and hours to get in and out, and I just coasted right on through. The secret is arriving late and leaving early.
Everything was calm. The chaos did not stick around. It got sucked back up to whatever god-land music comes from, and we were left with only ourselves, the hills, and all the regrets and mistakes and highs and memories, passing through the morning desert wind.
