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 woke up in my tent early Friday morning at E 1403rd Street as the relentless sun began to heat up my hideaway. Squinting against the bright light, I crawled out into the clear day and settled into my chair in my 10×10 space with a Celsius, a water bottle, a vegan protein shake, and a notebook. I smoked a Camel, and the day was just beginning. I had shade, nicotine, and caffeine, and no one bothered me.
This was my first time at Coachella, and I was determined to make the most of it.
I pulled out my phone from the sweaty seat of my camping chair and read Nicholai Rip’s Coachella Diary for i-D Magazine. A pang of envy hit me when I saw the candle-lit welcome dinner (which looked air-conditioned) and the laid-back, star-studded escapades at the Guess Jeans compound. But it didn’t matter. It was just me and my EZ-UP against the world. “Camping at a festival is always the best choice; that’s where the real fun happens,” I reminded myself. I tossed my socks toward the tent, the same ones that had been checked at the entrance to car camping the night before.
The night before, I arrived at the campsite at a reasonable hour with the other latecomers, around 1am.
I figured there would be less traffic at that hour, and I was right. The only thing to worry about was pitching my tent faster than my neighbor (I’m not competitive; you are) and keeping track of the stakes in the dark. I exchanged greetings with a few neighbors and got to work setting up my spot. I inflated my manual cot, shoved the stakes into the ground, prayed they would hold, and launched my EZ-UP into the air.
After an hour of setup, I slipped into my sleeping bag and zipped the tent shut. I eventually drifted off to the sounds of giggles and shouts from a small group who had clearly enjoyed too many tequila shots. For a brief moment, I wished I were at the Guess Jeans Compound or at least enjoying some peace and quiet. But it was GA car camping, and I was glad to be in the heart of the action.
Now it was Friday, it was 8am, and we were at Coachella.
I sat in the shaded desert breeze, looking at the quiet mountains above the endless sea of canopies and neatly parked cars. The bass from soundcheck reverberated, the lines for showers grew, and tequila shots flowed from neighboring campsites. It was hard to imagine that anything could go wrong as long as I played it smart. Coachella had officially begun.
I misplaced my toothpaste, and the general store operator was in no hurry to set up. While I waited, I checked out the Coachella Arts Studio, where music played and people crafted little bakeable clay trinkets. I grabbed a copy of the Coachella newspaper “Group Project.” Back at camp, I attempted the crossword puzzle but failed miserably.
The anticipation was building. It was my first Coachella, and I was eager to experience the beautiful chaos of the festival grounds.
I packed my festival fanny pack with essentials: lip gloss, saline spray, a pen and notepad, earplugs, car keys, and electrolyte pills. I clipped my Nalgene onto my belt loop with a carabiner and set off, prancing down the Green Path. The wind was strong, and my big, floppy hat immediately blew off, landing in the dirt. I tied the strings of the hat to my scarf and knotted it around my shoulders. The wind kept howling, but at least my hat would stay around my neck if it blew off again.
The Ferris Wheel grew larger as I approached, and I stood right underneath it. I inhaled deeply, watching people swerving, jumping, and running on the grass (it was still green!).
For a moment, I wandered aimlessly under the blazing desert sun, unsure of where to go.
That’s when the colorful fluttering of the Do LaB stage called me like a mirage in the distance. I headed there. Carola was absolutely killing it when I arrived. I remembered that I was on the guest list for the backstage area, but the wristband line was long, so I opted to keep exploring.
I caught SAINt JHN at Mojave and rushed over to Yuma for Damian Lazarus. There was no line to enter Yuma, but they had set up a maze of stanchions like airport security. A couple of people behind me complained about how pointless the stanchions were and how they should open a quicker path since there was no line (they did on Saturday and Sunday).
I chuckled because it looked amusing watching the lines of people move back and forth, seemingly going nowhere. When we finally reached the entrance, I joked, “Wow, I think I’ve aged ten years!” Someone behind me gave a pity laugh. The relentless winds were driving me a bit crazy.
It had barely been two hours, and my thrifted cowboy boots were already killing my feet. Once inside Yuma, the rush of A/C felt heavenly, and I made myself comfortable, kicking off my boots and tucking them under my arms. We had a fantastic dance party there, and the crowd was fully engaged. I forgot all about the heat, dust, and wind outside and surrendered to the pulsating beat.
I reluctantly put my shoes back on and headed over to Sahara for Sara Landry.
I had already livestreamed her set during weekend one, but that didn’t diminish the excitement of seeing her live for weekend two. The crowd was polite, and I shook off my anxieties to her driving techno rhythm. The sun began to set, and it started to get a little chilly.
I pulled my hat down tighter, hoping it wouldn’t blow away this time (it did), and made my way to the press tent on the opposite side of the festival, where I was set to interview the South Asian collective Indo Warehouse. After a meaningful meeting filled with action, followed by an electrifying set from the group that showcased folk dancers and infectious beats, I was drawn back to the Do LaB by Max Styler, where I enjoyed some hearty DnB from Hybrid Minds and a surprise guest appearance by Claude VonStroke.
I suddenly felt the urge to climb to the top of the Spectra tower just to escape the wind, so I did. I skipped up the ramp, singing along to Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” which was playing in the distance, before ending the night at the Do LaB with a surprise back-to-back set from Amémé and Coco & Breezy.
By this point, my cowboy boots were definitely not going back on my feet. They were going right back into my suitcase for a time-out. I ran down the Green path in my socks, collecting dirt and feeling completely carefree.
Saturday: It’s a Party, It’s a Party, It’s a Party
“Lost on You” played softly in a nearby campsite, evoking 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 it was. Music is a thread through memory and life, forging connections that might not otherwise exist. I felt grateful to be at the heart of this massive celebration.
I forced myself out of my cozy cocoon, rubbed my tired eyes, and slipped on my running shoes. I was about to tackle the first-ever Coachella 5k. I was on a health-chella streak. I spoke with some other runners, most of whom were training for marathons. I cramped up badly and fell behind the crowd, but I finished strong. The horseback security cheered us on, which motivated me along the way.
After the run, I dove into a morning yoga class at Desert Sky and then headed straight for the cold plunge in Lot 8. It was a day dedicated to personal records and prioritizing wellness. The natural high from breathing, pushing physical limits, and moving my body kicked in, and I felt almost divine, lounging in the sun’s warmth in my tent. The beauty of ice baths is that for hours afterward, the sun doesn’t feel overwhelming; it feels just right. The warm, dry desert air seeped deep into my bones and lingered there.
Saturday was a whirlwind in the best way.
From Layton Giordani at Yuma and Disco Lines dropping heavy bass in Sahara to Indira Paganotto and Infected Mushroom keeping the energy high at Yuma. Plus, Tripolism rocked a back-to-back set with EREZ at Quasar. Coachella was not holding back on its dance music lineup.
As the day softened into night and the harsh winds from Friday faded, the festival came alive.
“I don’t care, I love it!” I shouted along with the crowd as Charli xcx wrapped up her set. The energy was electric, and the festival was in full swing. The lights from the stages, art installations, and Ferris wheel blurred as I spun around, jumping up and down. “I crashed my car into a bridge; I don’t care!”
There’s nothing quite like a music festival; Coachella unleashed that cherished magic that can only be felt amidst the chaos, artistry, and collective spirit. Someone darted past me with a glittery backpack. This was our playground.
At the Do LaB, a party was raging – Sammy Virji went back-to-back with Interplanetary Criminal, salute, Oppidan, and Conducta. All I can say about that set is, “Sheesh, what a heater.” I couldn’t have had more fun if I tried. The crowd’s energy was incredible, and it felt like the dance floor was united as one.
D.Nice closed out the Do LaB and brought out Estelle as a special guest. Hearing her sing “American Boy” and Madonna’s “Borderline” live was a heavenly experience. D.Nice dropped into 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) blared as D.Nice spun a DnB version that had the entire tent jumping from front to back. I didn’t want the party to end, feeling sad that there was only one day left.
As I walked 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 to free spirits and the best-dressed.
I strolled down 803rd Street searching for a friend’s tent, “halfway down, to the right.” I thought I would never find it. Pans were sizzling behind cars, and the smell of fresh hot dogs filled the air. Happy voices and laughter created the soundtrack of our campground. Colorful garden lights lit the way, keeping the party alive in the camping spots. It was the heartbeat of Coachella. I was glad I chose to camp after all.
“I hope you had the time of your life,” crooned Green Day’s Billie Joe Armstrong earlier that night. The verse stuck with me as I settled down under my EZ-UP. Yeah, I did, and it wasn’t even Sunday yet.
Finally, it was Sunday Funday, but the day also felt bittersweet.
I was gearing up for another fun-filled day in the sun. The only hitch was deciding what to wear. It was the hottest day of the weekend (though not as scorching as the first weekend). I wasn’t feeling the outfit I had planned: a flowy but long-sleeved boho dress paired with those dreaded cowboy boots.
I mulled it over and, in the meantime, made my way to the cold plunge and endured another three-minute, 37-degree bath. The result was incredible; I cannot recommend it enough. I could hang out in the heat without feeling uncomfortable—like I had an internal A/C unit that lasted for hours. Plus, the cold plunge crew radiated the best vibes of the entire weekend, keeping time with their drum, which really helped me stay focused on my breath.
Fueled by post-ice-bath clarity, I finally decided on my outfit. I combined the comfort of Rhude basketball shorts with a chaotic-chic denim top from Noend Los Angeles. Feeling a bit anxious about my interview with Tripolism that afternoon, I arrived early and hung out at Yuma until it was time. It turned out I had no reason to be nervous; Bryn, Fred, and Ras were just as excited to be at their first Coachella as I was, and that enthusiasm shone through in our conversation.
The day flew by, but operating a bubble gun at a packed Yuma tent for Tripolism became a core Coachella memory.
Azzecca b2b Annicka absolutely crushed it at Quasar, and the view from the Red Bull Mirage was breathtaking. I was planted at Quasar for Gorgon City b2b Alesso. I finally pulled myself away from the railing and headed back to Yuma for Dennis Cruz before making my way all the way to Heineken House for an incredible set from Afrojack.
Zedd brought out the LA Phil for an unforgettable finale, while Kraftwerk cleansed my dancing palate and sent me into a dreamlike state, followed by Amyl and the Sniffers that got me hyped once again. The grand finale was fast approaching: 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 end. Mau P dominated the airwaves and had everyone on their feet. He had been paying attention and dropped a sick version of “Grove St. Party,” which had become our personal Coachella anthem by this point. He spun a sultry edit of Chris Lake and NPC’s “A Drug From God,” and the dance floor heated up like never before. We were locked in.
And just like that, it was over.
The Do LaB emptied, and the soft house lights glowed with a longing for more dancing. I wandered around, unsure of what to do next. I followed the crowds back to the Camping Activities Center, where the food vendors were still serving chicken tenders, and the Desert Sky stage was bumping out some good old-fashioned dubstep. Eventually, the night had to come to an end, and we all knew it.
In those final moments of camping, as we packed up our belongings and got into our cars, my neighbor and I exchanged names and Instagram handles because he had overheard my conversation about writing and thought it was cool. “Oh, half the fun of camping is eavesdropping,” I said with a smile.
As I rolled out of the Coachella campground, my tires bumped along the grass beneath the newly risen sun. The radio was spotty but happy, and I rolled down my windows to take in the tan folds of the surrounding mountains. The fresh air felt great against my face.
I reached the exit road in no time, smiled, and threw up a peace sign to the police officer directing traffic. He smiled and waved back. I thought it was a bit unfair that some people had to wait for hours to get in and out while I coasted right through. The secret is arriving late and leaving early.
Everything was peaceful. The chaos didn’t linger. It got sucked back into whatever celestial realm music comes from, leaving us with only ourselves, the hills, and all the highs and lows, memories swirling in the morning desert breeze.
