Were you at Coachella? Neither was I
Were you at Coachella? Neither was I.
For a few years now, whenever April rolls around, I kick myself for missing the US West Coast’s premier music festival yet again. While the will is there, the time isn’t, so plans drafted with friends — however frighteningly detailed and well-intentioned — stay that way, a daydream that leaves my heart a bit heavier and my pants feeling a little tighter. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.
But somehow, the more I forego the sheer Bacchanalia that goes down in the wide open Empire Polo Club in Indio, California, the more the notion loses its appeal. Fine, I still wonder what it’s like to deliberately rob my brain of precious serotonin and mingle with obnoxious, unshowered youth — most with poorly thought-out tattoos — but is skipping this annual event in the middle of the Mojave Desert all that bad?
As authentic as a hologram
I mean, from what I’ve seen and read online, what was once an innocent celebration of music has turned into a money-making behemoth. Today’s Coachella — a giant buffet of buzzy bands and performers spread across two weekends — is a far cry from how it used to be in 1999, when Pearl Jam and a handful of its devotees first staged a free two-day protest against Ticketmaster’s growing monopoly of many Los Angeles area venues. In a way, it has become as wildly authentic as Tupac Shakur’s 2012 hologram performance.
For proof of this creeping commercialization, one only needs to examine Coachella’s attendees. Apart from bona fide music nerds, fake teen hippies and dude bros in tank tops, it seems that the festival has been overrun for the most part by attention-seeking celebrities in the tackiest outfits known to Tumblr. For instance, there’s Vanessa Hudgens, posing for pixels in a doily diaper and a flower crown. Then there’s Katy Perry and her boobs, who landed on an extra special patch of grass straight from a Viktor & Rolf show. And wherever there are self-styled music festival fairies, the fashion faithful will surely follow.
Instagram the mess
On some level, I get why festival-goers take full advantage of the oppurtunity to dress out of character at Coachella. Half a century on, the tendency to romanticize the peace-and-love subculture of the 1960s remains strong. It’s great to be able to unshackle one’s self from social and economic restraints every once in a while through clothing, no matter how questionable. The memo at Coachella seems to be: Take the most awful items in your closet, wear them all at once and Instagram the hell out of the mess. That’s it.
Misguided odes to Pocahontas or Jimi Hendrix aside, however, I’m annoyed that brands such as Guess, A/X Armani Exchange, H&M and Lacoste L!ve — perhaps spurred on by the image of Coachella as a neo-Woodstock — have turned the series of concerts into one massive gifting suite and photoshoot for famous people. Would these paid VIPs even be around if there were no off-site pre-parties, all the cameras disappeared and only the bands remained? Would the festival even exist?
Hoping for some balance
I know, I know. I should shut up and move on with my life. I’m just hoping for some sort of balance when it comes to the media coverage. For every photo of Nick and Joe Jonas playing ping pong, for instance, it would be fantastic if there were also interviews with artists such as the UK house revisionist Julio Bashmore or New York tropical indie band White Arrows.
“Fashion has helped cultivate an image of Coachella as the coolest place on earth — where you can channel your inner hippie, watch your favorite celebrities misbehave, and listen to the hottest artists under the blazing sun wearing feathers, fringes, and face paint,†goes an article in the design culture editorial blog The Genteel. While that may be undeniable, I think that the live entertainment should be made the focus and the supposedly spontaneous style a sidebar, not the other way around. Anyway, there’s always next year.
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