Just as I could tell spring had arrived on campus by the daffodils and cherry blossoms pushing up from the flowerbeds down Locust, the barrage of micro shorts and belt–on–belt fit pics on my Instagram feed let me know Coachella season was here. Like any major pop–culture festival, Coachella is just as much a parade ground for proving how well you can dress in front of 80,000 sweaty strangers as it is a music event. Those who could afford to go religiously posted daily fit checks, while those who couldn’t posted reviews of those outfits with equal fervor.
Certainly, there was a fair share of noteworthy fashion choices. Some infused current trends with their own subtle signatures: think Marina’s Vivienne Westwood–esque brocade corset and taffeta bubble skirt from Erik Charlotte, or Jennie’s firetruck–red Georges Hobeika jacket over triple–belted Cotton Candy LA hot pants. Other noteworthy outfits went for more theatrical touch: Tyla—ever the pirate princess—was artfully swathed in bits of crystal mesh and velvet brocade, while Lady Gaga brought out gorgeous campy costume after gorgeous campy costume in her first weekend set, including a massive red skirt that ballooned over the stage. And for a personal favorite, Maria Zardoya—of The Marías fame—wore a custom–made Marina Aerie dress, flowing and folding into waves of white fabric like some folklorical sea siren as she flew a Puerto Rican flag in her hand.
For me, however, Coachella 2025 was also overwhelmingly marked by more than a fair share of poorly executed, busy, or downright confusing fashion. Personal taste aside, it was just … a lot. “On the whole, Coachella outfits are celebrity culture writ large, a litmus test of what ‘cool’ and ‘famous’ people think they should be wearing in front of the world, so it makes a lot of sense that none of it is making sense in these socially fractured times.” Elliot Hoste notes in Dazed Magazine.
Indeed, this seemed to apply to not just the artists, but also among attendees, an increasing number of whom are influencers. A significant number of outfits appeared less as manifestations of personal style than visual representations of microtrends battling it out with one another, without any particular victor. Micro–bubble–mini–leather skirts. Lots of suede (or suede–adjacent) fabrics for pieces that might not necessarily have needed suede. Corsets meet mesh meets denim meets ranchwear. "Overall, it was an assault on the sense," Hoste notes grimly. TikToks steeped in recession–core nostalgia called for a return to the Coachella of the 2000s and 2010s—messy, complete with flower crowns and fringe vests, and at least self–aware.
That isn’t to say Coachella fashion hasn’t had a troubled legacy; far from it. The very “boho–chic” fashion of Coachella’s past had given the festival a reputation for rampant cultural appropriation, from faux Native American headdresses to bindis and other culturally–ambiguous pieces that haven’t aged very well. The festival has since distanced itself from its pre–COVID image, but left behind its place, it seems, is a messy and altogether confusing visual identity.
Maybe this year’s fashion chaos—the “assault on the senses” of festivalwear—wasn’t just an unfortunate coincidence. Maybe it’s a symptom of something deeper. Launched in 1999, Coachella originally catered to the post–grunge scene—think Rage Against the Machine or Radiohead—and slowly shifted into pop and EDM. Looking at the Coachella–adjacent content to come out of the past weekend, however, I find myself wondering if the Coachella of today sincerely caters to any kind of music at all. Virtually every Coachella post that came up on my feed was about the brand–sponsored experiences: everything I got for free at 818 Tequila! Get ready with me and ASOS for Coachella day 2! The most surreal thing I saw was Samyang’s (yes, the company behind Buldak instant noodles) own branded experience tent. Visitors were offered cups of fruit sprinkled with Buldak hot sauce and had the chance to take photos with Glorilla. Nothing says indie desert spirit like fruit cups and Glorilla selfies under a noodle–branded arch.
Perhaps the real reason why Coachella fashion seems to be descending into a tangle of confusing, microtrend–fueled capitalist dystopia with no particular direction is because the festival Coachella has become lacks any kind of real identity as an artistic experience. Branded experiences and sponsored content have monopolized online discussions around the Coachella name. Somewhere along the way, possibly between Hailey Bieber’s Rhode and the Chamberlain Coffee pop–up, the headliners stopped being artists and started being brands.
Then there’s also the irony of how expensive it is to go to Coachella at all. Ticket prices this year spiked to around $700 for general admission; more than 60% of Coachella attendees used buy–now–pay–later payment plans to afford them. When the act of going to Coachella is supposed to say more about who you are than what you actually do at Coachella—so much so that a vast majority of its attendees are willing to buy tickets they can’t afford—what does that say about its merits as a cultural experience?
In one TikTok complaining about the general state of Coachella fashion this year, a user online contrasts the overly put–together outfits of influencers today with the more lived–in, “dirty” outfits of the past. To support her case, she pulls out a variety of celebrity candids from Glastonbury—think Kate Moss in smudged eyeliner and muddied Hunter boots—felt unbothered, even subversive. The grime was real, and the glamour had to live within it. There’s no equivalent at Coachella, where not a single strand of hair is out of place without intention. Yes, they’re wildly different festivals in wildly different countries—but that’s exactly the point. The festival–wear in Glastonbury ultimately cannot be replicated in Coachella because Coachella doesn’t have the direction that Glastonbury does as an artistic experience. The Glastonbury festival goers look rough around the edges because the experience is meant to be immersive, communal, a bit raw. Coachella, by contrast, seems designed to be photographed rather than lived.
When every photo op is curated by a brand, every drink tent comes with a hashtag, and every outfit is chasing content, it makes sense that no one quite knows what to wear. Coachella fashion looks like what it is: a bunch of trends desperately trying to stand for something in a place that no longer does. The flower crowns are gone, but the confusion remains. Maybe it’s not that we’ve lost the plot—maybe Coachella just stopped having one.
