Unpacking The Cringe Of The Coachella Fit
The modern failures of festival style — and why "trying" shouldn't be a dirty word.
I first went to Coachella in 2013. As a senior in college, I remember road tripping from Berkeley, spending the festival days running around with my friends, hopping from performance to performance, and getting blasted by the whipping winds. We slept in tents and I woke up every morning with sandy hair and grit between my teeth.
I spent all day every day at the festival itself, dehydrated, sunburnt, sometimes overheated and others freezing. I was less than a year into having an Instagram, and outfit posts had yet to really be invented. Back then, there was no pressure to document our looks beyond a disposable camera or a Facebook album. Style wasn’t about performance; it was about participation.
Still, I remember the fervor with which my friends and I raided Urban Outfitters and LF to put our own spin on “festival style” boho, playful, yet ultimately about my comfort in the moment. I look back on my weekend in gladiator sandals and what I remember was how much of my time there was about being in the moment, dancing to Alt-J, Phoenix, and Vampire Weekend, and chugging beers at our campsite before we walked inside (peak college chaos). What I wore that weekend made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself.
Now, the *Coachella Industrial Complex* feels entirely divorced from the event’s original intent. Taking in festival style only through the lens of social media, so many of the outfits are not just uninspiring, they seem realistically unwearable. They’re not grounded in reality because they’re created solely to draw in eyes on the internet (I can’t imagine that the outfit below is comfortable, but it does have viral potential).
When I was in high school, a group of girls in my class co-opted the word “trying,” turning it into a sneaky insult. I tend to wholeheartedly disagree. Earnestness is cool! Caring is cool! Dressing up to an occasion is cool! But, there’s nothing aspirational about an outfit that lacks any personal POV or basis in the real world. I’ll point out that this is not entirely the fault of influencers. If brands were paying me tens of thousands of dollars to wear an insane outfit for an hour or two, I’d probably take them up on it. At this point it’s obvious that brands cashing in on Coachella culture have ultimately transformed not just the festival experience, but the way in which it’s experienced from afar.
In truth, the shift from dressing to attend the festival to dressing to be seen at the festival has been a long time coming. Just six years later, when I finally made it back to Coachella in 2019, the vibe had already shifted. Brands were banking on the cachet and I was happy to attend for work, with VIP tickets and a hotel room to sleep in at the end of the night.
If it tells you anything, I don’t have a single photo from within the event grounds from that trip. Instead, every picture is from one of the parties I attended. I watched Snoop Dog perform poolside thanks to Levi’s, I got a vitamin B shot and a boxing workout in thanks to model-beloved-gym Dogpound, and I rode a roller coaster thanks to Revolve.
I was also a co-host of my company’s own festival-adjacent event, held on a balmy evening in Palm Springs. Still, I look back on my outfits — denim cutoffs and separates from VEDA and see that I was able to channel a version of myself through the context of the event. Playing with my personal style in a way that felt true both to me and the weekend’s agenda, while managing to capture some content too.
This year feels like an inflection point — one in which the influence of it all feels particularly icky. Extravagant parties and over-the-top outfits aren’t doing it for me because it’s so far removed from the realities we’re all facing. If anything, what I really want is to enjoy an IRL event without the obligations of the internet. I want to be in the moment, comfortable, and I want to see an artist perform without a hundred flashing screens in my face.
There are hints that maybe Coachella will return to its roots. Celebrities this year have kept their outfits decidedly pared down, perhaps as my friend
pointed out in GQ because they’re trying to separate themselves from the over-glammed influencer approach — low-key looks suggest you’re there of your own accord, not that you’re thirsting for social media deals. But as celebrities, influencers, and wannabe-influencers continue to exist online as personal brands instead of people, it’s hard to imagine we can ever return to a place of dressing completely divorced from the industry of it all.As Gen-Z continues to replace my fellow millennials as the target audience of all this hoopla, I hope that they find ways to enjoy the moment and embrace their own authentic version of “festival style” cultivated outside the high of potential likes. After its all over, you want to remember feeling like your experience was true to you. Because the reality is, it won’t last forever. I don’t think I’ll ever go back, and even Vanessa Hudgens, long considered the queen of Coachella, had to eventually hang up her flower crown.
I mean your outfits in 2013 were objectively cool
Thoughtful take on the changing landscape we are living in and what it means to be present in the moment.