If you had told me a few years ago that I’d be scream-singing “Bad Romance” with Lady Gaga in the Indio desert and twirling while Trixie Mattel spun ABBA remixes for a sea of glittered gays, I would’ve said, “Okay, but what do I wear?”
Coachella 2025 wasn’t just a music festival—it was a full-blown queer awakening. Pride in the desert. Euphoria in fringe chaps and rhinestones. And yes, I’m still emotionally recovering.
From the moment we arrived on Friday, the energy felt different—although this was my first trip to the lace-clad, sweat-induced mania that is this festival, “Gaychella” was all anyone was talking about. It felt warmer, gayer, more celebratory—and not just in a rainbow capitalism kind of way. I feel lucky to have experienced it in high definition.
I arrived Thursday evening and was quickly ushered to pregame at the Sands Hotel before attending United Talent Agency’s star-studded welcome party at The Nest. However, we of course had to get our beauty sleep for Gagachella in the morning.
Friday: Gagachella
Friday kicked off with scorching sun (102ºF) and tequila pineapple cocktails at the pregame before making it to the festival around 5:00 p.m. My friend Kelly, a fellow Lady Gaga enthusiast, and I had planned to sit and wait at the Coachella Mainstage for Mother Monster’s highly anticipated performance.
What better way to kick off my Gaychella than with MARINA, serving her classics: “Bubblegum B*tch” and “Primadonna Girl.” Immediately following, TikTok heartthrob Benson Boone took to the stage with a mission to stir the girls and gays even further. The backflipping pop star also garnered respect from audience members with his incredible Queen tribute, performing “Bohemian Rhapsody” with special guest Brian May and a live choir.
Missy Elliott killed it performing all of her timeless classics—but frankly, after already waiting four hours and knowing I had two hours ahead of me, I would’ve been counting down the seconds regardless of who was in her time slot.
The crowd grew a bit delirious as little monsters passed around fan art and rationed bottles of water—until finally, the moment came. Lady Gaga’s “The Art of Personal Chaos” began. With my GA wristband strapped on tight and six hours of waiting behind me, I clenched the barricade bar as her manifesto interlude blared through the speakers.
Without exaggeration, Gaga’s performance was the most jaw-dropping, mind-bending display of artistry I’ve ever witnessed from her—or frankly, anyone. It wasn’t just a concert; it was a full-blown theatrical opera, layered with symbolism, character work, self-reference, and pure performance mastery. Every number was reimagined with cinematic brilliance—from being buried alive to rising in skeletal choreography for the first live performance of “Disease,” to her hauntingly reworked “Poker Face” chessboard sequence. The production was meticulous, the narrative spine electrifying, and her live vocals? Unmatched. She didn’t just raise the bar—she shattered the ceiling. This was Gaga at her most daring, most visionary, most alive. We. Are. So. Back.
Saturday: Bratchella
If Friday was queer high drama, Saturday was a gay little fairytale drenched in brat green. Although I did not partake in the lime green discourse—as it’s not really my color—we arrived at the festival in Retro Barbieland, just in time for a midday Trixie Mattel DJ set/drag performance. Picture it: pink cowboy hats, bedazzled boots, and Trixie opening her set with a drag performance of “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” by Nancy Sinatra. We may have all been on the verge of heatstroke, but I promise she was “bone f*cking dry.” We were off to the races!
Charli XCX’s set later that night was straight-up chaotic pop and quintessential Charli. Lots of flashing stretched title graphics and enough features to shut down the festival. As expected, her side-twink Troye Sivan made an appearance for their remix of “Talk Talk” and had everybody drooling over what hotel in Amsterdam they’d be meeting him in (LOL).
Then, much to everyone’s surprise, she also brought out Lorde for their remix of “Girl, So Confusing.” The screams of indie girls and Lorde fans everywhere were truly deafening. But nothing compared to the pandemonium that broke loose when Miss Billie Eilish rose on the center stage platform to perform her iconic verse in “Guess.” There was not a dry eye—or fan—in the audience. She shut the place down.
Charli closed her set with “I Love It,” giving the track its well-deserved redemption arc ever since the viral video from Glastonbury 2015. Wrapping as the sun set with the declaration that Brat summer is officially over—or is it?
The rest of the night was a blur, sprinting between tents, swept up in the energy of the techno scene. My friends and I danced hard to HorsegiirL, Ship Wrek, Mau P, Keinemusik, and more—each set bringing its own pulse, its own world, letting the music pull us deeper until the desert air turned cold.
Sunday: Motherchella
By Sunday, I had fully shed my human form and become a rhinestoned spirit floating between DJ tents. In all honesty, I wasn’t the most well-versed in the DJs performing this year—especially in terms of who I should or shouldn’t be seeing. Thankfully, my friend Dannah was my guiding force, bringing me to all the must-see, hottest sets.
We started out at Coachella’s QUASAR stage for Odd Mob’s bass-fueled set. It was the perfect “hair of the dog” pick-me-up to get the blood flowing for what was to come. With the sun blazing down, we skipped over to Sammy Virjil’s electrifying set at the SAHARA stage. He turned the entire tent into a bouncing, finger-flicking, dance-moshing party—at only 6:00 p.m. From that moment on, I knew the night was only going up.
On our way back to the QUASAR stage for Tiësto, we stopped at the Do LaB for Levity’s set. I’m not usually a dubstep fan, but their queer-coded mix of “Toxic” by Britney Spears had me sold.
Then came thee moment for Sunday. Megan Thee Stallion. The crowd? Unhinged. The energy? Lethal. Her twerking? Olympic-level. She tore through a mix of her biggest hits and deep-cut fan favorites with the kind of stage presence only Meg could deliver. And just when we thought it couldn’t get any more iconic, she brought out Queen Latifah, Ciara, and Victoria Monét—a holy trinity of power, fabulosity, and bulletproof face cards. It was certainly a performance to remember.
From there, I let the DJs carry me away—Francis Mercier, Zeds Dead—and by the time the official festival wrapped, it was just a warm-up for the real Sunday service: the afters.
We ended up at a party at an airplane hangar rave sponsored by Gin & Juice. Alesso, Layton Giordani, and Francis Mercier all performed sets. There were no phones out. No egos. Just sweaty, joyful bodies in rhythm. I danced with strangers I’ll never see again and hugged people like we’d survived something together. Because we did.
It was a whirlwind of music, sweat, body glitter, and new memories—a fever dream I look forward to reliving this time next year. From the late-night sets to surprise cameos, it was a weekend of nonstop motion, soundtracked by some of the best in the game. I am exhausted, sunburnt, and fully satisfied.
