Out of the Blue: My Coachella pilgrimage

One thing America is especially good at is entertainment. When it comes to having a good time, we’re No. 1. I say this because I spent last weekend at the Coachella Music and Arts Festival.

Trying to decipher the cultural magnitude of this massive undertaking is no easy feat. The media covers it slavishly; the L.A. Times devotes entire sections to it. New York Fashion magazines flock to it. And of course Hollywood is there in spades. It has become a touchstone of fashion, art, music and most spectacularly, commerce. Consider:

An estimated 200,000 people bought three-day passes over two consecutive weekends. General admission was $375; VIP passes were $900, which got you nothing more than an elevated bar and some additional artisan foods. And special “glamping” packages got you luxury tents, 24/7 concierges, golf cart shuttles, unlimited food and drink, plus back stage passes. They ranged from $2,000 to $20,000 a weekend. A youth festival for sure, but a very Caucasian and privileged one at that.

There were the 13 major brand sponsors with their own event spaces, like Heineken, Samsung and H&M, plus all the vendors and merchandise. Enormous art. And the most incredible stages and sound systems on the planet. All amid a lush desert setting of green lawns, palm trees and a backdrop of mountains. It’s the Super Bowl of music festivals, The Disneyland of Millennials -- yep, there was even a Coachella gift shop selling branded hipster merchandise.

It wasn’t always that way. Back in its inaugural year of 1999 it was focused on survival. The town of Indio was so afraid of anarchy and drugs it mounted the most invasive cavity search this side of San Quentin. Had to take off your shoes, socks, hat, empty your pockets, open your wallet and spread your cheeks. And that was before you got busted.

It took four years before the event turned a profit. My, how times have changed.

This was my eighth Coachella, after a four-year hiatus — the crowd was so young it might as well have been 40. But from the start it was my smoothest experience yet. We suffered no hiccups, delays, dehydration, sunstroke, exhaustion or anything remotely approaching anxiety. Much of that comes from the wisdom of being old. So I felt no envy; I was just stoked that I could still shake a tail feather.

The usual interminable walk from the parking lot was mitigated by pedicabs always at the ready. The food court upped the ante with an array of healthy artisan foods. We could imbibe raw pressed juices if our energy flagged. There was never a wait anywhere — even the bathrooms. Every time you needed something it was right there. Water. Snacks. Trash cans. Lockers. Shade. Air conditioning. Even charging stations, because nothing makes an event legendary like selfies.

And unlike the early years, the air was liberally perfumed with marijuana, with people puffing everywhere. Indio must have gotten the message: Potheads spend money on food, lodging and gas, and rarely invade homes and destroy property.

Much has been made of the art, which is great, but not in a league with Burning Man. But the music! Oh, the music. Two hundred national and emerging artists playing in the glory of the desert with the most sophisticated sound systems, light shows and staging.

You can’t help but notice we are living far, far in the future. You watch thousands dance with abandon, their every reflex controlled by one teeny creature sitting behind a table twisting knobs. The laser lights are hypnotic, the carnal, tribal impulse to move unshakable. It’s certainly as deeply primitive as many ancient native cultures’ ecstatic rituals — only with advanced technology.

It makes you curious as to why so many young people are now making a career out of the festival circuit. Or at least making regular pilgrimages. Are the youth blinded to the realities that befall them: scarcity, climate change, income disparity, collapse? Wouldn’t their time and energy be better served trying to save the Earth instead of just partying on it?

The idealist in me thinks they are there precisely because of those things. That festivals provide a unique communal experience, an escape from the everyday slog to something more hopeful and utopian, where there is only love, unity, good vibes and great music.

I saw my share of young men and women -- boys and girls really -- who seemed to be experiencing this joyful assembly for the first time, with a sense of wonder and satisfaction. Because they too had joined that esteemed club who could post on Facebook, “I don’t know a single band, but I’m at Coachella.” Oh wait, I meant Instagram. Or was it Snapchat?

Oops, I’m showing my age.

BILLY FRIED has a radio show on KX93.5 from 8 to 10 p.m. Thursdays called “Laguna Talks.” He is the chief experience officer of La Vida Laguna and member of the board of Transition Laguna. He can be reached at [email protected].