Once upon a time… Coachella was a faraway land of flower crowns, juicy watermelon slices, and townspeople who looked like they were headed to war at Free People—and lost. But in 2025? It’s more like Fashion Week, with the occasional body glitter and pashmina. What was once a place where DIY fashion met the free-spirited language of music is now a curated event of brand deals and head-to-toe designer looks.
So what’s the deal? Is Coachella suffering an identity crisis? (Relatable.) Or is it just evolving?
When Messy Was Magic
Image Courtesy of JustJared (www.justjared.com)
Let’s take it back to the prince and princess of Coachella—Vanessa Hudgens and Austin Butler.
Coachella didn’t quite earn its status as a cultural leader until they graced our screens.
But it wasn’t cohesive, styled-to-perfection looks that made the world fall at their feet—it was their total lack of them that made them icons. They looked like they’d just rolled out of bed, thrown on something breezy and desert-proof, and let the music do the talking. It was messy. It was effortless. It was, for lack of better terms, everything.
Back then, being high on life was the only dress code you needed to rock Coachella. But you could also find bell-sleeve blowing in the wind, a coronation of flower crowns that made everyone feel like royalty, and thoughtfully chaotic layering. The original style icons got their inspiration from Tumblr with pastel colors, homemade looks, and crystals glued to limbs and collarbones with the intent to shine. Festival fashion was colorful, lacked purpose, and was deeply personal.
But now? The algorithm is everyone’s plus-one. Looks are prepared months in advance, they’re sleeker, and the like count is off the charts. As comedian Caleb Hearon put it: “Every post from that event has inspired in me a feeling so opposite of FOMO that we need new terminology to explain it.”
The festival may look the same, but it doesn’t feel the same.
What People Miss
Image Courtesy of darianka, Instagram.
Let’s be real—it’s not just about the outfits (shocking, I know). What people miss is what those outfits stood for. Coachella fits were a quiet whisper of, This is who I am. Now they scream, Look at me. Festival goers cared more about being in the front row of a set, not being first placed in a “best dressed” TikTok.
Now everything feels… slightly disconnected. Looks feel sponsored, rather than inspiring. The crowd? Half there for the music, half there to prove that they were. Podcaster Briana Chickefry called it out: “Week one is so, like, famous people and influencers, and I would look around and be like, ‘Oh no, no one is really having fun.’”
And trust me, no one’s crying over the loss of fringe vests or denim shorts better categorized as underwear. It’s the vibe that is being mourned online. Because it’s not about a singular outfit, it’s the culture. The mess. The freedom to be weird. The magic that made Coachella such an addictive presence online.
The whole experience now has the energy of two parents after a long Disney World trip: exhausted, overly planned, and somehow still down thousands of dollars.
Old Coachella wasn’t “brand safe” because it stood for everything that opposes that. It was wild. Borderline unhinged. The music was what mattered most. Clothes were just the icing on the cake. What people want to see back on the main stage? Self-expression. There was no pressure to go viral over your outfit or go viral for all the wrong reasons. So, in reality, the problem shouldn’t be with Coachella; it should be the media scope as a whole.
Influencer Culture or the Courtroom
We’re watching a festival built on taking risks and being creative morph into something … safe? The rules were that were no rules when it came to fashion. Now? If you’re not rocking the newest microtrend, the internet will gladly serve you a life sentence: Cancelled.
Take Reformation—a brand that brought a small army to the desert for Weekend 1, all decked out in head-to-toe Reformation. That sounds like a dream come true. But the online reaction? That’s where dreams turn to nightmares.
Image Courtesy of katiefang, Instagram, TikTok.
Influencer Katie Fang stepped out in a Reformation skirt, expecting some well-deserved hype. Instead, her comment sections were stormed with people with pitchforks saying that the skirt was “horrendous,” “is this a joke,” and “girl stay home lol.” Fast-forward all the way to… the next day. Alix Earle, another famous influencer, posts a video in the exact. Same. Skirt. Suddenly, that skirt was the answer to world peace. So no, the problem wasn’t the fit, it was who wore it.
Image Courtesy of alixearle, TikTok, Instagram.
Both women? Beautiful. They both looked beautiful. But that moment unmasked something sinister. There is a pressure to be perfect, palatable, and perky. Toxic standards hang over a festival that represents freedom over fear.
The internet is a powerful place—expressive, full of commentary, sometimes messy, but undeniably brilliant. But when that power is wielded for comparison and critique, especially between two women, it stops becoming fun and starts to feel like you’re headed for battle. And trust me when I say, no one wins when the weapon of choice is fashion.
Coachella fits shouldn’t be put on the chopping block—they should be celebrated for what they really are: the gateway drug to the festival spirit. Comfortable yet impractical. Sparkly and strange. Outfits were borderline hazardous, made no sense, and don’t even mention the glitter. Absolutely everywhere. Seriously—attendees from 10 years ago are probably still finding glitter. But it worked. People cared less. Which made it all mean more.
In the end, true love’s kiss can’t save Coachella. But letting go of perfection might.
So, as the story comes to a close and the townspeople of the internet lay this year to rest, let’s remember who Coachella is really dressing for—and I can assure you, it’s not the internet.