It’s been no secret for some time that the trappings of the Money God are what “the people” worship most of all in this (post-post-post-post-post-post-post) modern life. This time period called “It’s All About Me.” And what could be more oriented toward that god (and goal of getting attention) than a “little thing” like Coachella? A place before it was a concept, the valley’s name has been sullied since 1999 by that music festival as the years have worn on, and the popularity of the event has rendered all other aspects of the geographical location null.
Never mind that people live and work there outside of the festival dates. For those who come for Coachella, it’s merely a weekend-long narcissism bubble to corroborate what they’ve believed about themselves all along: they’re “special.” They’re “influential.” Their presence is the only thing making the nexus even remotely relevant. And one supposes if something like “God” or “Jesus” was ever going to be found again, it would make poetic sense to be in a California desert. Even if that manifestation turned out to come in the form of a lot of drugged-out “beautiful people” gathering together to put forth certain addenda to their one true Bible: social media.
It is on that apparatus, the modern-day “Gospel,” that “Truth” is written. Never mind that it takes a lot of money, makeup and filters to create that truth. What does it matter when the lie is so much more attractive? The lie that money creates by itself being so seductive. Which is unfortunate for those who will never be able to acquire the “funds necessary” (for much of anything, let alone Coachella).
Because even to count yourself among the hoi polloi not in the VIP section, you still have to have money—and gobs of it—to attend this “hallowed” festival. Shit, your “festival wear” wardrobe alone, paired with the cost of driving or flying there, will already render you a broke ass (if you weren’t to begin with) before even setting foot inside. Whereupon you’ll have extremely limited views of the stage in your position as garden variety festival plebe. Jesus might have exalted the poor, but Jesus wasn’t living in the twenty-first century… where the cost of living means that if you are poor (and you likely are), you’re probably soon to be as physically dead as you are metaphorically in the eyes of those with money.
Perhaps the peak irony of “Coachella Valley Arts and Music Festival” attracting so many rich, influencer cunts to it every year is that it’s actually a place that was once associated with the working-class… before this festival came along. Surrounded by agricultural terrain (like so much of California), it was once the site where the United Farm Workers protested and waged their strikes, complete with cameos by César Chávez.
Now, it’s where the likes of Kendall Jenner and Hailey Bieber pose for the pretty, pretty cameras as though they’re mannequins…or corpses. And, speaking of, Jesus’ own corpse was once celebrated on Easter weekend for its miraculous revival from the dead (yes, likely not true, but still). Instead, with Coachella falling on the holiday this year, it feels like a pointed commentary on how the things we “celebrate” now are determined to promote and/or reflect a collective spiritual paucity. In favor, of course, of money—and all the “cute posts” it can buy.
