the true meaning of Travis Scott’s Coachella
Travis Scott at Coachella: The Show No One Wanted—And Maybe the One We Needed
Let’s start with the obvious: If you came to Travis Scott’s Weekend 1 Coachella set expecting ragers, guest stars, pyrotechnics, and at least one flaming jet ski, you were… disappointed.
No, really. People were mad. Reddit was in full meltdown. Some said it was the worst Coachella headlining set of all time. (Bold claim! The festival is over 20 years old. There have been others! Some with bongos!)
But here’s the thing: this show wasn’t lazy. It wasn’t thrown together. And it definitely wasn’t accidental.
This was a choice.
Travis Scott, who has previously made the earth quake in Italy (not a metaphor) and blown the roof off MetLife Stadium (also not a metaphor), knows how to rage. He is the party. He is the riot. If he wanted to turn Coachella into a dust-filled, cactus-dodging mosh pit, he could have done that in five seconds.
But he didn’t. Because this wasn’t that show.
This was something else.
He told us it would be different. He hyped it like crazy. There were rumors the set cost $10–20 million. I was on the rail, watching crews race around like it was the Daytona 500 of concert setups. Giant catwalk. A mysterious second stage in deep GA. A square platform that looked like it might launch a rocket. It was like a Transformer was about to headline.
And then the celebrities arrived.
The Kardashians, Justin Bieber, Yeat, Don Toliver, Kali Uchis—all casually strolling past like it was a Hollywood Hills brunch with better lighting. I made eye contact with one of them. Not to brag, but I think I spiritually bonded with Kylie.
Anyway, the show begins. But Travis? He’s not on the main stage. He’s not even close. He’s performing—almost entirely—on the back stage. The one in deep GA. The one so far from the front it might technically qualify as another festival.
As someone in ultra VIP, this did not thrill me.
I paid a lot of money to stand near the front. I had snacks. I had a plan. And now Travis was singing somewhere near Arizona.
At first, I was annoyed. Then I remembered Miami.
December 2024. Travis is on stage, mid-show, telling the founder of Rolling Loud, F** VIP.* He literally led a F** VIP* chant. He’s not bluffing. This is canon now.
So maybe it wasn’t just about snubbing VIP. Because he wasn’t playing to the ragers either. Not the rail kids, not the ski-mask crowd, not the ones who came to leave with a mild concussion and bragging rights.
No. This time, he played to everyone else.
To the fans who love his music but don’t need to bleed for it. Who don’t want to throw elbows to get close. Who just want to hear the songs, feel the energy, and go home with all their limbs.
And then he brought out… a marching band.
Let me repeat that for anyone still clutching their GA+ wristband in disbelief:
Travis Scott gave his Coachella stage to a marching band.
Not a metaphor. Not a cameo. A full-on, uniformed, two-band, high-stepping, tuba-blasting spectacle. And it worked.
Because here’s the twist: the marching band kids? They’re the real musicians. They work hard. They get overlooked. They pour everything into a performance and still get called “the opening act.” And now, they were the headliners.
He didn’t bring out every celebrity he could. He brought them. That’s the message.
And yes, it confused people. The visuals were eerie—silhouettes of falling bodies. The music was sometimes hard to hear. And Travis himself barely came to the front. When he did, it was for a symbolic descent down a massive screen. As metaphors go, it was on the nose—but still kind of awesome.
I won’t lie. I was frustrated. I wanted more.
But then something shifted.
He started replaying his old hits like they were new. And I realized: they still hit. Not because they’re singles. Because they’re his.
“WEEKEND 2 WAS FOR THE REAL MUSIC LOVERS”
By the time the marching band ran down the catwalk, blasting horns at full volume, I stopped trying to figure it out. I just let it happen. And honestly? It kind of felt like church. Like a weird, sunburned, dusty, surprisingly moving church service in the middle of the desert.
And then it ended.
Not with a bang, but with something weirder: a kind of silence.
The music cut. The lights went up. People started heading for the exits, phones out, dust settling. But then, almost like an afterthought, the marching band returned—marching quietly, deliberately, back onto the stage.
No horns. No drums. Just the sound of their shoes on the platform, and maybe a little confusion from the crowd. Most people didn’t even notice. They were already gone. Or scrolling. Or complaining.
But it was poetic. Symbolic. A final, quiet moment for the people who had literally carried the show—ignored on the way in, ignored on the way out.
And for those of you who skipped Weekend 2? Who were too busy boycotting, rage-posting, or declaring Travis canceled again?
You missed the chaos. The crowd going wild. Don Toliver. Sheck Wes. The kind of energy people said they wanted all along. Travis said it himself at the end:
“Weekend 2 was for the real music lovers.”
And to the haters who stayed home?
Thank you.
I was the show I’d dreamed of and more. I got to dance, to get up front —this time from GA, no elbows, no panic, no fight for space. Just music. Just moments. Just Travis doing what Travis does best.
You missed the point.
And the fun.
But hey—there’s always Weekend 3.
(Just kidding. There’s no Weekend 3. You blew it.)
