Won’t someone think of the brand activations? Has anyone checked on the Klarna executives? Is there a gas leak at Goldenvoice? Vanessa Hudgens hasn’t even had the chance to swap her summer crochet linens for winter crochet wools, but the California concert promoter has already released the lineup for the 2026 Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, the earliest announcement since the event’s inception in 1999. We’re expected to know, before the leaves begin to turn, if we want to snag tickets at the “early bird” “discount” price of $650 (Weekend One) or $550 (Weekend Two) to see Kaskade, the DJ my EDM-curious dad once called “Ajax” by mistake (they’re both cleaning supplies, after all).

But maybe I’m the fool for expecting anything different: For as long as it’s been a tastemaker, Coachella has also been a harbinger of poptimism to come; griping about the festival’s mainstream pulls and corporate sponsorships is one of the last reliable joys music snobs have in an otherwise algorithmic wasteland. And there is a small thrill that remains in trying to parse the “Zendaya-Is-Mechee” verbiage of “The Bunker Debut of Radiohead Kid A Mnesia.” Still, today’s announcement felt especially phoned in, as if the organizers threw darts at SNL musical guests and hoped for the best.

It’s been a bear market for chill vibes at the Indio festival for the past couple of years. Coachella hasn’t sold out since 2023, despite its release dates creeping earlier in the calendar each year. It’s now typical to find resale tickets at vastly lower costs than their face value, as travel plans and weather become more precarious. In 2025, temperatures climbed above 100 degrees, becoming the hottest edition since 2012.

More than half of GA attendees this year paid in “buy-now-pay-later” installments, siphoning small sips of their paycheck each month for the chance to bear witness to Benson Boone (Goldenvoice, in turn, has to wait longer for revenue). Even the would-be headliners are tired: Massive Attack declined to perform at this year’s event, citing the environmental havoc it wreaks on its already strained climate; Kendrick Lamar and Rihanna declined because they were “busy,” which was just a polite way of saying that the festival was officially more cooked than the parched earth beneath its main stage.

And then there’s the lineup itself: Moby billed below Ethel Cain; Laufey billed above Black Flag. Coachella feels like a desperate pitch for connection between a bewildered Gen X father and his brainrotted Gen Z son. There are, contained within, many Coachellas on this poster: The misremembered indie sleaze revival festival, headlined by the XX and the Rapture and Major Lazer; the rockist retirement home with David Byrne and Iggy Pop; the “You just made this guy up” festival starring upcoming sadpop star sombr. There’s plenty of gems buried in tiny letters: Wednesday, PinkPantheress, fakemink, and Oklou all speak to where music is going next. But a festival is defined by the names in the boldest font. Coachella, especially, built its reputation on setting our pop cultural compass with its headliners. This year, they seem content to operate on autopilot.