Theaterchella 2025 😎

Good morning 👋🏼 It finally feels like spring in New York. The kind of weather that makes you leave the house on purpose. The kind that reminds you the world is happening out there and, apparently, in the middle of the desert.

Because while I wasn’t at Coachella (we’re in full swing over at All The World’s A Stage), I couldn’t help but notice something through the flood of clips and commentary:

The girls were giving drama.
The orchestra was at the cool kids table.
And the pop stars? They were doing theater.

From Lady Gaga’s four-act gothic opera, to Charli XCX’s cultural handoff, to LA Philharmonic’s genre-defying set—Coachella 2025 felt less like a music festival and more like a repertory season.

So this week, I’m breaking down three performances that reminded us what live performance can do—what they reveal about culture, connection, and my favorite: collective effervescence.

Curtain up.

Lady Gaga: Ceremony

Lady Gaga didn’t show up to Coachella to play hits.
She showed up with a plot.

Her performance—four acts, fully structured, emotionally arc’d—felt more like Salomé than a Saturday night headliner.
She began suspended above the crowd in a blood-red gown the size of a planet.
She ended on the ground, cracked open, transformed.
And in between? A descent. A resurrection. A reckoning.
(Theater, babes.)

If Homecoming was a concert as thesis,
Gaga’s Mayhem Ball was a concert as ritual.

It wasn’t just a show—it was a passage. A symbolic structure.
Each act was distinct. Each visual meant something specific.
It wasn’t a sequence of songs. It was ceremony.

Because theater, at its best, is ritual too.
It creates a container. A beginning, a middle, a transformation.
A space to hold what’s too big to name, and maybe—if we’re lucky—feel a little less alone inside it.

Gaga could’ve given us a concert.
Instead, she built a container for communion.

She didn’t just headline the festival.
She consecrated it.

Charli XCX: Community

If Gaga gave us theater as ritual, Charli gave us theater as world.

The attitude. The font. The color. The chaos. None of it was accidental—but none of it felt like it was trying too hard, either.

That’s what made all of Brat feel big. The specificity.
It was loud. It was low-res. But it was always laser-focused.
And it didn’t need an explanation. If you got it, you got it.

The Coachella set was distilled. Brat: concentrated. Just Charli, a camera guy, giant screens, and maybe—most importantly—friends. In this case, Troye, Lorde, and Billie.

Brat has always been communal. A shared language spoken in the form of a very specific shade of neon green. An amoeba of strangers and friends dancing and sweating.

And this was the crescendo of all of that. The closing montage—a list of 26 artists, designers, and creatives—wasn’t a period. It was a comma (maybe even a semi-colon?) It was her way of saying: this thing we built, this feeling we felt, it lives on.

Theater can do that too. Think: “we come to this place for magic.”
We feel a part of something because we are a part of something. We’re on the guest list.

That’s collective effervescence too.
It’s just wearing a different outfit.

LA Philharmonic: Crescendo

For the first time in its 100+ year history, the Los Angeles Philharmonic played Coachella. It could’ve been a gimmick. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

For the first time in its history, Coachella hosted a major symphony orchestra. Under the baton of Gustavo Dudamel, the LA Phil took the stage—not as background, not as novelty, but as the main event.

They seamlessly blended classical masterpieces (they opened with Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries”) with contemporary collaborations: Laufey, Becky G, Maren Morris, Dave Grohl, Cynthia Erivo, LL Cool J.

But perhaps the most talked-about moment was when DJ Zedd joined the orchestra on piano for a rendition of his hit “Clarity,” transforming the electronic anthem into a sweeping orchestral experience.

This wasn’t just a performance; it was a statement. It challenged preconceived notions about where classical music belongs and who it’s for.

Dudamel’s vision was clear: to bridge the gap between the traditional and the contemporary, to make classical music accessible and relevant. As he told the Los Angeles Times, the goal was “a journey of making music accessible to everybody, but also creating a culture where people don’t feel that classical music is far away, not part of their lives.”

In doing so, the LA Phil didn’t just perform at Coachella—they redefined what it means to be part of the cultural conversation. They invited a new generation into the fold, proving that the boundaries of genre and tradition are meant to be explored, expanded, and, at times, joyfully dismantled.

It’s All Collective Effervescence

Whether it’s a Broadway stage or a desert festival, the thing we keep coming back for is the same.

That feeling that we’re in something together.
That charge in the air. That hush before the lights shift.
The collective sense that something is happening now, and we’re all part of it.

That’s what connects a Gaga set to a gospel choir.
A sweaty pop show to a symphony orchestra.
It’s not about genre or venue. It’s about presence.

About making something intentional enough for people to step inside.
And specific enough for them to feel like they belong there.

Because when it works—when the shape holds, when the room is right—you don’t just remember the performance. You remember how it felt to be there. To be part of it.

☝🏼 One last thing…

A video I made ten years ago popped up this week.

I was 23. I hadn’t worked for any press outlets yet. I was making these low-rent, Weekend Update-style videos about Broadway that—honestly—weren’t very good. But I was trying. I was making things. And nothing was really taking off.

Then one day I decided to try something different. I’d seen those early Billy Eichner videos and thought, what if I did something like that for theater?

I tried to get a press pass to cover the red carpet for the opening night of Something Rotten! and got ignored. So I pivoted. I bought a mic at the Guitar Center two doors down from the St. James Theatre (which I returned later that night), called up my friend Christian, and asked him to come film me in exchange for Buffalo Wild Wings.

It was raining. We stood under the marquee of the Helen Hayes. I had no script. No plan. Just a hunch that maybe this could be something.

I posted the video the next day. It got over 1,000 views in 24 hours, which felt massive at the time. And in a way—it was. That silly little video is what got me in the room at Playbill. And then Broadway.com. And then…well, almost everything I’ve done since.

Not because it was brilliant. Not because it went viral. But because it existed.

And this week, seeing it again, I just felt a huge amount of gratitude. For that version of me who didn’t wait for the right gear, or the right invite, or the right moment. Who stood in the rain with a borrowed mic and gave it a shot.

If you’re in that place now—waiting for the conditions to be perfect—this is your sign.
Just go. Make the thing. Get the mic. Return it later.

You really never know what one video, one night, one weird little idea might lead to.

See you next week ♥️