The festival that quickly became directly associated with millennial envy and privilege.
A party so above your lifestyle that it made Coachella (whose pass prices reached $400 for General Admission) seem basic. Poor Coachella was beginning to seem like the less cool, too accessible twin sister. For kids with money who are not quite important enough to have Bella Hadid’s phone number. The MySpace to Fyre’s Instagram.
In a nutshell, hopeful attendees departed their aircraft to a festival that wasn’t there. Acts that had a change of heart, grade school cafeteria sandwiches, and staff that seemed to be as confused as to where they were as the attendees. To add more social context to the royal clusterfuck that was Fyre this year, let’s take a moment to dismantle the marketing ploy. Create something based entirely on a model that has already maintained a successful track record (Coachella) and then make it so inaccessible to the 99% that it becomes iconic overnight. That’s it. Now the proverbial shit began hitting the probably unavailable fan when even prior to the event people from within started questioning the efficiency of any solid plans beyond that initial framework.
As the tweets roll in about the poor trust fund “influencers” being forced to eat out of styrofoam like prisoners, one can’t help but ask...where did the money go? It also presents the hypothesis that this could be a turning point for the #Goals generation. Life goals, clique goals, ass goals, weekend goals, vacation goals, shoe goals. Every societal event worth analyzing is one that will see chapter changes over time. And the era of #Goals received a violent blow thanks to the Fyre shitshow. However, in truth, it says nothing about the future of envy. It only highlights a bizarre and unfortunate dichotomy in our collective personality. The ability to simultaneously obsess over the “have it all” fantasy on social media while relishing in almost orgasmic pleasure at any sign of its failure or unhappiness. Because envy is a two-faced beast; entertaining to a fault but not as satisfying as the reminder that fuckery exists in even the most perfect of lives. Living our lives from a digital distance is satisfaction and suffering in a neatly packaged box called an app. We watch as apartments get increasingly large, asses get increasingly firm and wardrobes get increasingly Gucci. Many of us in immediate effect are claustrophobic in our space, frightened at our less than Gram worthy ass and feeling oh so very Zara. So yes, there was a great deal of joy on Twitter this morning (#FyreFestival). That satisfaction could be based on pure jealousy, hoping to see just one thing go wrong for Emily Ratajkowski, or it could be rooted in pure logic like a belief that people willing to spend five figures to see Ja Rule and Blink 182 in 2017 deserve to be taught a lesson. Whatever the basis, today was somewhat of a shared holiday for many people who had to go to work this morning.
Watching #FyreFestival Like...
Over the next several weeks there will be threats of lawsuits, refund statements, and updates from the organizers. We will continue to refresh our Twitter feeds to see rich kids trying to find outlets and water. We will create memes. We will tag our friends on stories about the astronomical ticket prices. We will relish in the often opaque veil of perfection being singed to the point of transparency. Perhaps even those who were lucky enough to have the disposable funds to blow on Fyre might begin to question the lunacy of such events.
Until of course, some new well-funded idiot in genius clothing launches a VIP event to see Eminem while drinking Krug in Dubai or some stupid shit. And we will watch.