Coachella turns 20 this year, and I’ve been seeing a lot of retrospectives and listicles about the musical festival’s greatest acts, performances, and moments over its 20-year history.

So with the festival once again hitting the news and lighting up the desert over the next two weekends, I thought it was time to share my own Coachella story. In a way, I’m a Coachella hipster. I’ve only been once, but I went “before it was cool.” Before there was a Ferris wheel. Before Beyonce made it a household word and long before millennials were even in middle school.

I was at Coachella 2002, which was only the third time the festival was held. I wrote the following piece in the days immediately after the festival – an astonishing 17 years ago. Looking back on it now, I think it makes a nice little time capsule of post-9/11 early Aughts.

But looking back on the lineup? Dear lord that lineup! I think we knew how special it was at the time, but I don’t think we truly appreciated it. I mean, seriously, just look at this. We were so spoiled. What I wouldn’t do to see this lineup all in one place again.

So whether you’re headed to Indio this or next weekend or just following along online, I wish you a Happy Coachella. And thanks for traveling back to 2002 and reminiscing with me.

It began simply enough: the concept of two days of music and sun in the southern California desert, an escape from the lingering winter and depressing rain of the mid-Atlantic. The setting: Coachella 2002; a high-concept music festival featuring about 60 acts on 4 stages over 2 days. The players: my seemingly perpetual partner in crime, Bill, and myself. The motivation: Some of the best music today.

After a long Saturday morning drive to the desert from San Diego, we made our grand entrance through the gates onto the Empire Polo Grounds, a setting so spectacular I thought we had entered into the colored vision of Ansel Adams. A stunning oasis of green expanse surrounded on all sides by a protective line of palm trees; and in the distance laid mountains so bare and beautiful it was hard to imagine they weren’t painted there solely for our benefit.

Almost immediately, the infectiousness of the environment began to permeate our entire being as distant music taunted us with its presence and the glorious spring sun began to feed us with a vigorous energy that would carry us through Sunday night.

At first, it was almost too overwhelming. Eighty acres of space to explore, four main stages of music, endless tents and displays of art and money traps, and roughly 55,000 like-minded music lovers walking around in an equal haze of initial shock. Soon, after we had made the rounds, seen the too-odd-for-words modern art displays such as RoboChrist, laughed at the merry-go-round fashioned from old bicycles, checked out the small indie film fest tent, and yes, even went into the Virgin “Megastore” tent, we settled into the groove which carried us through – music.

After all, it was the music that brought us here, not the prospect of test-playing all the newest Playstation 2 games. The lure of so many of our favorite acts together and countless others that held so much promise was the whole point and beauty of this weekend. There was no attempt at a political message (a la Free Tibet festival); no Utopian ideals contradicted by the concert’s very existence (a la Woodstock); and no attempt to lambaste the corporate environment of the music industry by bands desperately and hypocritically searching for a contract (a la Lolapalooza and HORDE tours).

The weekend was about music, period. Mainstream, cutting edge, and a few blasts from the past. It was a return to basics that managed to achieve success where all other agenda-filled festivals failed. The music captivated, enthralled, surrounded, and most importantly, sounded downright incredible!

The variety of music to be heard was almost as vast as the venue. Straight-up rock and roll, hip-hop, pop, experimental rock, techno, and trance were all ripe for the picking, so to speak. There was live music somewhere at all times from noon to midnight both days – 24 hours of revelry for your ticket dollar. Not a bad bargain, if you ask me.

Since there were four stages and many great acts were playing opposite each other, we were forced to pick and choose for a maximum aural experience. With few exceptions, we treated our time there as one long dance party.

Saturday’s highlights focused between the DJ tent in the afternoon and the main stage at night. Helping us to dance to oblivion and sweat in the sweltering tent-turned-oven under the desert sun was Lee Burridge and Miguel Migs, followed by the energy-ripe Groove Armada. While I was hoping for a good set from the Armada boys, I was completely blown away by the power and intensity of their music. They kept the crowd moving from beginning to end and didn’t leave any doubt as to their rightful place in the first tier of Saturday acts. A pure highlight of the weekend.

Stumbling out of the DJ tent brought us into the refreshingly cool night air and, after a couple sidetrips, to the main stage. We caught the end of Siouxsie & The Banshees and I was completely unimpressed. Yet another example of an 80s band desperately looking to relive the past with a new audience. As dark and goth as Siouxie Sue still thinks she is, she was having a hard time selling that image while wearing only a silver sequin-studded bra and confusingly bashing the evil corporate environment of the festival. Nothing like biting the hand that feeds you when you need it most – 15 years after your prime.

But I digress; the sole disappointment of the entire two days led straight into one of the two brightest moments of the weekend – Bjork. In a rare live appearance, a very pregnant Bjork took the stage and treated us all to a performance of a lifetime. Enhancing the experience was the fact that we had managed our way to within a hundred or so feet of the stage with about 30,000 screaming fans behind us. Eccentric and brilliant as always, Bjork owned the stage, the crowd, and the festival on Saturday night. Love her or hate her, she still exudes an aura that completely engulfs you and captivates you in her musical presence.

Sadly, Bjork’s performance did eventually have to come to an end, so the stage could be reset for the Chemical Brothers. Soon after they began, Bill took off for the second stage to see Cake while I remained behind to close out the night dancing my little butt off to the beats and power of the Chems. The beauty of the Chemical Brothers, as opposed to many other DJs, is that every one of their songs is a hit and filled with a raw energy that’s impossible to not be consumed by. The boys, electrifying on stage, played old favorites and the best of their brilliant new album as they closed down the first night of the show.

After finding the car and waiting an hour and a half to exit the parking lot, Bill and I began the epic quest for a place to sleep. My last-minute planning resulted in a reservation in a extremely sketchy motel in a tiny town somewhere in the area, Thermal. Now, Thermal is all of two blocks long and neither the motel nor the street it was supposedly on was anywhere to be found. Stopping to ask a friendly Thermal policeman for directions began the greatest and most frustrating journey I’ve been on in a long time.

“I strongly advise against staying anywhere near this town,” the policeman told us as a bullet-riddled car drove by. A scene from a movie? Perhaps, but all too real for us in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Aborting the Thermal motel room search as fast as possible, we went in search of absolutely ANYPLACE we could park our carcasses for the night. To make a long story short, we have a new loathing and abhorrence of the phrase “No vacancy.” We drove, and drove, and drove, and then drove some more as everyplace we stopped was full and had a little no vacancy sign on their front door. We tried everything from the Residence Inn and Courtyard Marriott to the downright frightening Hacienda Inn Motel. Nothing.

Four hours and (only) 70 miles later, we found ourselves in a Hilton parking lot in San Bernardino, on the outskirts of LA, completely exhausted and beaten by the hotel gods at 5 in the morning. So much for any kind of rest before another full day of dancing and music.

After a couple hours of fitful sleep in our oh-so-comfortable rental car and a necessary breakfast at IHOP, we were ready to tackle another day of whatever Coachella had to throw at us.

Again, Sunday was a dance-heavy rotation for us but a bit less frenetic as we took the time to catch up on a little bit of sleep in the scarce early afternoon shade. The day didn’t really start in full until the late afternoon when the other shining performance of the weekend took to his turntables – Paul Oakenfold. The legend who plays to stadiums and packed clubs alike was there, 50 feet away from my silly dancing ass under the DJ tent.

For over an hour and a half, the man entranced us all with the beats and sounds that only he can create. It doesn’t get any better than this. The complete sensory explosion emanating from the tent affected all of us within it and wouldn’t release us from its grasp until the speakers went silent and the crowd exploded in their place, as if the silence was deadly and we needed the noise to keep us going.

Very few musical artists have the ability to create chills when heard live, but Oakenfold succeeded in spades. His presence among the lackluster and unimpressive HFStival lineup next month doesn’t do credit to his talent and provides the only reason for attendance at this year’s concert. See him live if at all possible!

Mixing into Oakenfold was Tiesto, painful to leave but there was much more to see. Hauling myself out of the tent, I was immediately taken aback. I was already riding a high from the music but as I entered into fresh air, it was impossible to not be in awe of the sunset that threw orange and red swaths across the sky as the distant mountains stood in a stark silhouette to further enhance the magic of the moment. Back to the main stage for Prodigy, surprisingly still powerful and fun after so much recent silence from them. The two scariest men in music kept the crowd jumping for their duration and actually managed to sound fresh.

Closing out the festival on the main stage after Prodigy was Oasis. As neither of us are huge fans of anyone who thinks they’re more important than The Beatles, we decided to go back to the DJ tent to catch another rare live appearance of BT. Even though we left early to beat the traffic jam and return to San Diego, BT proved to be the perfect closer for the weekend. Powerful and kinetic, his music encapsulated so much of what the weekend was about.

Ingenuity, youth (both real and imagined), experimentation, energy, love, community – this is Coachella. For the entirety of the weekend, we saw not a single fight, upset person, or sick person. Chalk that up to west-coast mentality or the ever-powerful sense of place at the Polo Grounds; either way, it worked.

There was so much I never got to see or didn’t get to see enough of: Sasha & Digweed, Cake, G. Love, Belle & Sebastian, Zero 7, The Strokes, and Foo Fighters with a surprise appearance by Jack Black. A taste of some, a tease of a couple, and not even a glimpse of others. I suppose one of the true successes of the weekend is exactly that – it left you wanting more.

Despite the cost of the weekend, the distance traveled, and physical pain suffered due to extreme self-destruction – it was worth every penny, mile, and ache.