The ever-evolving floral crown adorning the DJ booth is a morphing art installation itself that is seemingly representative of some extraterrestrial stargate. The collision of sight and sound hugged the crowd tightly throughout the weekend and refused to let go. If the ’80s-neon-meets-Madmax-desert-dominatrix dress code wasn’t enough to tantalize your freshly-cleansed third eye, the fire dancers, spinners and breathers did the trick.

What Desert Hearts has fostered is a safe space so intimate, that your inner freak is set free. Gone are the Coachella concerns of cultural appropriation and overzealous bro advances. Here, culture has been reinvented and asking for consent is the norm. Move over, festival giants, this is how the new school does it.

When one stage provides an endless soundtrack with no dead air for an entire weekend, it can be difficult to differentiate between genres or even DJs.