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I went to Coachella last weekend expecting a music festival. But what I got was a cultural one – no “counter-” involved.

In many ways, Coachella is a celebration of our generation. Our music, our food, our clothes, our CDs – it was all there for sale and perusal on Saturday and Sunday. Tens of thousands of people, myself included, had a great experience enjoying the atmosphere and listening to the incredible musicians.

Yet the festival – like us – was also full of contradictions.

A glance at the food vendors revealed a nod to the healthy, neo-hippie aesthetic we’ve come to embrace, but unlike our baby boomer parents, we buy our tomatoes from Whole Foods.

At Coachella the organic fruit smoothies sold for a very capitalistic $6 – a mere dollar less than a glass of Heineken.

Ironically, the aptly-named Virgin Megastore booth had the best bargains of the day – in addition to free autographs by Mates of State and the Magic Numbers, they also had reasonably priced CDs.

The only real surprise came at the merchandise table, where the clothes were not, as expected, made by American Apparel. If I was going to pay $25 for a T-shirt, it had better be sweatshop-free.

Thankfully, my sense of second-generation boomer entitlement kicked in, and I bought one anyway.

Even just as a music festival, Coachella is a strange bird. I’ve attended other festivals in the last several years, notably All Tomorrow’s Parties in 2004 and Arthurfest last September, and with crowds numbering in the single-digit thousands at both venues, there was still a feeling of intimacy attached to the performances.

While singer Cee-Lo managed to keep the audience amused (“This is a family show – keep those titties to yourself!”) during Gnarls Barkley’s overcrowded set, those of us on the outskirts of the inadequate tent had to contend with roving concertgoers headed elsewhere, as well as a complete inability to see chunky Cee-Lo’s stage moves.

The band put on a great set, but attempting to watch bands with 60,000 other people made it less of a series of concerts and more of an overall experience.

To the credit of the festival, though, its enormity makes it possible to hear just about everything. With the possibility of pushing to the front rendered almost impossible, the most rewarding thing to do was simply wander around, soaking up music and the desert sun.

With up to five acts performing at any one time, the temptation to roam was hard to resist. That said, you’d think people passionate enough about musicians to watch them play all day would still have some attachment to the bands they came to see. But after Gnarls Barkley performed its signature song “Crazy,” much of the crowd moved on to greener pastures.

The herd mentality was in full force when it came time for Madonna’s set in the dance tent. For literally 20 minutes, I sat in front of Seu Jorge’s set and watched the mass exodus of practically the entire audience of Coachella toward the dance tent.

It was obvious not everyone was going to be able to hear her, much less see her on stage, but the same people who typically pride themselves on their eclectic taste and individual style passed up Jorge’s uniquely Brazilian folk-pop and Mogwai’s eardrum-shattering post-rock for a lingering icon whose best work was released before I started preschool.

Then again, Depeche Mode drew a big crowd too. Are the ’80s cool again? Were they ever? At Coachella, sometimes it’s too hot to be hip.

As I walked the polo fields on Saturday night, I realized they were covered by thousands upon thousands of empty plastic water bottles.

While this was in part the fault of the festival planners (every trash and recycling bin was overflowing), the display of senseless littering was representative of the apathy for which Generation X, and by extension, Generation whatever we are, has been so often criticized.

But it’s not like we don’t have the capacity to care. After all, we’re the ones buying the organic smoothies and sweatshop-free T-shirts in the first place.

If this year’s Coachella was a mirror for a generation, at least it was an optimistic one.

On Sunday morning, the same trash-filled fields were fresh and clean with the promise of a new day. Maybe there’s hope for us yet.

Daft Punk is e-mailing Greenwald at his house, his house:

dgreenwald@media.ucla.edu.