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Worried that her abusive partner would kill her or her boys, Jackie had nowhere to go and no one to ask for help. She said her partner had angry outbursts, beat her, degraded her and destroyed things in the house. She knew she had to escape.

She called the Los Angeles County Department of Children and Family Services, hoping for a path to a safe place to stay. Instead, she received a warning that struck a different kind of fear in her.

If she didn’t leave her partner within 30 days, the child welfare agency would take her four boys.

“When I asked for help, they wanted to separate us,” said Jackie, 39, who asked not to use her full name to protect her children’s privacy.

The agency’s warning is rooted in a nearly 40-year-old California law that allows child welfare agencies to remove children when they believe an abused parent cannot ensure their kids’ safety. Called “failure to protect,” the law is intended to safeguard kids in dangerous situations.

But the longstanding practice is facing continued scrutiny as domestic violence advocates raise concerns about the potential to further traumatize families. Meanwhile, other states with similar laws have narrowed the criteria for when a welfare agency can remove a child. Many states have “failure to protect” laws, but California’s is comparably vague, giving social workers wide latitude in deciding when to remove kids.

“I just don’t understand how ‘failure to protect’ exists, either as a fair thing or a legal principle,” said Eve Sheedy, a lawyer and expert in domestic violence policy, including as former director of LA County Domestic Violence Council.

The law puts child welfare workers in the unenviable position of deciding what is more harmful for children — the trauma of being separated from their family or the risks of witnessing more violence or even becoming a target.

And it can leave domestic violence victims feeling as if they are being punished for their partners’ abuse.

“Right now the victims are seen just like a perpetrator,” said Marie, 36, a domestic violence survivor who said the Los Angeles child welfare agency took her children from her after she was abused by her partner. The kids continue to live with their grandparents. Marie also spoke on the condition that her full name would not be published to protect the privacy of her kids.

Changing the law is difficult in part because lawmakers and social workers share a commitment to protecting children, and they worry about a shift that could endanger kids.

CalMatters spoke with four mothers who lost children because of a failure to protect order, five current and former social workers, eight domestic violence policy experts and advocates and two state lawmakers for this story.

All of them stressed that protecting children was their highest priority. Several cited two notorious murders in Los Angeles County where the welfare agency failed to remove children to underscore the hazards of allowing kids to remain in violent households. One was Gabriel Fernandez, who suffered years of gruesome torture and abuse before he was fatally beaten at age 8 in 2013 by his mother and her boyfriend. The other was  Anthony Avalos, who was also tortured and abused by his mother and her boyfriend before his death at age 10 in 2018.

“In my opinion, the system really did fail those kids,” said Assemblyman Tom Lackey, a Palmdale Republican who has been a teacher and a California Highway Patrol officer.

He said he has dealt more with children who should’ve been removed from unsafe situations than with unnecessary separations from abused parents for “failure to protect.” .

No one can say how many California children are separated from family members every year under the law because neither the state nor counties collect that information. The closest estimate comes from a recent report by the UCLA Pritzker Center that showed more than half of Los Angeles County’s 38,618 foster care cases in 2020 involved domestic violence.

Jackie, the mother who was alarmed when she received a “failure to protect” warning six years ago, believes the law discourages women from reporting domestic violence.

“A lot of women don’t say anything because of fear of being separated from their kids,” she said.

Separation after abuse, drug use

Marie is soft-spoken with sparkling eyes and a gentle manner. She said as a teenager she got hooked on prescription opioids and was addicted for years. She stopped using in 2015, and within a little more than a year she graduated from college, got married and had two babies.

“It was all too much, and I started using again,” Marie said.

Marie said her ex-husband was also addicted to drugs and when he was using, he physically abused her.

First: Marie at her home in Culver City on Sept. 29, 2023. Marie lived at Community’s Child after leaving a domestic violence relationship and battling past addictions. She now owns her home and has built a new life for herself and her children. Last: Marie holds a card from one of her kids at her home in Culver City. The card reads, “Thank you for being a very good mom. You been thru [sic] a lot but you are still the beast [sic] mom in the world.”

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Alisha Jucevic

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CalMatters

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The Department of Children and Family Services removed Marie’s kids for failure to protect due to domestic violence and substance abuse. At ages 1 and 2, the kids had about a one-week stay in a group home. The children were adopted by Marie’s parents within six months of opening her case. Adoption typically takes a year or more.

She pulled herself out of addiction after she became pregnant again and didn’t want to lose custody of a third child. She entered a substance abuse program in 2017. Next, she and her 2-month-old infant entered Community’s Child, a shelter and development program for homeless single mothers “motivated to achieve self-sufficiency.” Marie now owns her own home and works full-time in the medical field.

She and her ex-husband have made peace and co-parent all three children, though the two older kids still live with Marie’s parents. Marie said the kids were very young during the violence and don’t remember it, but she is still traumatized by the separation.

“I wasn’t able to heal in the six months that they gave me,” Marie said. “My family would’ve been a lot different if we had more time.”

Marie’s circumstances are not unusual. One-quarter to one-half of domestic violence cases occur with other problems, such as parental substance abuse or mental illness, intergenerational trauma or unemployment, among other stressors.

Her story illustrates the difficult choices social workers face every day.

Risk of staying and the risk of removal

The Los Angeles Department of Children and Family Services is the largest child welfare agency in the world, with a budget of nearly $2.8 billion and oversight of more than 25,000 children annually. In 2022, 90% of the kids were 18 and younger and more than two-thirds were Black or Hispanic.

If a social worker makes the wrong call children can pay the price with their health or their lives.

Two former child welfare social workers said they felt supported by their agency, but deciding when a child was at risk of harm felt like their responsibility, which was difficult and emotionally exhausting.

“Child welfare is a judgment-based system. It is human-driven and based upon sticky, personal family dynamic facts,” said Brandon Nichols, director of the Department of Children and Family Services, Los Angeles County’s child protection agency..

In U.S. households with domestic violence, 30 percent to 60 percent also have child maltreatment, including physical abuse or neglect. In 2020, 1,750 children died from abuse or neglect in the United States.

Dr. Kelly Callahan, director of the Kids In the Dependency System clinic at Harbor-UCLA Medical Center, said children who witness domestic violence often have psychological or emotional problems.

“Children who have witnessed violence between their caretakers can have PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), nightmares, sleep problems, school difficulties and more. They react the same way as children who have been abused,” said Callahan.

Because of such harm, proponents of “failure to protect” laws say they’re needed for children’s safety.

The library and counseling room at Community’s Child in Lomita on Sept. 29, 2023. Community’s Child is a shelter and resource program that provides supplies, food and housing for women and infants who are struggling with homelessness, addiction and poverty.

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Alisha Jucevic

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CalMatters

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But separation from a parent can be equally devastating for children. Adverse childhood experiences, such as abuse or witnessing violence, contribute to poor mental and physical health well into adulthood, including risk for early death. A safe, secure relationship with a caring adult, such as the non-offending parent, can build resiliency for a traumatized child.

“The courts will often say, ‘We know that being exposed to violence in the home alters a child’s brain chemistry and we’re going to remove this child and place them in foster care,” said Emily Berger, a lawyer for Los Angeles Dependency Lawyers, a nonprofit consortium of court-appointed lawyers who defend parents involved in dependency court.

“But what we’ve found, and science backs up, is that being removed from your community, your family of origin and your primary caregiver has such a tremendous impact upon a child’s healthy brain development and ability to form attachments,” she said.

Evolution of ‘failure to protect’

The original “failure-to-protect” laws emerged in the 1960s in response to reports of child physical abuse. Under the laws, if a caregiver knew a child was being abused and didn’t report it, that caregiver could be prosecuted the same as the abuser.

California’s failure to protect law falls under a welfare code that states children can become dependents of the court if “the child has suffered or there is a substantial risk that the child will suffer, serious physical harm inflicted non-accidentally upon the child by the child’s parent or guardian.”

Listed among the criteria for substantial risk is “the failure or inability of the child’s parent or guardian to adequately supervise or protect the child.”

Neglect is the leading cause for children to be placed under the courts’ jurisdiction. Failure to protect is often considered as neglect or emotional abuse in the child welfare and justice systems, including when it’s related to domestic violence.

As of 2015, 48 states and four U.S. territories had “failure to protect” laws: Maryland, Wyoming and Puerto Rico did not. The statutes designate the crimes as misdemeanors, or felonies. In California, neglect is usually charged as a misdemeanor.

Failure to protect charges can lead to life sentences for parents in six states — Oklahoma, Missouri, Nebraska, Nevada, South Carolina and West Virginia. In Texas, the maximum penalty is 99 years. For some non-offending parents, the penalties have been more severe than for the abuser.

Some states, such as New York and Washington, have moved in the opposite direction to protect the rights of abuse victims. The New York Court of Appeals in 2004 ruled that witnessing domestic violence did not constitute neglect and couldn’t be the sole basis for removing children from the non-offending parent.

State Sen. Susan Rubio, a Democrat from West Covina, two years ago carried a bill that would have compelled California to study domestic violence in the child welfare system. She told her colleagues at the time the law “fails to recognize” the trauma of a parent “who is a domestic violence survivor.” The bill did not reach Gov. Gavin Newsom.

Would changing domestic violence law matter?

Despite Rubio’s setback, some advocates for domestic violence victims outside of the Capitol are building a case to change California’s law.

The Pritzker Center report calls for California to consider legislative reforms similar to the ruling from the New York Court of Appeals. The report also calls for better training in the complexities of family violence for all child welfare workers, court officers and such mandated reporters as teachers and coaches.

“I think we could have legislation that said being victimized by domestic violence is not sufficient basis for charging neglect,” said Sheedy, the former director of LA County Domestic Violence Council.

This would be similar to California laws prohibiting the use of poverty or homelessness as the sole basis for removal of a child.

But others are urging more modest changes even as they express misgivings with the current policy. They worry about rescinding a policy intended to protect a child.

“There are definite concerns with ‘failure to protect’ and how it’s being used — it’s being used as a stick,” said Julie McCormick, a lawyer with the Children’s Law Center, a nonprofit legal organization that represents children in the dependency system.

But, she said, “I wouldn’t say CLC (Children’s Law Center) has the stance that it should be gone. It’s too nuanced to do something blanket. I think that’s why it’s so hard to come up with legislation.”

The California Partnership to End Domestic Violence also has looked at the failure to protect law. It isn’t calling for significant changes.

“It’s an issue we’ve tried to look at a couple of ways, but what makes sense statewide is tricky,” said Krista Colon, the partnership’s director.

Ending generations of domestic violence

Jackie, the mother of four boys who was frightened by the warning that she could lose her kids, became an advocate for domestic violence victims after her experience. She is now a parent-partner with the Los Angeles Defense Lawyers and helps other parents navigate the system.

Her sons are now 18, 13, 12 and 7. She is stylish and engaging with a ready smile, but she harbors deep trauma. She lived with an abusive partner, the father of her three younger boys, for 10 years.

Jackie at her office in Monterey Park on Sept. 29, 2023. Jackie is a domestic violence survivor and is now a family advocate for Los Angeles Defense Lawyers.

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Alisha Jucevic

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“At first he was the perfect guy,” said Jackie, “Then I moved in with him and little things started happening, like yelling and pushing me.”

She grew up with domestic violence in a large, multi-generational Latino household. When her ex-partner became abusive, she thought it was normal. Her grandmother told Jackie she had “to stay. Hispanic men are just like that.”

Raphael, Jackie’s oldest son, said he remembers being afraid during the fighting, but as the big brother he had to be strong to protect his siblings.

Jackie called 12 shelters before she found one that would take her and her sons. Most shelters don’t accept boys older than 8. Raphael was 11, so he went to live with his biological father.

“My dad told me my mom and my brothers were in the shelter. I didn’t know what that meant, and it really scared me,” Raphael said, “It was really tough because I missed my brothers.”

Although the boys weren’t taken, child welfare’s threat to do so was devastating.

“It was drastic and traumatizing,” said Jackie.

Yet, she said, calling child welfare saved her life.

“When I was living through it, I thought I was doing what I needed to do to protect my kids,” said Jackie.

Most abused mothers do.

This article was produced as a project for the USC Annenberg Center for HealthJournalism’s 2023 Domestic Violence Impact Fund

After three years of unprecedented closures that devastated California’s fishing industry, commercial salmon fishing is poised to reopen this spring.

The return comes with a catch: Regulators at the interstate Pacific Fishery Management Council will strictly constrain fishing dates and impose harvest limits for both commercial and recreational fishing to protect the threatened California Coastal Chinook. The council is set to finalize the details this weekend.

It’s not the season the fleet had hoped for after years of closures. But those who survived the shutdowns fear a graver threat: state and federal decisions could reshape California’s water systems and rivers.

“Water policy in California is about to change drastically and irreversibly, and nobody has the energy to pay attention to that,” said Sarah Bates, who fishes commercially from San Francisco. “I am concerned that salmon is going to be (commercially) extinct in our lifetimes.”

For the first time since 2022, Bates was preparing her century-old boat, the Bounty, docked at Fisherman’s Wharf. She ticked off the boat’s needs: an oil change, a hydraulics check, a run-through of the steering system, the anchor. Her fading fishing permit, now four years out of date, still clings to the outside of the cabin.

“Pay no attention to my paint job,” Bates said. “Try not to make my boat look bad.”

Looking at its cracking paint and tangled ropes, Bates — who wrestles waves and weather for a living and uses a fishing float dented by a massive shark bite — seemed a little daunted by the tasks ahead.

Without income from salmon, Bates allowed critical upkeep to lag. “There's been a lot of deferred maintenance,” she said. “I'm actually a little worried about everybody charging out into the ocean in May to go fishing.”

‘A tremendous, avoidable hit’

Salmon is king in California. It’s what keeps the markets and restaurants buying, the industrial-scale ice machines running, the tourists booking charter boats and visiting the coast.

“It’s iconic,” said retired charter boat captain John Atkinson. “We have people who will fish every week for salmon. And for the other species, they come out once.”

But dams, water diversions, low flows and poor ocean conditions have driven decades of decline.

California experienced its driest three year stretch in history from 2020 through 2022 — worsening that burden and causing populations to plummet. Interstate fisheries managers cancelled commercial salmon fishing for an unprecedented three years in a row, and barred recreational fishing for all but a handful of days last year.

The financial damage was severe. California estimated the closures cost nearly $100 million in lost coastal community and state personal income during the first two years alone.

The fishing industry says these numbers vastly underestimate the economic and human costs: Boats went to the crusher, tourists took their money to other states, suppliers went out of business and fishers fled California or the industry altogether.

“This was a tremendous, avoidable hit. We have survived droughts throughout recent history, but none had impacts this drastic,” Vance Staplin, executive director of the Golden State Salmon Association, said in an email.

First: Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco on March 20, 2026. Last: Sunlight pours through a window of the Bounty, a commercial fishing vessel, on March 20, 2026. Photos by Jungho Kim for CalMatters Sarah Bates, a commercial salmon fisher, stands at the wheel of her boat, Bounty, at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco on March 20, 2026. Photo by Jungho Kim for CalMatters California has requested disaster assistance from the U.S. Secretary of Commerce. But federal aid has come slowly, and fallen short. The U.S. government has released only $20.6 million, and only for the 2023 closure.

“The entire framework for fishery disasters has to be totally redone,” said U.S. Rep. Jared Huffman, a California Democrat and ranking member of the House Natural Resources Committee. “We need something that is much faster, that is less political, that doesn’t depend on all the vagaries of multiple federal agencies and congressional appropriations.”

Rain, but little respite

The rains returned in 2023 — bringing the flows and cool water young salmon need to survive and complete their ocean migration.

Now, the Pacific Fishery Management Council projects that roughly 392,000 Sacramento River fall-run Chinook salmon are swimming off the coast. These are the mainstay of California’s salmon fishery — and the forecasts are better than last year’s, though still a fraction of the millions that returned historically. But the limited fishing season is not the respite that the industry had counted on.

“We're happy to get some fishing this year,” Staplin, of the Golden State Salmon Association, said, “but if we want to preserve the businesses and families that define California's coastal and inland salmon economies, we need a little compromise and balance in prioritizing water during droughts.”

A plan or a patch?

Two years ago, Gov. Gavin Newsom released a plan aimed at protecting salmon from climate change.

The plan received mixed reactions.

Some scientists and members of the fishing community credited state agencies and the Newsom administration with concrete efforts like hatchery upgrades and cutting-edge genetic fish tagging. One$58 million state and federal effort — the Big Notch Project — connected salmon and other fish to prime floodplain habitat in the Yolo Bypass through seasonal gates.

“Anything that can be done is a help right now,” Atkinson said.

But others say that the strategy papers over policies that rob salmon of the cold water they need. California is built around nature-defying engineering that funnels vast amounts of water away from rivers to supply cities and the state’s $60 billion agricultural economy.

“As soon as it stops raining or snowing, we’re going to be back in the same situation with the salmon season closing,” said Jon Rosenfield, science director at The San Francisco Baykeeper. “If we don’t protect river flows and cold water storage, then we’re not protecting salmon.”

Some of the fiercest fights are over the contentious Delta tunnel and Newsom’s controversial deal with major water users, backed by $1.5 billion in state funding, to overhaul how farms and cities take water from the Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta and the rivers that feed it.

Carson Jeffres, a senior researcher at the UC Davis Center for Watershed Sciences, takes a more moderate view — the effect on salmon will depend on how California agencies manage these projects, but the status quo isn’t an option.

“I just don't see a world where the salmon are prioritized over human water needs — and I think we should plan for it,” he said. “Then that might be a more sustainable place.”

On top of state policies is a Trump administration that called for “Putting People over Fish” and adopted a plan in December to send more Northern California water to Central Valley farms.

State wildlife officials said at the time that President Donald Trump’s actions “run counter” to California’s efforts to improve salmon populations, “harming the California communities that rely on salmon for their livelihood."

California Secretary of Natural Resources Wade Crowfoot acknowledged the state’s finite water supply can’t satisfy everyone’s priorities.

“There’s no shortage of finger pointing by some groups who argue that not enough water is remaining in our rivers for salmon and aquatic habitat, and other groups that suggest that not enough water is being diverted for California communities and agriculture,” Crowfoot said.

“Water management in California,” he said, “involves balancing water across these needs.”

Last year, the Newsom administration announced that nearly 70% of the salmon strategy’s action items were underway, and more than a quarter were already complete.

That’s “crazy math … What is your outcome measure?" said Bates. "For us, our outcome measure is enough fish to go fishing.”

Adapting to survive

In the absence of enough fish, the industry has been piloting new strategies to survive.

Back at Fisherman's Wharf, a few rows over from Bates, Captain Virginia Salvador was getting ready to take a group out to troll for halibut and striped bass. Her French bulldog, Anchovy, wandered the deck between the ropes.

Salvador started her charter boat business, Unforgettable Fishing Adventures, during the salmon shutdown — and had to quickly expand her offerings.

Now, she runs barbecue and barhopping cruises around San Francisco Bay and takes passengers to McCovey Cove during Giants games. She teams up with food influencer Rosalie Bradford Pareja to offer a chef experience. And she still holds down a second job working in a hospital pathology laboratory.

“When you rely on a natural entity for your income, you have to learn how to deviate, pivot, expand,” Salvador said.

Captain Virginia Salvador on her boat, Unforgettable, at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco on March 20, 2026. Photo by Jungho Kim for CalMatters Where the front row of charter boats line the street like storefronts, Bates’ row at Fisherman’s Wharf has the feeling of a neighborhood. One fisherman clambered down the ladder to Bates’ boat, where they swapped great white shark stories. Bates hollered to another neighbor every time a tourist wandered down the dock, bucket in hand, looking to buy fresh crab.

This neighbor, a tattooed and lanky and exhausted fisherman named Shawn Chen Flading, had been out all night. His 12 hour mission to retrieve crab pots turned into a 26 hour ordeal when his throttle cable broke.

At the time Flading bought his boat, before the shutdowns, it looked like a pretty good living.

“A lot of people — the older generation — put their kids through college, bought their homes. And it just disappeared,” Flading said. “I lost basically half my revenue for the past three years straight.”

He tries to fill the gap by advertising on social media and selling Dungeness crab directly off his boat. But the crab season, too, he said, has been disappointing.

Now, salmon fishing is once again on the horizon.

“Whatever limited opportunity we have for salmon, at least we're getting the ball rolling,” Flading said to Bates across the water between their boats, over the San Francisco mix of cars, construction and seagulls. “Without that, we're just stuck.”

Bates, leaning on the railing of her own boat, agreed. “I really understand why people are upset,” she said. “But also, I'm so excited to catch some fish. Even though it's not enough. It’s not even close to enough.”

This article was originally published on CalMatters and was republished under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license.

The crew of NASA's Artemis II mission are safely back on Earth after a nine-day mission took them on a trip around the moon and back, sending humans deeper into space than ever before.

To come home safely, the crew — NASA's Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch, and Canadian Space Agency astronaut Jeremy Hansen — and its capsule had to endure near-record-breaking entry speeds and temperatures up to 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit.

The Orion spacecraft spent 13 and a half minutes falling through the atmosphere, hitting a top speed of more than 30 times the speed of sound.

Orion performed as designed. The capsule's heat shield protected the crew, and a series of parachutes helped the capsule gently splash down in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of San Diego.

With that landing, the mission came to a close, clocking more than 700,237 statute miles, said Artemis II entry flight director Rick Henfling.

Four members of the U.S. Navy Dive team pulled the crew from the capsule. Helicopters plucked them from a raft outside their spacecraft — called the porch — and within 24 hours of splashdown, they'll arrive at the Johnson Space Center in Houston.

"We did it. We sent four amazing people to the moon and safely returned them to Earth for the first time in more than 50 years," said NASA's Lori Glaze, who leads the Artemis programs. "To the generation that now knows what we're capable of: Welcome to our moonshot."

The crew's flight path took them around the far side of the moon at around 4,000 miles above the surface.

The crew made a number of geological observations and took thousands of photos to help scientists better understand what the moon is made of – and where it might have come from.

But perhaps the most profound vantage point came from looking back at home.

"Trust me, you are special, in all of this emptiness," said Glover, "This is a whole bunch of nothing, this thing we call The Universe. You have this oasis, this beautiful place that we get to exist together."

The Artemis II mission was a critical test flight for the Orion spacecraft, which will carry future Artemis astronauts, including those that will venture to the lunar surface.

The crew tested key systems of the spacecraft — its life support system, maneuverability, its heat shield, the toilet. What NASA learns from this flight will set future lunar missions up for success.

"Part of our ethos as a crew, and our values from the very beginning were that this is a relay race," said Koch "In fact, we have batons that we bought to symbolize physically, that we plan to hand them to the next crew, and every single thing that we do is with them in mind."

That next crew will come soon. NASA administrator Jared Isaacman accelerated the Artemis program, charging the agency with launching an Artemis mission each year.

Even before the Artemis II crew splashed down, work had begun at the Kennedy Space Center in Florida to prepare for the next mission.

NASA engineering operations manager John Giles oversees the Crawler-Transporter, the massive vehicle that moves the mobile launch pad, and the SLS rocket that launches Orion, from the Vehicle Assembly Building to the launch site. His team is preparing to move the launch platform for Artemis II back into the Vehicle Assembly Building next week to begin putting together the rocket for Artemis III.

"We really haven't had too much time to relax and reflect on Artemis II, other than thinking what a perfect accomplishment it was," said Giles. "Moving right into Artemis III. No rest for the weary. It's moving on."

A key part of the Artemis III SLS rocket — the core stage fuel tank — is heading to Kennedy Space Center later this month. Parts of the solid rocket motors are already there.

Artemis III aims to launch next year. It'll stay in Earth orbit while testing spacecraft that are designed to land humans on the moon. The following mission, Artemis IV, could bring humans to the lunar surface, for the first time since 1972.

Copyright 2026 NPR

Coachella is the spring break of the music world: a pair of long weekends in the California desert, featuring over 100 acts across eight stages spanning too many genres to count, from vintage groups mounting reunions to the biggest pop stars on the planet to rising talents with viral hits. Nearly the entire event is streamed live via YouTube, starting Friday afternoon, which makes the prospect of catching more acts easier — you don't have to sprint across the grounds of Indio's Empire Polo Club to make it from one set to the next. But even if you're watching from home, the prospect of mapping your route through the weekend in order to catch the greatest possible collection of live experiences can be overwhelming.

To help, three members of NPR Music's team have sifted through the lineup to identify a day-by-day guide. Below, you'll find must-see acts and recommendations to ensure you catch the artists you should prioritize when set times conflict. (Note: All set times listed below are Pacific.)

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Matt Winkelmeyer

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FRIDAY

Plan by Dora Levite

Must see:
"Young millionaire, man, I feel like Weezy," says fakemink on his recent EP The Boy who cried Terrified ., a ramp-up to his upcoming album. The 20-year-old London prince of SoundCloud rap has racked up enough well-deserved hype through a steady stream of excellent hyperpop singles and star-studded cosigns (SZA, Drake, Frank Ocean, Ecco2K) to sustain a massive North American tour bookended by Coachella on one side and Lollapalooza on the other.

Naturally, fakemink's hype has sparked a slew of online discourse, which has seemingly had the effect of splitting his fan base in two: day-one devotees who insist the rest of the world is late, and new appreciators who feel their precious attention is what brought him to the global sphere. Regardless of where you fall, this is the must-see set of the day — a chance to hear some of his very best music and to figure out, if you even care, where you stand in his fandom.

Day plan:
The best way to prepare yourself for a day at a music festival is to establish your stage loyalties early. Start with Doom Dave's DJ set at 1 p.m. at the Sonora stage, then release all your pent-up festival anxiety with a cathartic scream when Las Vegas screamo band Febuary takes over.

At 2:10 p.m., I'd watch the Cahuilla Bird Singers and Dancers at the Gobi tent, a Coachella staple for the past few years. At 2:50 p.m., the pop star of the hour, Slayyyter, comes on for her first show with a live band since her excellent new album WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA. Head back to the Sonora stage at 3:40 p.m. to catch the majority of Wednesday's set — the North Carolina band released one of the greatest rock albums of 2025 and is a guaranteed stellar live show.

After that, things get complicated. Start with Lykke Li on the Outdoor Theatre stage at 5:20 p.m.; last time she played Coachella in 2015, she was a festival highlight, and now with new music on the horizon, she's likely to feed the nostalgia the festival loves and bring some more sparkling pop. Head over to Mojave no later than 5:50 to hopefully see Central Cee close out his set with "Sprinter" (cross your fingers for a Dave cameo). Before Dijon starts at the Outdoor Theatre at 6:40 p.m., you'll have time to see the first bit of CMAT, a fresh face in country-tinged theatrical pop, on the Gobi stage.

Next, of course, is fakemink — the buzziest name of the day. 7:20 p.m. on the Gobi stage.

From there it all falls into place: Turnstile (8:05 p.m., Outdoor Theatre, bound to be a great energy boost), Sabrina Carpenter (9:05 p.m., Main stage, every person should see "Manchild" live once in their life), Ethel Cain (10:35 p.m., Mojave tent, the Coachella haunting experience), and finish the night with Blood Orange (11:55 p.m., Mojave — maybe recent collaborator Brendan Yates of Turnstile will skip over from the Outdoor Theatre to join the fun).

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Frazer Harrison

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SATURDAY

Plan by Sheldon Pearce

Must see: 
There is something thrilling about watching Alex G strap on an accordion mid-song for "June Guitar," from last year's Headlights, during a gig, and that alone might be worth the price of a Coachella ticket. (OK, probably not, but definitely worth seeing on a livestream for free.) The only thing preventing the DIY king turned major-label convert from being the can't-miss performance of Saturday is a last-minute addition: 2025 Rock Hall inductee Jack White, who joins the first weekend as a surprise set at the Mojave tent. He likely won't play "Seven Nation Army" — so what. You don't even really have to like his last few albums to appreciate him live. It's the one forum where his finicky guitar ways always pay off big — he will grab three to four axes, rotate through them across the set, and shred like he's playing to scrape together bus fare out of Indio.

Day plan:
To get the best Saturday experience, start your stream at 2:40 p.m. with the first 20 minutes of Blondshell's set at the Outdoor Theatre before flipping over to catch Jack White in the Mojave tent.

Stretch your legs, grab a bite, walk the dog, then tap in for Ecca Vandal, a South African-born, Melbourne-raised punk-rock rapper who plays the Sonora stage at 4:20 p.m. Hit Alex G (5:10 p.m., Outdoor stage) and the gripping (and polarizing) band Geese (6:15 p.m., Gobi) back to back.

You can opt in or out of best new artist Grammy shortlister Sombr's 7:05 p.m. set at the Outdoor theatre — maybe you want to see what all the hype is about or maybe you need to step away from the screen for a spell — before embracing the exuberant Afropop pioneer Davido (7:50 p.m., Gobi).

In the first major conflict of the day, catch PinkPantheress at 8:55 p.m. in the Mojave tent instead of The Strokes over on the main stage; sure, she's nostalgic for the era the band got famous in, but her time is now, post-Fancy That? and her Alysa Liu cosign. If you're really yearning for post-punk revivalists from NYC's aughts indie scene, have no fear: Interpol is on at Mojave right after. Then stay up late for whatever Swag hijinks Saturday headliner Justin Bieber has planned for the main stage.

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Matt Winkelmeyer

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SUNDAY

Plan by Anamaria Sayre

Must see: 

My friends: Little Simz. This something-for-everyone artist who retains her own unmistakable flair has graced the desert stage before, appearing in tiny print on the 2019 poster and making a guest appearance with Gorillaz in 2023. On Sunday, the U.K. rapper is back with space to release the full Simz flow on a much larger stage.

Simz has always had a gift for taking a live opportunity to hit you over the head with her rapid-fire flow. She unleashes venom with impressive control and is always certain to mix equal parts slam and R&B. In this late afternoon solo slot, she could have an opportunity to fill out her set with a tight live band or maybe sneak in some strings, all the better to represent a sound that gets bigger and brighter with each new record.

Day plan:

The desert is a marathon, not a sprint. You've made it to Sunday (whether on the ground or virtual) so you're well-versed in pacing. We have to start out slow and maybe a little sad, so first stop is Samia (playing the Mojave tent at 3:15 p.m.), leading directly into Little Simz on the same stage.

From there, keep the energy up by hopping over to Clipse (5:15 p.m., Outdoor Theatre) for what's sure to be a performance as gripping as their off-kilter beats. Do a quick flip halfway through to make it over to the Sonora stage by 5:50 p.m. for the last half of Los Retros. It's sure to be sonic whiplash, given that these young romantic crooners bring living room vibes, but it's worth the sprint, and anyway, by this point in the weekend you're a pro at juggling disparate sounds. When that's over, if you wanna lean into the mood shifts and go for one more heart-rate spike via hardcore cleanse, you can just make the last 15 minutes of Suicidal Tendencies back at the Mojave tent.

Take a little breather, get some sustenance, and hop back to it for some straight-from-Norway dance floor flair with Röyksopp. If you're watching the live stream, you may have to skip the Norwegian gathering (Yuma stage isn't currently included on the YouTube schedule) and trade it for a bumping party closer to home — Georgia-bred rapper Young Thug on the main stage.

Now we're sprinting to the finish: You'll split time at a pair of worthwhile overlapping sets by starting with avant-garde English singer FKA twigs (innovation is twigs' most tried and true mode of being, so there's certain to be something we've never seen before), and (if you can tear yourself away before the end) moving on to catch the end of Chicago's own French Police. Close out the night on the main stage, starting at 9:55 p.m. with the first Latina to ever headline Coachella, la bichota herself, Karol G.

Copyright 2026 NPR

It was the end of an era for a sign of the times.

On a rainy March day in 1999, a 70-foot billboard perched at the doorstep of the Sunset Strip was taken down and trucked away. That spot on Sunset Boulevard and Marmont Lane had long been the home of the rough-hewn, lasso-toting Marlboro Man — so much a fixture it became part of the glitz and glam of L.A.

"It was such an iconic ad — such a tall billboard with this very handsome image up there," said John Heilman, current and then-mayor of West Hollywood. "Right there by the Chateau Marmont and near a lot of music venues that we have up on Sunset."

Billboards along the Sunset Strip, including one for Marlboro, in December 1985.

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Paul Chinn

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That's how I came to know about these larger-than-life Marlboro billboards, going to the Roxy and the Whiskey to see shows, and to the Sunset Tower Records for music in the 1990s. I didn't know it at the time, the image apparently changed every couple of years, but the vibe was so consistent it felt like one, long seamless spell.

 "When you came in on Sunset, that is what you saw," said Neil Ford, head of sales for central U.S. and the West Coast at Big Happy, a digital and mobile ad agency based in Chicago. "It really captured what out-of-home [advertisement] was at that moment, what it meant."

The Marlboro billboard on Sunset Boulevard.

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Elisa Leonelli

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Ford said the campaign was groundbreaking — advertising at its most effective.

"You think about that image of the Marlboro Man. It was a different size, it had presence and it captured your attention," Ford said.

It was a gamechanger for Philip Morris. Sales for Marlboro hit $5 million in 1955, a more than 3,000%  increase a year after its debut.

In other words, it attracted more smokers.

 "It was obvious that the image of the rugged Marlboro Man encouraged generations of men to smoke," said Paul Koretz, a former West Hollywood council member who was at the sign on that March day to celebrate its fall.

The total pivot

Hypermasculinity aside, Marlboro was originally marketed to women as a luxury brand peddling a mild flavor when it was introduced in the 1920s.

The pivot came three decades later, when the company was looking for a way to sell men on filtered cigarettes, long considered effeminate and less flavorful.

Enter Chicago ad man Leo Burnett, who engineered what many consider one of the greatest brand reinventions of all time by creating a new series of mascots — not just butch cowboys, but tough-as-nail sailors, hunters, businessmen, sportsmen, writers.

At the end, the cowboy won out, becoming the brand's reigning Marlboro Man.

" They brought this masculine symbol — image, visual — and really re-created what Marlboro as a brand meant," Ford said. "And it just was one image, there was very little copy. It had the logo on it. It was its own creation at the time."

The campaign propelled Marlboro to the top of the domestic industry by the 1970s, even as the toll on public health from the use of tobacco products racked up.

The Centers for Disease Control estimates that some 480,000 people in the U.S. die every year from cigarette smoking, including exposure to second-hand smoke. At least four actors who portrayed Marlboro Man died from smoking-related diseases.

In 1971, the U.S. banned cigarette advertising on television and radio. Brands then shifted to other mediums, in particular billboards.

The Sunset Strip

A street view looking west from the northern side of Sunset Boulevard near Chateau Marmont at night. In the background is the billboard for Marlboro.

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Carol Westwood

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The 1.7-mile stretch of Sunset Strip in West Hollywood has never been a stranger to grabby billboards. In fact, it was where the medium became art.

"It's always been known for very creative advertising," Heilman, West Hollywood’s mayor, said.

Its golden era was arguably the 1970s, when giant, hand-painted rock ‘n’ roll signs lined the Strip, a veritable checklist of who’s who in the music world.

Various billboards on the Sunset Strip and Horn Avenue during a full moon in June 1980.

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Roy Hankey

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The phenomenon started in 1967, with Elektra Records taking out a billboard to promote the debut album of a little-known local band called The Doors.

Two years later, The Beatles’ "Abbey Road" appeared, followed by Led Zeppelin, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones and Bruce Springsteen.

The era came to a close in the 1980s with the advent of MTV, which changed the playbook of music marketing, says photographer Robert Landau in his book, Rock 'n' Roll Billboards of the Sunset Strip.

"Other types of billboards focusing on the entertainment industry were very popular," Heilman said. "A lot of the new movie releases, new album releases, new product releases."

And the Marlboro Man stood amid this hit parade in one of the most commanding spots on The Strip since at least the late 1970s.

"As I recall, at one point they actually had steam coming out of it to simulate smoke," said Heilman, who has lived in West Hollywood for more than four decades.

Night view of large billboards along Sunset Strip circa 1980.

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Roy Hankey

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Los Angeles Photographers Photo Collection / LAPL

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Billboard ads along Sunset Strip in November 1985.

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Paul Chinn

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Los Angeles Herald Examiner Photo Collection / LAPL

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The billboard predates the incorporation of West Hollywood as a city in 1984. Helping to lead the cityhood efforts was Koretz, who went on to become a City Council member for West Hollywood before serving on the state Assembly and the Los Angeles City Council.

"I actually lived near the Sunset Strip, so I thought about it every time I drove by," he said of the Marlboro Man ad. "It was one of the most effective symbols of tobacco marketing."

Both his parents, Koretz said, were heavy lifelong smokers who died from the addiction.  As a lawmaker, Koretz led a number of anti-smoking efforts, including a smoking ban in restaurants in West Hollywood — as well as a near total ban on tobacco advertising in the city.

Large billboard of the Marlboro Man, located on the Sunset Strip at Marmont Lane in West Hollywood, circa 1985.

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Carol Westwood

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Los Angeles Photographers Photo Collection / LAPL

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That ban was passed in the final months of 1998, just before a settlement agreement between the nation's biggest tobacco companies, including Philip Morris, and dozens of state attorneys general. The $206 billion deal settled lawsuits filed by the states to recoup health care costs for smoking-related illnesses. It also banned youth marketing, as well as outdoor advertising.

As a result, Los Angeles's most famous Marlboro Man stepped down on March 10, 1999 — about a month before the official removal deadline.

That day, Koretz held a news conference to send the sign off. He said not everyone was happy to see the landmark go. But the ban, among a slew of other anti-smoking policies, have made an impact.

Last year, the American Cancer Society reported cigarette smoking among U.S. adults dropped from  42% in 1965 to 11% in 2023.

" It was always controversial. There are always people that didn't like it," Koretz said of the billboard ban. "This is largely a success story."

Shortly after, a new billboard went up in the place of the Marlboro Man on Sunset.

It was still a cowboy, looking eerily similar to its fallen predecessor, but with a limp cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Instead of Marlboro, it read, "Impotent."