Burning Man 2023

By Adriana Roberts

People know me at Burning Man. For 27 years, I’ve been the editor and publisher of Black Rock City’s most popular newspaper, first known as Piss Clear (named after the Black Rock Desert’s #1 survival tip: drink enough water so that you piss clear) and then re-branded in 2010 as the more professional-sounding BRC Weekly.

As I’ve done nearly every August since I moved to San Francisco, I’m once again headed out to “the playa” this week, but with one important difference: this will probably be my last time.

But it’s certainly not because I now hate Burning Man, or that it’s “gotten too big,” “too commercial,” “not as good as it used to be,” “taken over by tech bros,” or any number of things former burners say, along with a fair number of haters who’ve never actually been out there. No, Burning Man is actually still pretty fucking awesome — you simply won’t find anywhere else on Earth a better survivalist desert camping experience posing as an arts festival.

This will be my 30th trip to Black Rock City, the fake municipality we build in the desert each year, which is actually a couple times more than Larry Harvey, the late founder of Burning Man. In fact, I’ve been going to this dusty metropolis longer than probably anyone else on Earth. Yes, including all the people who actual run Burning Man, with the lone exception of Michael Mikel, aka Danger Ranger, a member of the legendary Cacophony Society, who was instrumental in moving the event in 1990 from Baker Beach — where it had been shut down by the cops — to the remote Nevada desert where it has been “home” ever since.

But unlike him and the rest of the Burning Man organization, I don’t get paid to be there. In fact, just the opposite — I’ve paid to be a citizen of Black Rock City, to the tune of six figures over three decades. So yeah, I love Burning Man and all, but this bish needs a break.

After 30 years, I’m no longer “privileged” enough to go

As you no doubt have heard, Burning Man is expensive. There’s a reason it’s gotten a reputation for being an adult playground for rich bucket-listers. Ticket prices with fees and vehicle pass will top out over $900 next year, and that’s not even counting all the other expenses just to schlep one’s sorry ass out to one of the most inhospitable deserts on Earth. It’s not a place for poor people.

When I first started attending in 1993, the ticket price was $40. Now there’s more infrastructure, and more staff who are actually paid these days, rather than BMorg relying solely on volunteers, like they did in the past.

A lot, but not all of the “big art” out in deep playa is partially funded by ticket dollars. And of course, the federal land fees from the Bureau of Land Management have been jacked up, the state of Nevada adds their own tax, there are porta-potty and equipment rentals, and the list just goes on and on. Look, you want an epic experience of living in a temporary desert city of 75,000 that values art, culture, and connectivity, while trauma bonding because it’s in a place where no human being was ever meant to live? Well, this is what it costs.

Pre-pandemic, I was okay with that. I was in a higher income bracket before Miss Covid decimated my nightlife event business. So sadly, I can now no longer afford Burning Man, much less pay for newspaper printing. I’ve been “priced out.” The only way I’ve been able to afford these last two years was by having IndieGogo campaigns to raise funds. But I really don’t want to beg for money each year just to publish a playa newspaper.

But of course, there’s more to this story than just money.

I started seeing other festivals that don’t feel like cults

Burning Man has started to feel more like a ritualistic work-cation rather than a transformational experience. And due to its large size and the economic bracket it now attracts, it’s increasingly more difficult for me to connect with new people there. So it’s a lot of “same-same” for me, especially since Black Rock City now seems to have the same socio-economic archetypes of big cities I already live in, like San Francisco.

Look, it was fun pretending to live in a utopia for a week each year, but Black Rock City now feels way less utopian than, say, Neotropolis, a small cyberpunk festival in the Mojave Desert that I vibe with much better. Which is ironic, because that particular festival is supposed to emulate a futuristic dystopia — but it’s actually way more utopian due to the openness of its small community and the way everyone participates in the shared aesthetics of the event. It’s also a lot cheaper.

Meanwhile, Burning Man is the opposite, pretending to be a utopia, but actually becoming increasingly dystopian in its byzantine bureaucracy, high ticket pricing, “burnier-than-thou” participants, billionaire-funded art cars, and its cult-like “10 Principles,” which are set in stone, rather than admitting that platitudes like “immediacy” should be swapped out for useful principles like “consent.” But Larry Harvey was a straight white man living in a patriarchal world, so why would he have thought “consent” should be one of the 10 Principles?

Burning Man is so “Brave New World” in the way it is run, and so many of its flaky participants are annoying in a way that makes me somewhat embarrassed these days to admit to outsiders that I’m a “burner.” I guess all the Kool-Aid I’ve been drinking over the past three decades finally went sour.

No matter how hard you hack your Burn, burnout is inevitable

Gawd, I sound so bitter, and I really don’t mean to! Obviously, I have loved Burning Man hard — harder than most burners ever will — which makes this break-up oh-so-bittersweet. I still love Burning Man, I really do. But despite my best efforts, it finally happened. I burned out.

Burnout is especially an issue for those who dive in deep, as one should — building art pieces, running theme camps, volunteering for various BRC departments, managing teams of people. It’s a lot of ridiculous logistics doing anything out there, made even more difficult by the challenging environment. Mentally, emotionally, financially — I’m kinda done.

I’m relieved I’m going into this year’s Burn with a “victory lap” mindset, and I’m still super excited about all the art out there on the playa, and my Bootie Mashup DJ gigs. I mean, “never say never,” check in with me in a few months, and if someone drops a gift ticket in my lap next year and I don’t have to publish a whole-ass playa newspaper, or do eight DJ gigs five days in a row, just to also pay $900, then sure, I’ll totally show up.

But if not, I’d rather spend that money on other festivals and travel to other places, rather than the same dusty hellscape I’ve been to 30 times already. After 30 years of doing the same thing in the desert every fucking August, I obviously need a break.

But if YOU are going out there though, you should definitely have the best Burn ever! And I still will, too — this being my possible last burn for a while, I’m definitely going to make it count.

Adriana Roberts is a DJ and performer with her Bootie Mashup parties, as well as a writer and trans influencer.

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