I Went To SXM, The Luxury Island Music Festival Fyre Fest Could Have Been – NYLON

Scene Report
SXM is doing wonders to rehabilitate the stigma around luxury music festivals on Caribbean islands.
Last week, I found myself riding a chairlift to the top of a mountain in the middle of an afternoon rainstorm, eating sushi on a cliff at sunset, and laying on the beach at 3 a.m. At each moment, electronic music was blasting. I was in St. Martin for SXM Festival, held March 13 to 17, a high-end music festival that’s been bringing house music to the Dutch and French Caribbean island since 2016. I’m not even that much of an electronic music gal, but I am always one for a good time in warm weather.
Of course, I did have my reservations about attending SXM. Ever since 2019, the concept of a “music festival on a Caribbean island” has been overshadowed by the legendary failure that was Fyre Festival, a “luxury” music event on Great Exuma Island where guests were ultimately met with something closer to a FEMA camp. I am grateful to say that SXM Fest was nothing of the sort, even as the island still recovers from the devastating 2017 Hurricane Irma that damaged 90% of structures.
SXM successfully fulfills its concept of intertwining the life of the island within the familiar music festival framework. Each night, a beachfront area called Happy Bay became the heartbeat of the festival with two large stages, immersive art builds, and a plethora of vendors and VIP areas. By day, the parties spread: One took place on a boat, another at the top of a steep mountain ridge, the others at various beach bars and restaurants. DJs like LocoDice, Magit Cacoon, and Fleur Shore performed to sprawling crowds of men in open button-down shirts and belly-chain-clad women. Despite the festival’s timing, there was little sense that the audience was college-aged pursuing spring break behavior. Rather, it seemed as though everyone had taken the time off work to be there or was already part of the industry. It was, generally speaking, a relatively classy affair. As promised, the whole thing was a party in paradise.
There were naturally a few hangups. That mountain-top party requiring a chairlift during a rainstorm with no real shelter? Not my most comfortable hour. For the boat ride, what I envisioned to be a party yacht was more of a booze-cruise barge. Neither of these events offered food, either. But these lower moments were always contrasted with the natural beauty of the island itself. Even soaked from the rain, it was hard to complain about the panoramic views once the clouds cleared away.
On my last full day at SXM Fest, as I hung over the side of an infinity pool with a ti’ punch (a popular cocktail in the region consisting of rhum agricole, cane sugar, and lime) in hand, my phone stopped working. Gone are my videos of the massive party villa I was at, my notes from my conversation with festival founder and DJ Julian Prince, and most tragically, the really great bikini pictures I’d managed to get on the patio of the Hommage Hotel. While I’m sad I’ve lost this media, to no longer have a phone on the trip was something of a blessing. I was in St. Martin in 82-degree sunshine, overlooking the ocean, money pre-loaded onto my festival wristband, being shuttled from beach to stage to boat and back again. What the hell did I need a phone for?
Naturally, it had been useful in the three days of the festival prior: I communicated with fellow festivalgoers on WhatsApp, looked up the schedule on the festival app, and checked the entirely unreliable weather forecast. But never did I really need the phone, and notably, so did few other people. The festival offered some of the few recent moments where I’ve been able to look out at a crowd around me and not see an ocean of glowing screens — thanks partially to the fact that the audience skewed slightly older than myself at 27, composed largely of Europeans and Americans in their early 30s to 40s. The vibe oscillated between ultra-chic and the more ostentatious aesthetic you might find at, say, Electric Daisy Carnival in Orlando.
Nevertheless, there was the constant sense that everyone really wanted to be there — if a plane ride to a small island and a $300 to $850 ticket didn’t already suggest that. This was even apparent at the Hommage Hotel, where most of the press, artists, and guests lucky enough to grab a room stayed. At one point, a fellow writer from the United Kingdom met a young man from L.A. at the hotel breakfast who claimed to work in A&R. Later, we found out he’d been squatting on the property’s beach hammocks, messaging the writer on Instagram to say he’d been kicked out due to “politics” by the “bish” at the front desk.
The villa party, where my phone broke, was the undeniable highlight of the fest. Frankly, I don’t even recall who performed — all I know is that I was rhum drunk and eating a burger in a swimsuit watching the sun fall into the Caribbean sea. I managed to make it back out to Happy Bay, staying up till 5 a.m. and still making my flight the next day, sans phone. And while I may not have all my pictures or my notes from Julian, I do at least recall one thing he said. I asked him if he manages to have any fun while the festival goes on. “People always ask me this,” he said, leaning in my ear, “but I actually have the most fun.”

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