• Justin Bieber headlined Coachella on Saturday for his first major performance in years.
• Bieber was reportedly paid $10 million for the two-weekend gig, more than past headliners.
• He opted for a laid-back set that rejected pop-star spectacle and paid tribute to his roots.

On Saturday, Justin Bieber arrived on the main stage in Indio, California, as one of Coachella’s highest-paid headliners ever, with a reported $10 million payday for the two-weekend gig.

Given his track record of canceling his tours, the crowd was lucky he even showed up.

The festival marked Bieber’s first headline performance since his 2022 Justice World Tour, which was canceled about halfway through its scheduled run. His previous outing, the 2016-2017 Purpose World Tour, was also canceled early with little explanation.

Over the past few years, Bieber has confined his bookings to a few minutes apiece. He’s performed at a handful of award shows — including the 2026 Grammys, where he sang a stripped-down rendition of “Yukon” (literally) in just his socks and underpants — and popped up as a surprise guest in other artists’ festival sets.

When he was announced as a Coachella headliner this year, speculation swirled as to how much effort he’d dedicate to the ever-hyped and expensive event. Would he honor his commitment? Would he only do the bare minimum? Would he make it worthwhile for the loyal fans trekking to the desert, those who’ve been around since “Baby” and the height of Bieber Fever?

The answers to those questions turned out to be yes, yes, and, surprisingly, also yes.

Bieber delivered a performance as low-energy and low-effort as any Coachella headliner could get away with. Wearing a simple, baggy uniform, Bieber loafed around the stage, mostly alone. His set list leaned heavily on tracks from his 2025 sister albums, “Swag” and “Swag 2,” several of which he delivered acoustically. He rarely interacted with the crowd; instead, he often retreated to an open laptop onstage, where feedback and song requests poured in from the livestream. For roughly one-third of his 90-minute performance, Bieber sat onstage and doomscrolled on YouTube — searching for old memes, reenacting his own viral moments (“It’s not clocking to you that I’m standing on business”), and singing karaoke-style versions of his older hits.

The performance ran counter to the pomp and spectacle of Coachella, which is a haven for brand activations and an aspirational photo backdrop as much as a music festival. Bieber’s fellow headliners, Friday’s Sabrina Carpenter and Sunday’s Karol G, rose to the occasion with dazzling costumes, high-energy dance numbers, and ambitious stage designs. With Bieber sandwiched between them, the contrast was striking.

As a result, Bieber’s performance has been criticized as lazy and underwhelming. But it’s not as if he’s incapable of pulling off those pop-star feats. If anything, the YouTube segment was a stark reminder of Bieber’s beginnings in the music industry, when Scooter Braun plucked him from pre-pubescent obscurity after seeing him perform an acoustic cover of “So Sick” by Ne-Yo on YouTube.

When Bieber broadcast that video at Coachella nearly two decades later, duetting with his younger self for a crowd of millions, what could have been pure nostalgia bait felt more like a practice in reflection and self-respect — especially for an artist who’s publicly struggled with superstardom. It was an homage to how far he’s come, and how much he can do with just his voice and a microphone.

• Despite doing frequent workout classes for over 20 years, I felt weak at 37 years old.
• I started weightlifting at my local gym and gained strength surprisingly quickly.
• Eight months into my regimen, I feel better in my body and have a healthier perspective on fitness.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a workout-class enthusiast.

When I was 17, I followed my mom to Jazzercise classes, and at 30, I was in boot-camp classes trying to figure out how anyone “bounces back” after pregnancy.

I was still loyal to group fitness in my late 30s, but at 37, I felt weaker than I’d like to. I wondered: For someone doing so many classes, shouldn’t I be — or at least feel — a lot stronger?

I’d been lifting the same 10-pound weights for decades, never progressing to a heavier set. And when one of my five kids asked for a piggyback ride up the stairs, my husband was always the one to oblige (partially due to my pesky back condition).

Eventually, I took a more critical look at my workouts, examining their frequency and the actual movements I was doing. I thought about the strong, fit people I knew my age and realized they lifted weights.

So, I researched the closest gym and chose one purely based on proximity to my house, ready to try something new.

I walked into the gym as a complete beginner

On my first day at the gym, the owner convinced me that I was exactly where I should be, walking me through a slow and steady onboarding program.

I tried not to compare myself to the extremely fit people, who looked like they came straight out of a Navy SEALs brochure, and did my best to ignore the clank of the heavy weights hitting the ground.

The staff logged my baseline abilities as I bench pressed, squatted, and performed other strength-training moves.

Although I had done countless leg lifts, crunches, and planks, I’d rarely done traditional weightlifting. Knowledge came with time.

Soon, I learned about one-rep maxes (the maximum amount of weight a person can lift for a single exercise), bought proper lifting shoes from Puma, and started studying form tips on Instagram after class.

The muscle soreness I felt after each gym session reaffirmed that I was working my body in ways that I hadn’t during my group fitness classes.

Although I had plenty of moments when I questioned whether I was in the right place, I told myself that being the least experienced person in the room was a good thing. As I’d learned in the business world, this can be the best place to learn.

Shortly after I started lifting regularly, I felt better in my body

I began taking weightlifting seriously last summer and noticed results fairly quickly.

I didn’t lose weight or have a dramatic visual transformation, but my body felt different; I had a structure that supported my frame rather than just a weak core that felt like it went somewhat dormant between pregnancies.

I considered my weight less important than my ability to pick up heavy things without feeling pain. Another benefit I didn’t expect? I left the gym each day with a weightlifting high that lasted at least 24 hours.

Lifting weights changed my definition of what it means to be fit

The biggest surprise of joining a weightlifting gym was seeing who I was exercising next to.

Although some of the mega-fit athletes initially intimidated me, I came to understand that my gym was for everyone. I’ve lifted with retired women over 70, teenagers, moms, and people fighting off medical conditions.

As I watched all of them lift heavier weights than I thought possible, I realized that a fit, strong body comes in many different shapes.

I also learned that weightlifting is about doing big, powerful moves along with exercises that work smaller muscles to fortify my joints.

By following a consistent program and surrounding myself with people who held me accountable, I gradually built strength, going from bench pressing 80 pounds to 115 pounds.

Eight months into my regimen, I no longer feel out of place at the gym. My knees don’t hurt and creak on stairs. Most importantly, when my preschooler asks for a piggyback ride up the stairs, I no longer have to say, “Go ask Dad.”

• Gas prices are climbing rapidly, unsettling Americans’ economic perceptions.
• The Consumer Sentiment Index, which gauges how people feel about the economy, hit a new low in March.
• Geopolitical tensions and inflationary pressures are heightening Americans’ concerns over gas prices.

Americans are feeling despondent about gas.

It’s a dour time for consumers — in April, the University of Michigan’s Consumer Sentiment Index, which surveys consumers on how they feel about current and future economic conditions, hit an all-time low.

It turns out that one small (or not-so-small) number has a lot of sway over how Americans feel about the economy: Gas prices. In recent years, there’s been a pretty solid relationship between gas prices and consumer sentiment: When it’s more expensive to fill up the tank, Americans tend to report more dire feelings about economic conditions and where they’re going. A Business Insider analysis of retail gas prices from the Energy Information Administration and consumer sentiment from the University of Michigan showed a moderate negative correlation between the two.

Gas prices are a hyper-visible economic marker for many Americans, who might experience immediate sticker shock every time they drive past their local gas station or stop to refill on the way to work. After all, only a small share — under 4% — of Americans use public transportation to get to work, according to Census Bureau data on commuting. A touch over 69% of workers drove alone to work in 2024, meaning that gas prices are likely omnipresent in calculating their commutes and daily expenses.

“Prices at the pump hold a very uniquely salient point in people’s minds,” Matt Colyar, an economist at Moody’s Analytics, told Business Insider. “Maybe it’s the big signs with the big luminescent numbers that everyone drives by constantly. They’re very aware of these prices.”

The last time sentiment was close to being this low was in June 2022. That might seem counterintuitive; it would stand to reason that the depths of the COVID-19 pandemic or the 2008 financial crisis and its aftermath might trump the current fluctuations. But June 2022 marked record-high gas prices amid soaring inflation and the fallout from Russia’s war in Ukraine.

Now, as sentiment hits that record low, gas prices are rising at the fastest pace on record, with last week’s consumer price index report showing a 21% month-over-month increase. As of the week ending April 6, the most recent date for which the Energy Information Administration has data, gas prices hit $4.12 a gallon; as of April 13, they were hovering around the same level, and up 50 cents over the month, per AAA.

The bad vibes might only continue, especially as President Donald Trump signaled that prices might remain high through the November 2026 midterms and tensions between the US and Iran remain high over the Strait of Hormuz and the roughly 20% of global oil production that passes through it.

“Gas prices are highly visible, highly salient prices that consumers use to gauge their feelings about the economy,” said Alex Jacquez, the chief of policy and advocacy at the left-leaning think tank Groundwork Collaborative. “People have to fill up weekly; they often don’t have much of a choice whether they pay or not.”

Indeed, pump prices are top of mind for Americans as the Iran conflict drags on: 69% of 3,507 Americans surveyed by the Pew Research Center at the end of March said they were very or extremely concerned about higher gas or fuel prices when thinking about US military action in Iran.

That’s already led to changes in how American workers are navigating daily life — rideshare drivers, for instance, are prioritizing the most profitable trips to make their gas expenditures worthwhile. EV owners have taken a victory lap as they plug in. One Business Insider reporter strategically switched to the Costco credit card for gas savings.

Of course, there are plenty of factors that weigh on how Americans view the overall economy, and gas prices alone don’t determine sentiment. For example, the job market has been locked in a low-hire, low-fire “great freeze” for over a year, and the difficult prospects for job seekers are likely weighing on economic opinion as well.

Gas is still likely a looming factor, though. Jacquez said research has shown that “gas prices, consumer sentiment, and political approval all tend to move together, so it’s not surprising to see a sudden rise in gas prices coincide with a crash in consumer sentiment.”

Do you have a story to share about how rising prices and volatility are affecting your economic outlook? Contact these reporters at jkaplan@businessinsider.com and mhoff@businessinsider.com.

• Kyle Troup, 34, has been a professional bowler since he was 16.
• In 2021, he set a bowling earnings record, making $496,900.
• Troupe stars on the new HBO documentary “Born to Bowl” and is glad the sport is getting attention.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Kyle Troup. It has been edited for length and clarity.

Growing up, my parents used to pay me if I could beat them at bowling. I got $5 if I beat my mom, and $20 if I beat my dad, Guppy. He was a professional bowler with the Professional Bowlers Association (PBA), and my brother and I often went to PBA events with him.

Around the time I was 13 or so, I started beating my dad so often that he dropped my pay down to $10 per victory, then $0. I figured I must be getting pretty good.

I wanted to be just like my father — and not because he was a professional bowler. People loved him, whether he was bowling or not. He was a cool, popular guy who often hung out at the bowling alley bar after his games. He loved his life and career, and it was clear he was having a lot of fun.

I started working at Wendy’s early in my bowling career

At 16, I started bowling with the PBA. In the first few years, I didn’t win much money at all. Still, the experience of bowling for money and spending my own income to bowl taught me a lot.

Around the same time, I started working at Wendy’s. By 18, I was a manager there, and still making next to nothing bowling. I’ve always been good with money, so I was getting by, but one time when money was tight I remember thinking “What could I be doing if I wasn’t chasing the dream of being a professional bowler?”

After a minute, I realized I didn’t need that answer. I was going to be a professional bowler, and that was that.

A record-setting year helped establish my financial future

By my early 20s, I started winning more tournaments and, therefore, earning more. By 2016, I made about $44,000 — enough to leave my job at Wendy’s.

Then, in 2021, I had a great year. I won the PBA Player’s Championship and earned a record-setting $496,900 that season. That’s not much compared to many other professional sports, but for me, it was a blessing.

I worked with a financial advisor and invested a lot of that money to build the foundation for my future. Bowling is a physical activity, and I know I won’t be able to do it forever. Since 2021, I’ve felt financially set. That allows me to go out and be the best version of myself each week I’m on tour.

Becoming a dad has given me purpose beyond bowling

About five years ago, I met Breanna, and we got married last year. She had two kids who were about 6 and 11 when we met. Becoming a dad to them has given me perspective about what’s important in life. My life isn’t about bowling anymore; it’s about my kids.

The PBA tour schedule can be hard on the family. I’m gone for about three to four months, traveling around the country for competitions. I’ve always had that schedule, but being away from my kids took some emotional adjustment.

I used to stay in hotels while I was on the road, but that was draining: I was always in a hotel, a restaurant, or a bowling alley. Now, I stay at Airbnbs with my best friend, who’s also a professional bowler. Being in a house means we can cook healthy meals and generally feel more at home, even when we’re on the road.

I’m happy with what I’ve achieved

I would love to win a title again, since it’s been a few years. At the same time, I can see that I’ve already achieved a lot, from winning Player of the Year to providing for my family to raising money to help more kids explore the sport.

Now, I want to give back to this sport. I’m happy it’s getting more attention, including the new HBO series. I get to play a game for a living, and I really enjoy what I do. That’s a blessing in my life.

• My grandma got her first iPhone after a brief health scare and became hooked on YouTube videos.
• She slipped farther away from the family store, old friends, and the dinner table.
• Seeing her blush at silly romance videos made me realize that she wasn’t wasting time.

On the day my Taiwanese grandma A-Ma turned 80, she complained about a lingering dizziness.

When she got up from the floor mat, she fainted. Though the blackout lasted only two seconds and the doctor ruled the trigger to be temporary low blood pressure, my aunt was worried enough to dust off an old iPhone in case of an emergency.

Being illiterate, it took my grandma a full week to master punching in the four-digit passcode. I was worried during my entire visit home in Taiwan.

My cousin helped her figure out her phone

Everything changed when my 6-year-old cousin came home from kindergarten with a new obsession with Minecraft videos. Not having a phone to his name, A-ma became my cousin’s easy target. He downloaded YouTube onto her phone. A thread of over-the-top romance videos popped up on my grandma’s feed. She clicked on one after another.

Turns out, my grandma’s taste in entertainment was 30-second dramatic YouTube Shorts with ridiculous premises filmed on a low production budget: a housekeeper starved by her boss, who eventually fell in love with her. A college senior slept with dad’s best friend, who has a BDSM lair. A high school girl endured bullying, then revealed she is an heir to a kingdom. Everything that made me cringe made her giggle.

Then the effects of her phone permeated into real life. The family store she started with my grandpa in 1975 began seeing her less. Instead of stocking the shelves with my aunt in the morning, she opted for a long breakfast: two boiled eggs dipped in soy sauce with an endless side of YouTube Shorts.

The situation briefly looked up when A-ma’s friend, who ran a sticky rice shop, stopped by the store with some fresh gossip. The friend brought hot-off-the-press news about a local’s son and daughter. My grandma played the attentive listener, given that she did not have the skills to scour the market for scandals. Yet, not even 20 minutes in, I noticed A-ma started glancing at her phone. No longer a top-tier audience, the friend retreated to the sticky rice shop, defeated.

I noticed she was paying less attention

As a writer in New York who used my phone sparingly, I flew back to Taipei every three months to see family. Each time, I noticed her attention span suffered more than the last.

Her dining table was once the place I brought her behind-the-scenes anecdotes of working in a New York City ad agency, but not anymore. Last time we ate together, her eyes were glued to her screen. I sighed and threw my finished plates into the sink. She glanced at me, then back to her original program, completely mesmerized by the content.

Instead of being angry, I caught a glimpse of A-ma blushing from the corner of my eye. Like a girl reading a coming-of-age story, her cheeks flushed pink. Then she turned the screen toward me, relaying the plot of a cringey romance. Her smile stretched up to her eyes.

I finally understood her

That was when I realized it was not YouTube Shorts with horrible storylines she was watching. It was a window into what young adulthood could’ve been like if she were given the chance to be a normal girl.

As my mother told me, A-ma grew up in a war-torn time in Taiwan, where her childhood consisted of running into bunkers during air-raid drills. By 15, she was at the fishing port helping her family haul fresh catches into the local market. Years later, her parents arranged for her to marry the neighborhood boy. Then, together, they had six kids. They took a leap of faith, left the village, and set up shop in Taipei City, selling handmade beef jerky and pork floss.

Never having the chance to go to school, dress up for a party, or sneak out at night to steal a kiss from a cute boy — she didn’t get to live, not like a young girl. Before anyone or herself knew, she became an adult.

I realized, 65 years later, after a brief health scare, A-ma got this iPhone that served as a portal into a world she never had access to. Filling a void she didn’t know existed.

Last time I visited, I showed her how dictation works. With her callused thumb, she hit the microphone button and uttered: “Young. Stories.”

However, her accent, thick with a dialect, was too much for Siri to understand. For the first time, I felt like I did.

• Jim Lexa worked as a journalist for 30 years and saw his salary plummet as print journalism faded.
• He quit without another job at 53, worked as a handyman, then got a job with the Postal Service.
• He now earns up to $85K a year — nearly three times his old salary — and can walk 40K steps a day.

This interview is based on a conversation with Jim Lexa, 63, a letter carrier from West Seneca, New York. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I never started out in journalism because of the money. I could have earned higher wages by staying in my job straight out of college, working in the kitchen of a diner chain.

Instead, I was bitten by the writing bug as a high schooler, when I was hired by a local town newspaper in Lily Lake, Illinois, to cover all high school sports, particularly football.

Those were the years I learned basic journalism rules, such as spelling people’s names correctly and getting the scores right.

I got my journalism degree and, after a brief stint working at the diner, landed a sports reporter job at a regional newspaper group in Amarillo, Texas. My salary in 1984 was $230 a week.

The popularity of newspapers dropped

It was exciting to write about teams like the Dallas Cowboys, and there was a lot more to it than game coverage. I enjoyed meeting people and telling their stories.

In 1998, I moved to the copy desk, where my responsibilities included clearing the front page and assigning tasks.

Then the popularity of newspapers began to dwindle. Circulation dropped. The publishers stopped hiring people, and you’d see offices being closed off. Then came the pay cuts.

Management always said they were for the good of the company. Still, when my $37,500 annual base salary was reduced to $30,000, I started to seriously worry.

I’d go to the grocery store with a calculator to figure out what kind of food I could afford. If one of my pets got sick, I’d be concerned about paying the vet bills.

By early 2015, I was feeling burned out. Constantly meeting deadlines and filling the pages was getting to me. The stress wasn’t worth the amount I was paid.

I took a deep breath and quit, moving to DeKalb, Illinois, where I did handyman, painting, and cleaning work.

I was promoted within 2 years

Still, I felt like I needed a proper, new direction. It felt late in the game to make a career change at 53, but I heard they were hiring at the post office and was hired in November 2015.

My entry-level job as a clerk was the brief stepping stone to becoming a city carrier assistant in January 2016. About two years later, I was promoted to letter carrier after I moved to Buffalo, New York.

You have a few days’ training, and then you’re out on your own, which was scary. At first, I’d spend ages poring over maps, but as time passed, I got to know my routes well.

In my current position, I earn $34.26 per hour, with overtime at time-and-a-half after eight hours and double time after 10 hours. During COVID, I was putting in 60 hours a week.

This past year, I topped $85,000 — nearly three times as much as my base salary in newspapers. My wife and I don’t have to worry about dining out, and we enjoy nice vacations together.

I’m much less stressed

One of the best things to come out of all this is feeling the fittest I’ve ever been. I use a postal vehicle, but I walk 12 to 18 miles a day. If it’s just my route, it’s probably around 30,000 steps daily.

During the winter, when it’s really snowy, and I get a lot of overtime, I can get in as many as 40,000 steps. I’m 5’8″ tall and weigh 160 pounds.

I’m so glad that I made the switch. I’ve got a decent salary with less stress, good benefits, a friendly relationship with my regular customers, and a spring in my step at 63.