Maria Gonzalez starts her Coachella shifts at 4 a.m., three hours before the first festivalgoers stumble toward the coffee stands. She's part of a cleaning crew that works the Empire Polo Club grounds in Indio, California, tasked with making the previous night's chaos disappear before Instagram wakes up.

"People see the pictures—the art installations, the celebrities, the perfect grass," says Gonzalez, who has worked the festival for six years through a staffing agency. "They don't see us at dawn picking up vomit and broken sunglasses."

As Coachella has transformed from a late-'90s rock and dance music festival into what the New York Times recently called "a platform where social media, spectacle and unexpected guests make the headlines," the gap between the festival's glossy image and the economic reality for its workforce has widened. This year's event, which featured surprise appearances and dominated social feeds, relied on an estimated 5,000 temporary workers whose wages and conditions rarely make it into the cultural conversation about what Coachella has become.

The Labor Behind the Spectacle

According to data from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, event and festival workers in California earn a median wage of $16.50 per hour, barely above the state's minimum wage. Coachella's parent company, AEG Presents, does not publicly disclose wage information for festival staff, but workers interviewed for this story reported hourly rates ranging from $15 to $22 depending on their role—parking attendants and cleaning crews at the lower end, experienced stage technicians and security personnel at the higher end.

Those wages come with irregular hours, no benefits, and intense physical demands. The festival runs across two consecutive weekends each April, but the actual work period stretches longer. Setup crews arrive weeks early. Teardown can take another week. For many workers, that means a month of disrupted schedules for what amounts to part-time pay.

"The festival grossed over $100 million last year," says James Chen, a sound technician who has worked Coachella and other major festivals for a decade. "The artists get paid. The production companies get paid. But the people actually turning wrenches and running cable? We're told we should feel lucky to be part of something iconic."

Who Actually Works Coachella

The festival's workforce breaks into distinct tiers. At the top are union stagehands and technicians, many represented by the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE), who command better wages and have some bargaining power. Below them are hospitality workers—bartenders, food vendors, merchandise sellers—many employed through third-party contractors. At the bottom are general laborers: the cleaning crews, parking attendants, and security guards who keep the festival functioning but remain largely invisible.

Increasingly, that bottom tier is filled by workers from the surrounding Coachella Valley communities, where unemployment runs higher than the California average and opportunities are limited. For some, the festival represents crucial income. For others, it's a source of frustration.

"They bring this massive event to our backyard, our town gets completely overwhelmed for a month, and most of us can't even afford a ticket," says Robert Martinez, an Indio resident who worked festival security for three years before quitting. "You're standing there watching people spend $500 on a VIP table while you're making $17 an hour in 95-degree heat."

The Gig Economy Comes to Festivals

Coachella's labor model reflects broader trends in event staffing. According to Bureau of Labor Statistics projections, employment in "amusement, gambling, and recreation industries" is expected to grow 11% through 2032, faster than the national average. But much of that growth comes in temporary, seasonal, and contract positions without traditional employment protections.

Festival organizers increasingly rely on staffing agencies that provide workers on-demand, shifting liability and employment costs away from the event producers themselves. Workers sign up through apps, receive shift assignments days or hours in advance, and have little recourse if conditions prove unsafe or pay doesn't materialize as promised.

"It's the Uber-ification of festival work," says Dr. Patricia Campos, a labor economist at UC Riverside who has studied the Coachella Valley's economy. "These companies have figured out how to extract maximum flexibility from workers while minimizing their own obligations. And because the work is temporary and the workforce is fragmented, organizing for better conditions becomes incredibly difficult."

Some workers appreciate the flexibility. College students and retirees looking for supplemental income can pick up shifts without long-term commitment. But for those depending on festival work as a primary income source, the model creates instability.

What Changed

Coachella's evolution from music festival to cultural phenomenon has changed what the event sells—and who profits. When the festival launched in 1999, the focus was squarely on the lineup. Festivalgoers came for the music, camped on-site, and created their own experience.

Now, as the New York Times noted, social media and spectacle drive the narrative. Brands pay millions for sponsorship activations. Influencers receive free passes in exchange for content. Celebrity surprise guests generate headlines and boost streaming numbers for artists. The festival has become a marketing engine that happens to include live music.

That shift has been lucrative for AEG and for the artists and brands that participate. But it hasn't translated into substantially better conditions for workers. If anything, the pressure to create Instagram-perfect moments has intensified labor demands without corresponding wage increases.

"Everything has to look flawless now," says Gonzalez, the cleaning crew worker. "One piece of trash in the wrong photo and someone's job is on the line. But they're not paying us more to maintain that perfection."

The Path Forward

Some festivals have begun experimenting with different labor models. Lightning in a Bottle, a smaller California festival, has partnered with worker cooperatives for some staffing needs. Bonnaroo has increased base wages and offered end-of-festival bonuses. But Coachella, despite its size and profitability, has largely maintained its existing approach.

Labor advocates argue that the festival could afford to do more. A 2025 analysis by the Economic Policy Institute found that raising base wages for all festival workers to $25 per hour would increase total labor costs by roughly 3%—a fraction of overall revenue.

"This isn't about making festivals unprofitable," says Campos, the labor economist. "It's about distributing the value created more equitably. When you have an event generating nine figures in revenue, paying poverty wages to the people who make it possible is a choice, not an economic necessity."

For now, workers like Gonzalez will continue showing up at 4 a.m., ensuring the spectacle runs smoothly for another year. The Instagram posts will flow. The surprise guests will trend. And the people who built the stage will clock out, mostly unseen.

"I don't need to be famous," Gonzalez says. "I just need to pay my rent without working three jobs."