Shake and Bake

Coachella is the kind of place where a crowd will demand an encore not from Weezer or Gang of Four or the Futureheads but from M.I.A., a young, lanky, relatively unknown Sri Lankan rapper whose childlike enthusiasm is just as infectious as her loopy techno-meets-reggae rhymes. Like Salt-N-Pepa with a social conscience, M.I.A. used the event as her own coming-out party, and "Did you see the M.I.A. show?" became the festival's favorite catchphrase.

Of course, Coachella is also the kind of place where you can be sitting on the grass, enjoying British synth-rock heroes New Order work through "Blue Monday," when all of a sudden Melissa Rivers (Melissa Rivers?) walks in front of you, blocks your view and starts yammering away with her pals, like she's back on the TV Guide Channel breaking down Oscar Night fashion with mummified mom Joan. But she's not. She's just a fan. Or something.

Although not exactly a sign of the apocalypse, Melissa Rivers is a clear signal that Coachella is changing.

Whereas the event started as a sexy little secret six years ago, it is now the place to be not just for hungry music fans in their twenties but also for Hollywood celebs hankering for some bold-face attention in the gossip columns. The sprawling VIP section at Coachella is its own curious universe: a series of tents, sparkly bars, plush black leather sofas and bouncy fake breasts. Many concertgoers spend as much time trying to sneak into the VIP area as they do listening to music. At any second, you can gaze across the top of your pina colada and scope out a mingling of A-, B- and C-listers.

Look! There's Cameron Diaz, in green shirt and jeans, waving to her public. Cameron Diaz, it should be noted, looks just like Cameron Diaz.

Click. Click. Click. Thirty-one-year-old Marty Lopez, who lives nearby "in the desert," is snapping away with her disposable camera, giggling as Diaz gets closer and closer. A tall, pretty blonde, Lopez is attending her fourth Coachella. A few years back, she arrived at the show seven months pregnant. "It was pretty cool," she says.

Look, there's "America's Next Top Model" judge Janice Dickinson. The tall, tan brunette is surrounded by muscular men 20 years her junior, perhaps because she's wearing a barely there miniskirt and a too-tight bikini top.

Look, there's beleaguered "Insider" host Pat O'Brien, fresh out of rehab. No one bothers him, perhaps because he's wearing a too-tight black T-shirt and has barely-there hair.

On one of the couches, a young blond woman, displaying as much of her skin as California laws allow, chats away into her cell phone: "Oh, there's much better-looking people back here," she says.

West Hollywood's Ben Chavez, 42, is one of those people -- well, sort of. The tanned, handsome federal worker says that even though he's back here, drinking and smoking in the VIP section, he doesn't agree with the "segregation" of the pretty and the not-so-pretty. "That's the thing that runs counter to the spirit of Coachella. It shouldn't matter if you're black or white, or gay or straight." He pauses: "And I'm gay."

Go ahead and laugh, but there actually seems to be such a thing as "the spirit of Coachella." The fest was founded the same year as the last Woodstock, which erupted in flames and violence. And while there certainly have been angry young men at Vans Warped and Lollapalooza, Coachella is mostly mellow. The promoters make it a point to keep metal bands to a minimum, and it's actually considered cool to brag about how much water you've had. The first-aid tent had a smattering of visitors, mostly sunburn victims and drunk little girls, not broken bones and smashed noses.

Chavez, who is attending for the fourth time, says the "passion of the music" and the "indie spirit" are what count at Coachella. The event's quickly growing reputation as a national to-do could change things. "It's a double-edged sword," he says. "If it gets too popular to the point that it's hard to get tickets, then it's a problem."