In a deal that made the desert briefly consider unionizing, Justin Bieber has secured a seven-figure Coachella payday and, according to sources, the festival’s metaphoric and literal driver’s seat. Exhibit A: a check with more commas than some choruses, and a throne-shaped bucket seat welded to a golf cart that believes it’s a Ferrari.

Festival organizers praised the arrangement as innovative leadership, which is how corporations say, ‘We handed the keys to a man who stared down a stadium and won.’ He’s fully in the driver’s seat, they say, while sliding into the back like nervous Uber passengers rating the ride before it begins.

The contract reportedly allows Bieber to control lighting cues, desert wind patterns, and whether the sun sets during his bridge. There’s also a clause giving him first refusal on all cacti willing to harmonize, and 12% of any crowd scream that registers above a polite Yelp.

One executive told me, off the record and directly into a megaphone, that the deal was simple: ‘He’s in the driver’s seat, and the vehicle is a Lamborghini made of vibes, powered by nostalgia, and insured by venture capital.’ The steering wheel, for legal reasons, is a ring light.

Fans, fresh from pre-gaming with electrolyte dust and sponsored ennui, have embraced their new role as shareholders in a portable feeling. The chant ‘Play the old stuff!’ has been recast as ‘Increase quarterly bops!’

Out in the heat, survivalists traded tips on staying alive long enough to be in the crowd shot. A man in fringe adjusted his solar-powered neck fan for festivals like it was a moral stance, then whispered that the desert is just a dry ocean where influencers migrate to spawn.

Bieber’s set design features a dashboard that doubles as a stage: tachometer in BPM, gas gauge in clout, and a GPS that only routes to choruses. During Baby, an LED disclaimer appears: ‘No refunds on nostalgia. Tap to accept.’

To prove his dominance of the wheel, Bieber plans to parallel park the main stage between corporate activations, narrowly missing a micro-batch lemonade stand and a therapy llama who moonlights as a brand ambassador for Calm But Dustier.

Merch lines reportedly stretch from Indio to a cul-de-sac in Ohio. Items include a satin pit pass, a glove compartment for feelings, and tactical glitter removal wipes for the morning-after when you must explain to your employer that the desert invited you to be your truest chandelier.

Insiders deny rumors he’ll be paid in a cryptocurrency backed by evaporated sweat and wistful FOMO. Instead, the money arrives as legal tender shaped like tiny steering wheels that play a hook when you rub them together, which is both festive and taxable.

When asked if the art is being compromised, I was shown a spreadsheet labeled Feelings, with tabs for Key Change, Sudden Tears, and Crowd Pan. The audience remains the final co-author, furiously editing the night with a million raised phones, algorithmically approving the bridge like a zoning board for vibes.

Closing time: as the bass winds down and the desert resets to default beige, a hush falls. Bieber unbuckles from the rhinestone harness, tosses the valet the keys to a borrowed myth, and drives off in a beige sedan marked ‘Art Department.’ The steering wheel stays, humming Baby like a check that already cleared.