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Erykah Badu remembers her last moments of normalcy. The generational talent who changed the course of R&B and hip-hop with her home-cooked neo-soul has never truly been “normal,” of course. But before Badu was the futuristic stylist we know her to be, she was just a young woman from Dallas. One who traveled to New York during the paralyzing North American blizzard of 1996 to finish a debut album she hoped would be good enough to allow her to make another one. “That’s how I met New York. Like, ‘Oh, you cold!’ ” she says in the much more agreeable climate of her hometown. “I was like, ‘OK, if this is what I got to do — then this is what I got to do.’ ”
Despite the frigid weather, the then-25-year-old Badu found a warm and welcoming community in Brooklyn’s Fort Greene neighborhood. In 1992, Entertainment Weekly correctly noted the area was the “red-hot center of a national black arts renaissance.” Chris Rock called it home, as did Gil Scott-Heron. Digable Planets copped a spot and recorded its second album, Blowout Comb, as a love letter to the hood. Badu moved into a cozy apartment above Mo’s Bar & Lounge, right around the way from one of her favorite spots, Brooklyn Moon Café. Spike Lee’s 40 Acres and a Mule — the studio behind Do the Right Thing, Malcolm X and Jungle Fever — was close by. “[I was] right in the center of Blackness,” she remembers. “Dreads, headwraps and people who looked like me who I didn’t know existed. I felt like I belonged there. I met people who felt the way I felt, and that’s when I knew I wasn’t alone in my journey or quest to find out, ‘Who am I?’ ”
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To answer that question, Badu would need to enlist her own spirit guides both within and outside of the music industry. One of the most memorable was a woman named Queen Afua, who became a mentor of sorts for young Badu. In addition to helping Badu with her holistic journey, Afua “became my family away from Dallas. She communicated with me like a mother.” But to keep her profile as low as possible, Badu didn’t tell Afua why she was in the Big Apple: “I didn’t tell anyone in New York anything. I just wanted to live.” And so, she lived. When she wasn’t kicking it in Fort Greene, Badu was taking classes at Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater taught by dance legend Joan Peters. She took a Kemetic language course, because why not? “A lot of things were happening, and they all became a part of who I am,” Badu says. “You know, as Erica in America.”
Badu constantly told herself to be as “regular as possible,” because she knew the album she was trudging to Battery Studios in Midtown Manhattan to work on with a group of musicians who would go on to become legends in their own right — people like James Poyser and Questlove from Philadelphia’s The Roots — was going “to take this motherf–ker by storm.”
Jai Lennard
The album, Baduizm, did just that. It debuted at No. 2 on the Billboard 200 and ruled the Top R&B/Hip-Hop Albums chart. Buoyed by the meditative smash hit “On & On,” Baduizm helped usher in what became known as neo-soul: a type of R&B that built on the traditions and stylings of the past while breathing new life and energy into the genre. While most neo-soul tracks sampled or interpolated older soul songs, “On & On,” with its rolling bass and booming drums, was wholly original. It felt like a completely fresh idea (and Badu was full of them) but also something familiar and comfortable — the delicate balance most artists work their entire lives trying to strike.
“[I’d] never seen someone just full of a bunch of ideas,” Questlove recounted in a 2024 interview with Poyser. “She had a lot of choruses ready. She was the first person I met that instantly had a clever chorus ready in the stash.” For the album’s third single, “Other Side of the Game,” the Roots drummer recalled that Badu came in with the idea to rework the famous chorus to Inner Circle’s “Bad Boys Reply.” Even more impressive, he remembered, was that the version of the song that made it onto the album was essentially the first take that was committed to tape: “I thought, ‘Oh, this girl is going to make it.’ ”
Dressed in an oversize sweatshirt and sweatpants with a warm-looking knitted cap, today Badu comes across every bit as enchanting as she’s made out to be. Sitting in the back room of South Dallas’ Furndware Studios, she speaks with a calm directness that you would expect from a shaman or elementary school teacher. Every question elicits a thoughtful pause and an even more thoughtful answer. When I ask Badu about making versus performing music, for example, she goes into a deep rumination about the focus needed to create great music. “I want to focus, I want to be in the moment of the foreplay. Creating the music. The tragedy. The love. The experience of the whole thing,” she says before exhaling. “Then I go somewhere else after this is done. This is a movie and the studio audience is cracking up and crying and s–t… I hope that answers that question.”
Badu makes you feel as if you’re the most important person in the world when she’s speaking to you. It’s a skill many successful people have, but few can also make you feel like the luckiest — as if she’s letting you, and only you, in on a cosmic secret. That may owe in part to the spiritual tangents she sometimes goes on when answering questions. Or it may simply be the attentiveness she offers in conversation. She says she has learned that the way to become successful — and to maintain that success — is to be healthy, present and aware, and to never stop learning.
Born Erica Abi White in Dallas, Badu didn’t always aspire to “make it.” She simply wanted to create art like most of her family had done. She grew up with her grandmother, mother and uncles, in what she describes as “a house of music lovers and collectors.” There was music in every room — literally. “There were records from wall to wall, a radio in the bathroom that was on the local FM soul station,” she recalls. Everyone was allowed to have their own corner to express their musical tastes. “My uncles would be in the back listening to funk. They were into Bootsy [Collins] and George Duke and Stanley Clarke. My mother was more into the sirens — the Chaka Khans, the Phoebe Snows, the Deniece Williamses, The Emotions. My uncle, who’s a rebel, was into Prince and Pink Floyd and Three Dog Night,” she says. “I had a variety to pull from.”
Erykah Badu photographed on February 7, 2025 at Mars Hill Farm in Ferris, Texas.
Jai Lennard
Badu immersed herself in everything artistic Dallas had to offer a young person. When she was in elementary school, she began taking classes at the Dallas Theater Center, as well as the Martin Luther King Jr. Community Center, where she would sing and dance and perform in plays. Badu and her younger sister, Koko, also frequented The Black Academy of Arts and Letters, where her mother and godmother volunteered. TBAAL’s founder, Curtis King, recalls seeing the “it thing” in Badu from an early age.
Badu went to Louisiana’s Grambling State University to study theater but left in 1993 and returned to Dallas before she graduated. She planned to pursue music full time — but since dreams don’t come true overnight, Badu found herself working a series of odd jobs to support herself while she worked with her cousin Robert “Free” Bradford to record her demo, Country Cousins. The two would perform around Dallas as a duo — she would sing and he would rap. But even with the 19-song project, Badu couldn’t pay a label to take her on. She says she auditioned for everyone — Sony, Priority, Bad Boy, So So Def — but didn’t catch a break until D’Angelo’s then-manager, Kedar Massenburg, saw her perform at South by Southwest and received her demo. He immediately signed her to his fledging imprint, Kedar Entertainment.
“As soon as I heard ‘On & On,’ I knew that I had to get involved,” Massenburg told Billboard in 2017. “The thing that struck me immediately was the beginning, because Erykah had used a beat in the intro that Daddy-O, a member of a group I managed called Stetsasonic, had created: Audio Two’s ‘Top Billin.’ ”
Country Cousins was the foundation of what became Baduizm, and Badu’s debut cemented not only her career but also the neo-soul scene that had been developing. “I think Tony! Toni! Toné! kind of opened the door, D’Angelo took it to the next level in terms of edginess, and Erykah solidified it,” Massenburg said. “That’s what Baduizm did. You’re saying, ‘I don’t need to wear these kinds of clothes or look this kind of way, this is my “-izm.” ’ The only thing that dates it is the term ‘neo-soul’ — maybe that’s the issue. It places it at a time when that term meant a certain thing. Take away the term, and it stands with the best of the artists that are out here today.”
Jai Lennard
You would think, with the impact she has had on R&B and hip-hop, that Badu would have dropped more than five albums over her 28-year career. But nope — just five studio sets, a live album and a mixtape. Granted, they’re all classics and helped either introduce a new sound or popularize a new style of working. Take 2008’s New Amerykah Part One (4th World War), which was recorded mainly on laptops with Apple’s GarageBand software, with Badu emailing sessions and files back and forth with producers. At the time, it was a pretty novel idea to forego the studio for your bedroom — only new, cash-strapped artists were doing that. Badu helped bring the practice to the mainstream — just one of many examples of her being aware of the winds of change before most of her peers.
That same awareness inspired her to launch her label, Control Freq, in 2005. At the time, Badu said it was her attempt at making a “profitable home for artists, with fair contracts that will return ownership of the music to the artists after a period of time.” The first artist signed to the label was Jay Electronica, the father of Badu’s third child. “I didn’t develop him at all. I just wanted to be near his greatness,” Badu says. “He needed to be heard and I had a platform. I wasn’t interested in building an artist from scratch. I was interested in artists who were building their own platforms.”
When it comes to her own music, Badu is less interested in what she puts on wax than in what she puts forth onstage. “I tour eight months out of the year for the past 25 years,” she says emphatically. “That’s what I do. I am a performance artist. I am not a recording artist. I come from the theater. It’s the immediate reaction between you and the audience and the immediate feeling. The point where you become one living, breathing organism with people. That’s what I live for. It’s my therapy. And theirs, too. We’re in it together. And I like the idea that it happens only once.”
Unlike most performance artists, however, Badu doesn’t create her music with the live aspect in mind. Once she decides to perform a song, she begins to re-create it for the stage. “It’s like, ‘OK, now this is one arena. Now, what are you going to do with it in here?’ ” (One of her most popular songs, “Tyrone,” was only ever released as a live rendition, on her 1997 Live album.) The results speak for themselves. Badu — this year’s Women in Music Icon — has emerged as one of the premier performers of her generation.
In 2015, while on an apparent hiatus, Badu released a remix of Drake’s gargantuan smash “Hotline Bling.” Produced by the Dallas-based Zach Witness — who first connected with Badu after she heard a remix he did of her 2000 song “Bag Lady” and reached out to him — “Cel U Lar Device” was posted to SoundCloud without much explanation.
The track became the lead single for her mixtape — and most recent project — 2015’s But You Caint Use My Phone (a nod to “Tyrone”), which she recorded in less than two weeks with Witness in his home studio. The tape centered on a theme of cellphone use and addiction, with Badu putting her spin on a few other popular phone-based songs like Usher’s “U Don’t Have To Call” and New Edition’s “Mr. Telephone Man.”
Since then, Badu has popped up here and there. She says she only collaborates with people whose music she really enjoys. Dram featured her on his debut album in 2016. She jumped on a track for Teyana Taylor’s self-titled album in 2020. She lent her vocals to a Jamie xx song that came out in January. And at the 2025 Grammy Awards, she won the best melodic rap performance statue for a collaboration with Rapsody, “3:AM.” “It snuck up on me!” she says. “I remember collaborating with [producer] S1 and Rapsody and we had such a good time promoting the song and I just felt like it was all for her basically. She worked very hard to get to this place.”
Jai Lennard
She still loves rap, although she doesn’t follow it as much as she used to and now experiences a lot of it through her children: Seven, 28; Puma, 21; and Mars, 16. (She says they also have attempted to make music, which is not surprising considering their fathers are all rap legends: André 3000, The D.O.C. and Electronica, respectively.)
“[The thing I like about rap right now] is the same thing I liked about rap when I first met it,” she says. “Rap is the people. Hip-hop is the people. It’s the folks. It’s the tribe. I have the luxury of experiencing having children who I watch grow up and love and encourage very much, and I cannot separate them when I see artists who are that age coming up. That’s how they feel. They are continuing the tradition.”
Badu may say she’s not as tuned in as she used to be, but she’s clearly keeping tabs on what’s hot right now. She’s been hard at work on her first studio album in 15 years, which is being produced solely by The Alchemist, the hip-hop journeyman who has had a resurgence as of late thanks to his work with the Buffalo, N.Y.-based Griselda crew and artists like Larry June. Badu posted a teaser of the project on Instagram to an exuberant response from fans who’ve been damn near begging her to drop something new and show the generations of artists who’ve had her pinned to the center of their mood boards how it’s supposed to be done.
The album has been taking up most of her time; she says she can’t wait until she’s done. And whatever time that isn’t occupied by her family and nonmusical interests — such as her cannabis strain collaboration with brand Cookies called That Badu — goes toward keeping herself in the best mental, emotional and physical shape possible and making sure she’s set for the future. “When I was building my house, I was making sure that I was building ramps for when I was elderly and couldn’t walk by myself,” the now-54-year-old says. “When I do my workouts, I do workouts that are conducive for picking up groceries and grandchildren and things like that.”
That’s not to say she isn’t having fun. Another of her nonmusical hobbies is car collecting. Badu, whose grandmother bought her toy cars instead of dolls when she asked for the latter as gifts, lights up when asked to run down what’s currently in her collection: “I get happy when talking about it.” There’s a baby blue ’67 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors and a chandelier in the back (“Original interior, original white wall tires, original radio”); a 1989 Land Rover Defender; a 1971 Sting Ray Corvette (“Matte black, neon yellow stripe. It looks like the Batmobile”). A collector since she was 21 years old, her first car was a 1965 convertible Super Beetle. “Before I was Erykah Badu the artist, that was my hobby that I loved.” Her uncle Mike, the one who was into funk music, is also into cars and keeps and maintains some of hers; the rest are tucked away in a Dallas garage.
It all sounds surprisingly normal for a music superstar of Badu’s stature, and that’s just what she likes about it. And it’s the same reason why, after all her success, she has remained in South Dallas. “It was very hard for me to be away because this is where I want to be,” she says. “I wanted to come here and build. This is where everybody is. I’m five generations in Dallas. This is my place. It’s my home.”
This story appears in the March 22, 2025, issue of Billboard.
The show was, unequivocally, going off.
In time with the beat, columns of fire blasted from a complicated and expensive-looking stage setup as a litany of dance hits blasted through the speakers of Los Angeles’ Kia Forum, where more than 15,000 people and their approximately 30,000 ears were gathered to hear the music.
Drunk girls traded compliments in line for the bathroom while staffers trying to prevent fire hazards cajoled people to dance in their seats instead of the aisles. It was a proper arena rager, a de facto badge of success for any artist, but particularly so in the world of dance music.
At the center of it all, John Summit — tanned, smiling, his shirt unbuttoned to a chest level that suggested a regular workout routine — threw up heart hands while manning the cockpit of CDJs before him. It was Nov. 16, 2024, the final evening of the producer’s sold-out three-night run at the Forum, shows executed by a 130-person team working overtime. It was just one of the very big moments of Summit’s biggest year to date, and while the set wasn’t even done yet, in his mind it was already over.
“I got too comfortable by the end,” he reflects three months later, “and I was like, ‘This show is done. This is the last one.’ And not because it wasn’t great. I think it was excellent. But I don’t want to write the same movie twice.”
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This sentiment embodies three essential truths about Summit. First and most obviously, that the 30-year-old Illinois native has accomplished quite a lot since emerging from the froth of internet buzz over the last five years. Second, that Summit possesses an almost strangely intense drive, a kind of stubborn single-mindedness that propels him forward even when the thing he has spent a year working on is still happening around him. And third: Summit’s tendency to most often describe his life not in terms of music but cinema. His big shows and capital B bangers are, for example, “big-budget projects, like Marvel,” whereas his smaller, clubbier sets “are A24,” he says, referencing the lauded indie studio. He compares the beginning of his sold-out Madison Square Garden show last summer to an action film, calling the pyro-heavy moment “basically me blowing up onstage. It was very Michael Bay-esque.”
Surveying the public-facing landscape of Summit’s life helps to explain his tendency to process it all in leading-man terms. Through an alchemy of talent, will, hard work and smart decision-making, Summit and his team have pulled off one of dance music’s rarest feats: becoming a hard-ticket juggernaut with a signature sound, big-ass hits and intergenerational appeal.
At the Garden, says Wasserman’s Daisy Hoffman, who represents Summit alongside Ben Shprits, “older adult fans” intermingled with younger ones. “I have 35-year-old friends with kids who are doing a girls’ trip to Vail [Colo.] for his show there, while my 25-year-old sister is following his every move on TikTok.”
A DJ achieving this kind of broad appeal is, today, a bit like spotting a snow leopard in the wild. “It’s very rare,” Shprits says. “It is extremely rare.”
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Ysa Pérez
But it’s also not a fluke: Summit is a confident and adorable hustler with high standards and an intense Midwestern work ethic. “I’m delusional,” he says on a recent balmy Wednesday afternoon in Miami, where he moved to in 2020 to try and make it as a DJ. “I thought the first track I ever made was amazing.”
Since his first release in 2017, he has steadily attracted other believers, with his sprawling business now populated by managers, agents, accountants, label operators, radio pluggers, marketers, production designers, social media experts and the videographer who silently and ceaselessly captures footage as Summit shows me around Miami, a city where he has not only made it, but where he now avoids “super-glamorous spots where I feel like people are just staring at me the whole time.”
Dance superstardom has changed him. Whereas his social channels used to be plastered with drunken shenanigans, Summit now posts a lot about exercising. Hours before we meet, he shares an image of a yoga mat on the balcony of the waterfront condo he bought two years ago. While we chat, he talks about his need for consistent sleep (he tucks in at midnight and wakes up at seven) and more than once references his “personal growth journey.” But while Summit is Evolving with a capital E, his tenacity remains unaltered. After releasing his debut album, Comfort in Chaos, last July, he’s already at work on its follow-up. This summer, he’ll also headline festivals including Movement, Lightning in a Bottle and Bonnaroo; launch an Ibiza residency; and play shows in Australia, Europe and beyond.
“I’m hustling harder than I’ve ever hustled before,” he says, his Chicago accent strong. “The shows are only getting bigger and not just bigger, but better. The team is growing. My record label is growing. I’m working on a second album already, whereas I think most dance artists, especially house artists, don’t even do albums. Every year is crazier and crazier. It would be stupid to slow down when it’s snowballing.”
And yet it all occasionally leaves his head spinning. For example, Summit compares spending the holidays in his native Naperville, Ill., to the end of The Lord of the Rings, when Frodo Baggins returns to the Shire after risking life and limb to destroy the One Ring and finds that while his idyllic homeland is the same as when he left it, he — fundamentally transformed by his quest — is not. “I’ve had the craziest life, toured the whole world, had many adventures and late nights, got into some bad situations,” Summit says. “Then I come back home and everything is the exact same.”
One can see how opening Christmas presents in your parents’ living room in the suburbs might seem surreal after playing for hundreds of thousands of people across multiple continents. But it was in Naperville and nearby Chicago where Summit — then a “kind of nerdy runner” born John Schuster — was first exposed to dance music. It happened while seeing deadmau5 at Lollapalooza in 2011, an experience Summit, then 16, has equated to a sort of spiritual awakening. His subsequent journeys through SoundCloud were exacerbated by a high school love interest. “At first, I was just making music to impress my girlfriend at the time,” he says. “She liked all these DJs, and I was like, ‘I can f–king do this.’ ”
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Summit got serious about DJ’ing and producing while a student at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. By 2017, he had graduated with a master’s degree in accounting and was working at Ernst & Young while making music in his off-hours. (And, he admits, often during work hours, too.) He sent “dozens of demos” to a flurry of labels, focusing on esteemed U.K. imprints like Toolroom and Defected Records, which specialize in the house and tech house styles he was making.
“It’s no different than applying for 100 jobs when you’re out of college,” Summit says matter-of-factly of sending out demos. Eventually, a few small labels replied with feedback on how he could improve, and by 2018, they had signed a few of his tracks. By this time, Summit was in touch with a young manager named Holt Harmon, who was working with Summit on the release of a track he had made with an artist Harmon was then working with. The pair clicked.
“I had a call with Holt about, like, ‘How is this getting distributed? What’s the marketing strategy?’ I went very exec mode on him,” Summit says. “I think he was like, ‘Oh, this kid’s not just good at music. He gets it and he’s not lazy.’ I thought the same about him.”
Summit became the third artist signed to Metatone, the management company Harmon co-founded alongside Parker Cohen in 2018. But as things picked up for Summit, the pandemic hit. By now, Summit had been fired from Ernst & Young and was back living with his parents. But what might have seemed like a roadblock became something else.
“People saw the pandemic as a time to take their foot off the gas,” Shprits says. “And here you’ve got a 20-something guy on the verge of taking the next step in his career who saw it as an opportunity to do the opposite.”
In the basement, Summit made music and was extremely online, posting production tutorials, doing livestreams and winning people over with what Shprits calls his “unfiltered” personality. (“I would pay $500 to slap a warm bag of wine at a music festival right now,” Summit tweeted in May 2020, the deep days of the pandemic.) By the end of 2020, he had gone from livestreaming from Naperville to playing a b2b set with Gorgon City broadcast from a Chicago rooftop, racking up millions of views and likes along the way with this, as well as other self-deprecating, unapologetic and funny content. You couldn’t help but root for the guy.
Around this time, Summit moved to America’s dance music capital, Miami, with the goal of playing an extended set at the influential nightclub Space. “People didn’t see me as a serious DJ,” he says. “They saw me as someone who might have blown up on TikTok or something. Then I was doing these eight- to 10-hour sets of pretty underground music, not even playing a big vocal record until four or five hours in, kind of just proving like, ‘Yeah, I’m a f–king DJ.’ That was my version of taking on a very serious role.”
The method acting worked. When clubs reopened across the United States, Summit was suddenly selling out 500-capacity rooms in far-flung cities like Tempe, Ariz., often in seconds. He and his team focused on playing as much as they could, wherever they could, and venues eventually got bigger as the social media reach grew. His single and EP releases were largely house and tech house tracks, with his output helping propel the latter subgenre to increasingly bigger audiences, particularly as Summit experimented with bigger and more vocal-forward records, the kind that typically have maximum crossover potential.
His watershed moment came when he released “Where You Are,” a collaboration with power-lunged British singer-songwriter Hayla, in March 2023. “Before putting it out, I was like, ‘This is going to f–k up my entire career because this is a headliner, main-stage song,’ ” he says. “Very few DJs had become successful in the pop lane. It was like, ‘Am I ready for this challenge?’ Then I was like, ‘F–k it. Let’s do it.’ ”
“Where You Are” spent 26 weeks on Billboard’s Hot Dance/Electronic Songs chart; now has 298.7 million on-demand official global streams, according to Luminate; and was selected as a favorite song of 2023 by another Chicagoland resident, Barack Obama. By December 2023, Summit sold out Los Angeles’ BMO Stadium, moving 21,700 tickets and grossing $1.7 million, according to Billboard Boxscore.
“Where You Are” and other subsequent belters from Comfort in Chaos have, along with Summit’s general presence in the scene, agitated the dance world’s perpetual push-pull between the commercial and underground, a turf war that has long found artists wanting to play the biggest shows and have the biggest hits without losing the credibility and cool factor of dance’s less overtly capitalist sectors. But Summit wants to do both.
“John’s been very vocal about wanting to bring the underground to a large scale while bringing a production level that no one’s ever seen with this style of music,” Shprits says. “That’s always been the guiding light.”
But even if you’re playing music with underground origins, it’s not necessarily accurate to call yourself an underground artist while playing from atop a laser-shooting platform at the center of a sold-out arena. This is why Summit created Experts Only, the name of both the label on which he, in partnership with Darkroom Records, releases his own and other artists’ music and a party series where he plays lesser-known music (“I feel like I have to be very on the forefront with the records,” he says) for smaller crowds in tighter spaces.
“I look at John Summit and Experts Only as two different things,” Summit says. “John Summit is this grand display, a huge-budget production that shows my art and music from the album, whereas Experts Only is a party brand where me and DJ [friends] do cooler underground cuts … You hear so many artists who blew up that are like, ‘I hate playing my big song every night.’ They wish they could play more experimental stuff. I’m getting the best of both worlds.”
Doing both has broadened Summit’s appeal. The underground thing, Shprits says, is “generally attractive to an older demographic that’s experienced with electronic music. Then he has this amazing ability to craft songs that attract your high school and college demographic. Take all of that and then combine it with the personality, the packaging and the A&R’ing from the management and label side, it’s like the perfect big bang.”
And yet, Summit questions what the “hipster snob” John Schuster might think of it all. He recalls firing off “hypercritical” tweets at main-stage dance giants back in the EDM era; he preferred the heady vibes of Michigan’s beloved dance/jam festival Electric Forest and deep cuts like Shiba San’s 2014 house classic, “Okay.” “Now I’m here in those same shoes getting as much s–t talked about me. I think that’s maybe why I can get through it without getting too offended, because that was me doing the s–t-talking.”
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But when you read most every social media comment, as Summit says he does, the ability to laugh off insults is helped by what he calls “a good supporting cast.” (He screenshots particularly egregious remarks and sends them to the inner circle for diffusion.) Taking a team approach to his career “is way less lonely,” with every person on the team not only bringing “a Swiss Army knife” of abilities, but together creating a perpetual group hang that’s the antidote to the cycle of loneliness, depression and addiction that has historically plagued dance artists.
Still, he is John Summit of the John Summit project, and his vision is specific. Here in Miami, he has ideas for how he wants to be photographed and filmed. He likes a lot of prep and knowing what the plan is. He’s agreeable and charming. You could also call him bossy — or just someone who knows what he wants.
“For better or for worse, I challenge people around me as much as possible to be at their greatest,” he says. “I’m ever-evolving, and everyone has to be ever-evolving around me.” Cohen says that among the team, Summit is often referred as “the third manager.” Shprits acknowledges that “at many times, John has challenged us to understand where he was going with this and to meet him.”
Summit isn’t quite sure where the drive comes from. “I was fortunate to have a very normal upbringing,” he says, and his parents (his father is a commercial airline pilot and his mother a real estate agent) “are like, ‘You’re doing great. You don’t have to keep pushing.’ I don’t come from an incredibly successful artistic family. There’s no mounting pressure.” At least, not from outside sources.
“This is one of the most competitive industries in the world,” he continues. “I can’t let off the gas because the second I do, someone else is going to steam ahead. I’m going to try my best and try to be the best. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
So, for the foreseeable future, Summit shall keep gunning it. After Comfort in Chaos hit No. 39 on the Billboard 200, he’s now at work on a follow-up album that he wants to be “bigger and better.” While he didn’t get any 2025 Grammy nominations after campaigning for them, he says that just gives him “something to strive for.” And while dance music isn’t even a genre that necessitates albums, Summit sees them as meaningful: “I look at some of the greatest artists over the last generations, where album after album, they try to outdo themselves, reinvent themselves.” He takes cues not only from musicians but high-achieving athletes and, naturally, actors, calling Timothée Chalamet’s recent run “f–king incredible” and particularly inspiring.
For the next album, he’s interested in releasing a short movie alongside it. A recent rewatch of the 2014 film Whiplash inspired him to buy a drum kit and, maybe, play percussion on some of his new music. While he “shot my shot” with pop stars like Charli xcx and Dua Lipa by tweeting at them asking to work together (no collaborations have resulted), he says working with this type of artist “is not needed in my career,” given the strong roster of vocalists with “raw talent” like Hayla, Julia Church and more that he has surrounded himself with. He regularly brings out these vocalists during big shows and “f–king loves it” when they get a huge crowd reaction.
Plus, having tried working with a few pop stars, he finds bumping into their limited schedules “very diva-like. And as a diva myself,” he says with a laugh, “there’s only room for one of us.”
OFY top and tee, Lost ‘N Found x Levi’s pants, Rick Owens x Dr. Martens shoes, Tercero Jewelry rings.
Ysa Pérez
As writing gets underway, he’s also finding that he has grown up a bit since the days when his tagline was “My life is a bender.” (“My bender era walked so brat could run,” he tweets while we have lunch; the sentiment gets 2,500 likes before the plates are cleared.) Comfort in Chaos explored deeper topics than partying, and he says making it was a huge leap in his maturation. A song like his 2022 “In Chicago” (sample lyric: “I’m drunk, I’m high and I’m in Chicago”) “is basically like LMFAO,” he says. “It’s like my ‘Party Rock [Anthem].’ ” Comfort in Chaos, on the other hand, was largely about love and longing. When asked about this subject matter, he acknowledges that “I’m a lover boy” but demurs when asked to expand, saying only, “I tell it through the music, not in interviews.” (If anyone wants to read the tea leaves, the lyrics of Summit’s most recent song, the moody indie dance track “Focus,” inquire, “How’d we get so lost inside of this room?/Watching you turn into someone I never knew/I remember love, but it’s slipping out of view.”)
While Summit works out these big feelings in his new music, he’ll also spend the rest of 2025 headlining major U.S. festivals and touring the world; he and his team are particularly focused on international expansion this year. Outside of Ibiza, he says “there’s really no money” in international shows, but adds that revenue isn’t the point: “I’m young and hungry, and I want to showcase my art with the world.”
It’s all a wild ride, a summer popcorn blockbuster, a journey to Mordor and back. It’s the kind of stuff Summit sometimes thinks about after the workday ends, when “I take an edible and think, ‘Holy s–t, this world is crazy.’ But then I wake up in the morning, snap out of it and get back to it.”
This story appears in the March 8, 2025, issue of Billboard.
The show was, unequivocally, going off. In time with the beat, columns of fire blasted from a complicated and expensive-looking stage setup as a litany of dance hits blasted through the speakers of Los Angeles’ Kia Forum, where more than 15,000 people and their approximately 30,000 ears were gathered to hear the music. Drunk girls […]
On an overcast winter afternoon in McAllen, Texas, all six members of Grupo Frontera are huddled around an oversize white box, staring gleefully at its contents. They peel back the tissue paper wrapping to reveal a present their stylist has gifted them just a few days shy of Christmas — a mound of plush Polo Ralph Lauren bathrobes, one for each member, with a brassy statement stitched onto the back: “B–ch, I got a Grammy!”
The members of the norteño and cumbia band — which won the Latin Grammy for best norteño album in 2024 — are standing inside their palatial Frontera HQ in McAllen, a home that they purchased last year. Built in the mid-2000s, the sprawling estate is a very particular vision of turn-of-the-21st-century luxury (see: the Tuscan kitchen replete with dark wood cabinetry). A minimalist home recording studio, where the band has laid down several tracks, sits just past the outdoor path wending around the pool and hot tub, in a yard expansive enough to park their fleet of tour buses.
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Privacy and practicality alike spurred the band to centralize its operations here. When its star began rising about three years ago, after its cover of Colombian pop-rockers Morat’s “No Se Va” surged to life-altering virality on TikTok, Grupo Frontera would frequently record music in this South Texas enclave of the Rio Grande Valley where its members grew up and still reside — until some locals figured out where the group was recording and started showing up to the studio unannounced. “People would deadass just open the door, walk in and listen to whatever we were recording,” says frontman Adelaido “Payo” Solís in between sips of a briny michelada. “They would just wait for us to finish. Then we came out, we saw people, and we were like, ‘Hi?’ ”
Grupo Frontera will perform at Billboard Presents THE STAGE at SXSW at Moody Ampitheater at Waterloo Park in Austin on March 14. Get your tickets here.
Crucially, the house is decidedly “party-ful,” as Julian Peña Jr., the band’s affable percussionist and hype man, puts it. Grupo Frontera has held a tequila-fueled carne asada (a barbecue hang) or two here, including a baby shower for accordionist Juan Javier Cantú, who recently welcomed a daughter with his wife. The group — which also includes drummer Carlos Guerrero, bassist Brian Ortega and guitarist/bajo quinto player Beto Acosta — hopes to eventually open up the space for visiting collaborators and friends to crash there. But given that the house is still barely furnished, those plans are on hold for the moment. There aren’t many places to sit, save for a few folding chairs and tables here and there; only a handful of the home’s six bedrooms have mattresses in them propped up against walls. Tellingly, the sole piece of art inside is a framed photograph of the band mugging with superstar Bad Bunny — who collaborated with Grupo Frontera on its Billboard Hot 100 smash “un x100to,” peaking at No. 5 on the chart — splattered with globs of bright paint.
Interior decorating was admittedly low on the band’s priority list in 2024 — a year in which Grupo Frontera released its punchy set Jugando a Que No Pasa Nada, which reached the top 10 of the Top Latin Albums chart. An ambitious tour around the United States, Mexico and one date in Spain followed at amphitheaters and arenas, with shows featuring pyrotechnic flourishes and stretching about two hours. Somehow, Grupo Frontera also found time to release Mala Mía, a joint EP with fellow música mexicana stalwarts and collaborators Fuerza Regida, before the year ended. Then in late November, the group won its first-ever Latin Grammy for its 2023 debut album, El Comienzo.
Brian Ortega
Jasmine Archie
In the three brief years it has been together, Grupo Frontera has transformed from a cohort playing covers at quinceañeras into a Mexican American boy band commanding some of the world’s largest stages — where it’s sometimes accompanied by legends its members looked up to while growing up, like Ramón Ayala, and other huge stars it has now recorded with, like Peso Pluma, Maluma and Nicki Nicole. By melding the norteño and cumbia of their childhoods with their micro-generation’s penchant for embracing genre swerves (most of the band members are young millennials, save for Solís, who’s about to turn 22), Grupo Frontera has helped usher in a new era of música mexicana.
“I feel that they’ve created a powerful movement and opened the path for more bands and for the public to reconnect with a genre that had been under the radar several years,” says Edgar Barrera, the Grammy- and Latin Grammy-winning songwriter who has written dozens of songs for the group and has been a mentor to it. Given that seven of the band’s singles and both of its studio albums have reached the top 10 on the Hot Latin Songs and Top Latin Albums charts, respectively, the approach seems to be working.
Grupo Frontera’s success story is all the more astonishing considering the unorthodox decisions its members have made along the way. For one thing, they have no interest in moving from the relatively quiet McAllen (population: roughly 150,000) to a Latin music metropolis like Miami or Los Angeles to be closer to potential opportunities. “We really take it to heart when they say, ‘Keep your feet on the ground,’ ” Guerrero says. “Us being humble is what’s going to take us farther.”
Adelaido “Payo” Solís
Jasmine Archie
Julian Peña Jr.
Jasmine Archie
Instead, they’re bullish about staying close to home in the valley, a region that has made national headlines recently as one of the areas the Trump administration has targeted for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids. The Rio Grande Valley is also home to Intocable, one of the most successful norteño bands ever, and the region has historically produced talented musicians and even a handful of breakthrough stars — Bobby Pulido, Duelo and Freddy Fender among them — in spite of lacking the infrastructure that helps groups take the next big step.
In another unlikely turn, the band has released its music independently; indie label VHR Music put out its debut album, and the band self-released Jugando. But don’t mistake these decisions for ambivalence — the group is wary of staying in the same place, metaphorically speaking. “It’s not OK for you to be too comfortable and feel like what you’re doing right now is going to work out forever,” Solís says. And now Grupo Frontera finds itself at a new crossroads as it strategizes how to reach the next level of stardom — specifically, expanding its audience beyond the United States and Mexico, bringing its heart-tugging cumbias to new ears.
“We want to go someday to Japan,” Cantú says. “Any place we could play that’s different. Brazil is a goal we have … We want to put out our Mexican roots to the whole world.”
Grupo Frontera’s origin story is bound up in TikTok’s inscrutable algorithm. In early 2022, one of its first singles, the ebullient “No Se Va,” became ubiquitous on the platform, debuting at No. 50 on Hot Latin Songs and eventually climbing to the top 10. The guys had just started playing music together during off-hours from their day jobs as car dealership finance managers and ranchers. They cobbled together early videos for a few hundred dollars and learned about the music industry by searching “how to” tutorials on YouTube. When the TikTok spotlight suddenly shone on them, they seized the moment. The act soon started working with Barrera, and in mere months, it had released another hit, then another. “If it wasn’t for TikTok when we released ‘No Se Va,’ it probably would have stayed in our hometown of the valley,” Solís says.
Barrera — who has written and produced for megastars including Shakira and Maluma — has a distinctive sensibility that has no doubt helped Grupo Frontera’s sound evolve over the years. His guidance was a boon in those early days, and he especially helped the act see a bigger picture. “We were thinking about, ‘How do we do the biggest wedding here in the valley?’ And [Barrera] goes, ‘Wedding? How can you do the biggest stadiums in the whole world? That’s how you have to think,’ ” Peña remembers. “And we’re like, ‘All right, let’s think that way.’ And then little by little, when we would release a song, we would do it thinking that this song was going to go viral, this song was going to help us out. And it would work.”
From left: Beto Acosta, Julian Peña Jr., Juan Javier Cantú, Carlos Guerrero, Brian Ortega, and Adelaido “Payo” Solís of Grupo Frontera photographed December 20, 2024 in McAllen, Texas.
Jasmine Archie
It’s been practically three years to the day since Grupo Frontera first went nuclear on TikTok, back when talk of an outright ban wasn’t imminent. Yet some of the band members deleted their personal TikTok accounts recently and haven’t redownloaded the app since it returned online in mid-January following a brief ban. (The band’s professional TikTok is still active.) They don’t exactly miss it, personally. “I feel like I’m a new man,” Cantú says with a smile. These days, Solís has focused the attention he would have spent scrolling through TikTok on Splice, an app for sampling and creating songs. While Solís doesn’t consider himself a gloomy person, he admittedly gravitates toward “melancholy, sad, depressing chords” while writing. “That’s what inspires me, to be honest: those sadder chords.”
While Solís’ voice is his main instrument, he occasionally plays guitar, piano and accordion by ear. He’d like to get better at nailing down exactly what he wants to hear from the instrument he’s playing so those sounds can aid him with songwriting — something he has been doing more of since last year’s Jugando (where he was credited with co-writing the song “Ibiza,” which is about wanting to give a lover anything their heart desires).
Though Barrera has written most of Grupo Frontera’s songs so far, along with other writers like Ríos, the band feared becoming complacent by always yielding those creative duties to someone else. “We were comfortable with the fact that [Barrera] would send us a song and that’s it,” Solís says. “But at a certain point, we felt like we weren’t working for it.” The group started inviting other songwriters into the mix, and Solís began chipping in more after a generative writing camp with Barrera.
The band sees taking calculated sonic risks as pivotal to its next phase. In late January, for instance, Grupo Frontera hopped on a song with Spanish icon Alejandro Sanz, “Hoy no me siento bien,” that marked two milestones: It was the group’s first-ever salsa tune and its farthest-afield collaborator to date. “I’m not too sure if a bajo quinto has ever played salsa before, but Beto was trying his best,” Solís jokes. Unlike the band’s usual fare, the song doesn’t address being in (or out of) love, either. “But I love the message,” Solís says. “It’s like, ‘Today, I don’t feel OK and that’s OK.’ ”
“Yeah, like feeling bad is OK, too,” Cantú interjects. “That’s badass.”
Juan Javier Cantú
Jasmine Archie
Carlos Guerrero
Jasmine Archie
On its recent collaborative EP with Fuerza Regida, Grupo Frontera moved in yet another direction: trying corridos imbued with a Tejano bent, along with its cumbias. While these projects have been well-received commercial successes, the prospect of potentially not hitting the mark, and perhaps even failing, doesn’t seem to deter the act. “That’s what we want to do — to tell the world that Frontera can collaborate with different artists and that we could also make different styles of music,” Cantú says. “That’s our goal, most likely, for this year. Not to get away from cumbia or norteño — that’s our base. But also like, ‘Hey, we could also play and sing this.’ ”
The morning after catching a transatlantic flight from Spain, the members of Grupo Frontera arrive at a local sports club in McAllen with rackets in tow. They’re here to play padel, a sport resembling tennis and squash, that they got hooked on thanks to its low chance of injury. As they arrive one by one, the guys seem in good spirits if a bit bleary-eyed. They begin warming up by bouncing balls against glass walls surrounding the court. Acosta arrives last, strolling in with a sheepish grin. “The tardy one,” the band’s publicist says with an eye roll. “You can put that in the article.”
Since only four players can be on the court at any given time, the men rotate sets. Acosta rolls up one pant leg to get his head in the game, then forcefully serves the yellow ball. It lands with a thwack on the court’s blue turf, and Cantú bursts out singing the keyboard riff from “The Final Countdown.” S–t-talking abounds. Guerrero, who suffered an injury after missing the last step of some stairs, is moving with some hesitation — but after playing a few focused rounds, he and Acosta win the impromptu tournament.
While they might be opponents on the court at this moment, they tend to operate as a single organism in the band’s day-to-day decision-making. They use a democratic process and any arguments are cleared up directly: “When one person is wrong, the rest of the group notices it and they just tell them straight up,” Solís says.
Solís sees a through line between the band’s padel habit and the heightened energy it unleashed on last year’s Live Nation-promoted Jugando tour. In 2023, when it first started touring extensively, Solís admits that he would tend to stay in the same spot while singing onstage. “Then this year, I would, like, run around and jump across the stage and stuff.” The guys start chortling, talking over one another as they consider how they might elevate their stage presence in 2025: “Backflips! Shirtless concerts! Splits!”
Should the band realize its stadium dreams, the group’s penchant for showmanship will likely still need to be amped up further. “The show needs an upgrade on the technical and musical sides,” explains Raymond Acosta, the director of talent management at Habibi who works with the band there. (The band has been signed to the management division of Rimas Entertainment since 2023.) “The larger space demands a greater offering to fans. It has to be a unique experience where fans feel part of something bigger than just a show. It’s a challenge to connect with every single person in that stadium.” But as Acosta sees it, a band like Grupo Frontera is up for that challenge: The act “can attract all types of crowds, which makes a significant difference.”
Beto Acosta
Jasmine Archie
For the moment, Grupo Frontera is embarking on something else it has never done before: taking a monthlong break to recalibrate from its breakneck touring schedule, right before delving into writing new music. The last item on its calendar in December involves distributing free holiday toys for a block party at Edinburg, Texas’ Bert Ogden Arena, where it held a spur-of-the-moment free performance for the community.
Grupo Frontera is cognizant of how it represents the Rio Grande Valley both out on the road and at home. And while it has always eschewed any talk of politics, it has inherently become part of any discussion of where the band comes from, as the U.S.-Mexico border is now a flash point for discussions about immigration, xenophobia and racism. When I ask in December if they’ve been feeling the reverberations of this particular political moment — with the vocally anti-immigrant Trump administration then about to enter the White House — and if their fans approach them wanting to talk about politics, the band deflects. “I mean, our group name, Grupo Frontera, I think it feels natural for people to be like, ‘You’re from the border,’ stuff like that,” Guerrero says. “We always try to keep that private.” Peña chimes in, saying that they strive to “talk about music, that’s it.” (Their publicist shuts down any further discussion of the topic.)
But recently, the band had to answer for a political controversy of its own, when a video of Solís’ grandmother (known as “La Abuela Frontera” online) dancing to “Y.M.C.A.,” a song that Trump played frequently on the campaign trail, circulated online. Coupled with a now-deleted TikTok video of the band jamming to the same song, it prompted outrage from fans who perceived it as the group celebrating Trump’s election win. The backlash has since led to boycotts and a petition calling for Grupo Frontera to be taken off the lineup for Sueños, a Chicago musical festival where it’s slated to perform in May.
In response, the band wrote in a statement that “Grupo Frontera has NO affiliation nor alliance with any political party that’s against immigrants and the Latino community. Like many of you, our families and [group] members have fought and struggled for a better future, and we will always take our people’s side, defending our roots and values. It’s important you know that the opinions of our friends and family don’t represent Grupo Frontera. We are immigrants, we are from the border, and Grupo Frontera will always be by and for the people.” The band also posted a video in late February stating that the “Y.M.C.A.” video had been part of a routine it had on its last tour, where it danced to a different song before each show; in it, Acosta lamented how a swirl of “fake news” had been “putting us against our own people.”
As they see it, their main obligation is to elevate the valley in the eyes of the world, especially the musicians who hail from their same stomping grounds. “There’s a lot of talent,” Guerrero says of musicians in the valley. “Better than us,” Acosta adds. To them, what prevents musicians from making a successful living in music here is a lack of recording studios — but they want to leave behind a “trail for everybody to do it,” Cantú says. That might eventually involve having bands record at their own studio. As the guys see it, it’s not so much that they “made it” out of the valley, but rather that they’re “trying to make the valley grow,” as Solís puts it.
It was that same kind of support that first convinced Grupo Frontera to stay independent, after hearing cautionary tales from Acosta’s brother and other local musicians who had signed unfavorable record deals. Since then, it has made as much of an effort to learn the back end of the music business as it does fine-tuning chord progressions, often seeking Barrera’s counsel. Even after it was first approached by a few big labels, the band had “a gut feeling that it was not the right choice at the time,” Cantú says, a smile growing across his face. “And it worked out pretty good.”
The members believe these incremental steps, along with their unconventional approach, will take them where they eventually plan to be. “We’re trying to become superstars,” Peña says. “Something that 30 years from now, somebody’s going to look back [and say], ‘Dude, you remember Frontera?’ ”
A while back, Peña recalls, someone in Grupo Frontera (he doesn’t remember who) mentioned wanting to become like AC/DC or Queen — a timeless band steeped in mythos. At first, Peña scoffed at the idea. “I remember saying, ‘Dude, shut up. Like, what the hell?’ ” he says. “And now I think about it like, ‘Why not?’ I mean, why can’t we be that?”
This story appears in the March 8, 2025, issue of Billboard.
On an overcast winter afternoon in McAllen, Texas, all six members of Grupo Frontera are huddled around an oversize white box, staring gleefully at its contents. They peel back the tissue paper wrapping to reveal a present their stylist has gifted them just a few days shy of Christmas — a mound of plush Polo […]
On the brick wall facing the Pittsburg Hot Links parking lot, a mural memorializes the small East Texas town’s most famous citizens, including Mean Gene the Hot Link King and Homer Jones, the New York Giants receiver who invented spiking the football after a touchdown.
Soon enough, Pittsburg native Koe Wetzel could be right up there with them. “Maybe [after] a couple more No. 1s,” Wetzel muses as he looks up at those faces. He sounds dubious that he has earned his spot quite yet, but the 32-year-old singer-songwriter is well on his way. His breakthrough hit about a volatile relationship, “High Road” with Jessie Murph, spent five weeks at No. 1 on Billboard’s Country Airplay chart in December and January. “I know the folks who own the place,” he adds with a laugh. “I might go buy some watercolors and paint it myself.”
Koe Wetzel performs at Billboard Presents THE STAGE at SXSW at Moody Amphitheater at Waterloo Park in Austin on March 13. Get your tickets here.
Wetzel may not believe he’s a local legend yet, but it’s clear that here in his hometown, his star status is confirmed. As he strides across the crosswalk Abbey Road-style in historic Downtown Pittsburg at 8:30 a.m., a fan sticks his head out of a store door and yells “My hero!” his way. Wetzel left Pittsburg (population: 4,335) when he was 18 to attend Tarleton State University in Stephensville, Texas, on a football scholarship as a linebacker. He now lives outside Fort Worth, but his roots run through his gritty brand of country rock, which he delivers in a powerful twang that draws on the long tradition of Texas outlaw country and confessional storytellers like Townes Van Zandt and Guy Clark.
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“Koe is the epitome of an artist that is writing his own narrative,” Jelly Roll tells Billboard of Wetzel, whom he toured with in 2022 on the wryly titled Role Models outing. “He’s not writing what everyone else writes. He’s not trying to write another person’s narrative; he’s writing the way he naturally feels. I’ve been a fan of his for a long time — since his first project.”
Whatever he’s singing about — turbulent romances, getting busted for drunk driving or popping pills to get to sleep after a show — in song and conversation, Wetzel is unashamedly himself, with no apologies and no regrets, just like his namesake, country rabble-rouser David Allan Coe. “I was probably conceived to a David Allan Coe song,” he speculates. (His full name is Ropyr Madison Koe Wetzel; “My mom was pretty indecisive,” he says with a playful shake of his head at the multiple names.)
By the time he got kicked out of college his sophomore year for “having too good a time,” Wetzel was already playing shows and focused more on music than books. “Being a Texas artist, you can tour year-round here in Texas. A lot of people do and make a damn good living at it,” he says. “Coming up, that was kind of my main goal and pretty much my only goal.”
Koe Wetzel photographed January 22, 2025 in Pittsburg, Texas.
Eric Ryan Anderson
Jeb Hurt, who has managed Wetzel since 2019, recalls seeing him at a 300-capacity venue in San Marcos, Texas, in 2016. “If there were 200 there, 125 of them were college girls, and they were crammed against the stage screaming every word back to the band,” he says. Hurt, then a booking agent, quickly signed Wetzel, whose audiences grew exponentially through word-of-mouth. “If it was 200 people, the next time there were 400, then 800,” Hurt says. “Next thing you know, we’re in 5,000-cap venues in 24 months.”
Now, Wetzel — who signed with Columbia Records in 2020 — is building his audience around the rest of the country and the world. He toured in Europe last year and will play Australia in March. “It used to be about having a good time, making rent, making gas money to get to the next show,” Wetzel reflects. “And now it’s completely different. It’s wild to see where it’s come from and where we’re at.”
While his act is still built around raising hell onstage, Wetzel has realized that by sharing his own often unsettling stories, he’s helping others feel less alone. “Whenever I see those people sing the songs back or I’m meeting them and [they’re] telling me that what I told them saved their life — they were going to off themselves — that is really special,” Wetzel says, his voice growing thick with emotion. “I didn’t know that it was going to be that way, but now that it is, it’s opened up my mind and my eyes … This isn’t about just taking care of the family anymore and setting everybody up. It’s more about helping these folks live life. But they’re helping me as well. Without them, I’d be out pouring concrete.”
When Wetzel began working on his current album, 2024’s 9 Lives, with Columbia senior vp of A&R Ben Maddahi, his relationship with the label was bruised. “We’d had a bumpy road in our first few album cycles with Columbia,” Hurt says. “Some people left pretty consistently, and so by the time we got to Ben, there was kind of a sense of exhaustion on our [part] of just another A&R person being thrown our way.”
That’s not to say he hadn’t achieved some level of success. After releasing three albums independently, Wetzel had put out two more through the label, including his cheekily titled Columbia debut, Sellout. That and his second album, 2022’s Hell Paso, had together registered eight songs in the top 40 of Billboard’s Hot Rock & Alternative Songs chart, and the latter set reached No. 3 on Top Country Albums.
Columbia Records chairman/CEO Ron Perry asked Maddahi, who had worked with pop forces like Sia, Flo Rida and Charlie Puth, to meet with Wetzel. “Ron said something to the effect of, ‘He sells tons of tickets and has a die-hard fan base … We have really high hopes for him, but for some reason this hasn’t worked so far,’ ” Maddahi says.
In June 2023, Maddahi flew to Fort Worth to see Wetzel perform a sold-out show at the 14,000-capacity Dickies Arena. “He had an entire arena of people shouting out every word from the nosebleeds to the front row,” Maddahi recalls. “I came back [to the office] saying, ‘This guy’s a superstar.’ ”
Eric Ryan Anderson
Maddahi next flew to a show in Modesto, Calif., after which he and Wetzel had a heart-to-heart about the next album. “I wanted to slow things down,” says Wetzel, who was listening to acts like ambient pop band Cigarettes After Sex. “I didn’t want the super-edgy guitars, really loud drums.”
Maddahi paired him with Gabe Simon, best known for co-producing Noah Kahan’s Stick Season, and brought in several new co-writers, including Amy Allen, who won the 2024 Grammy Award for songwriter of the year and has written hits for Sabrina Carpenter and Harry Styles. It was during a writers camp with Allen and several other songwriters that the midtempo “High Road,” about a tempestuous, dysfunctional relationship, was born.
He and Maddahi immediately thought of Jessie Murph, whom Wetzel had co-written with before, to join him on “High Road,” and when she sent over a verse, “she killed it,” Wetzel recalls. Columbia partnered with RECORDS Nashville to work the song to country radio, and its ascent began.
“He’s very true to himself, and the songs he writes are exactly how he is, which is something I respect a lot,” Murph says of Wetzel. “When I first heard ‘High Road,’ it felt very nostalgic to me. It felt like a song I could’ve heard when I was a kid, which I loved.” To thank Murph, Wetzel bought her a pistol engraved with their names and the song’s title that took three months to make. “I felt it was really Texas of me,” he says proudly.
9 Lives’ cover is a photograph of the double-wide trailer Wetzel lived in with his parents until he was 12. It’s abandoned now and has fallen into disrepair, with broken slats on the wood steps and prickly bushes growing over the front porch. But inside, it’s still full of books, video tapes, pots and pans, photos of his maternal and paternal great-grandparents and a CD of Miranda Lambert’s 2007 album, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. Long gone are the posters that hung on Wetzel’s bedroom walls of his first crush, teen pop star JoJo, and legendary slugger Mark McGwire. The last inhabitant he remembers was his uncle, who died several years ago. He’s not sure who’s living there now, if anyone. Standing inside, he surmises, “I think it’s just a big ol’ family of raccoons.”
His father was a truck driver who shifted into construction when Wetzel was around 11, enabling the family to build a house on the land and move out of the trailer. His mother was a bank teller and a singer who often took Wetzel along to her gigs. He remembers, at age 5, grabbing his dad’s old Hummingbird guitar that was down to two or three strings, “being in my Spider-Man underwear and feeling like I was playing to a million people. Looking back now, it’s like a dream come true.”
Koe Wetzel photographed January 22, 2025 in Pittsburg, Texas.
Eric Ryan Anderson
As a teen, he loved ’90s country, especially acts like the rough-hewn Kentucky Headhunters. But he also loved Nirvana, so much so that at 12 he asked for tickets to see the band for Christmas — and his parents had to break the news that not only was the band not together, but Kurt Cobain had been dead for a decade. “Nirvana had a huge impact,” he says. “I think that resonates with the way I play music — the big guitars, the catchy melodic hooks.”
The trailer sits on 100 acres of land that his great-grandfather bought in the 1930s. Wetzel’s family had gotten behind on the taxes and risked losing it until he bought and paid off the property in 2021. “This land means so much to me and my family. I never wanted anyone else to have it,” he says. While he doesn’t see living on it again himself, he plans to add some cows and, “hopefully, raising a family and having them come out here.”
That family is expanding soon: Wetzel and his girlfriend, Bailey Fisher, are expecting a baby girl in June, news they would announce on social media a few weeks after our interview. “We dated in college, and the last two years resparked everything,” Wetzel explains, then adds with typical candor, “It’s not some random chick I knocked up. I mean, we’re excited as hell. I’m scared as f–k … I’m getting older, I’m growing out of the college party lifestyle I’ve been on the last 10 years … They say there’s always a time to grow up and get your s–t together, and my stuff is not together by no means at all, [but] it’s a lot different than what it was.”
In a corner of Koe Wetzel’s Riot Room stands Dirty Sancho. The nonworking mechanical bull, named for the first Professional Bull Riders bull Wetzel bought (he now owns eight) is just one piece of his personal memorabilia decorating the 7,000-square-foot bar and nightclub Wetzel opened in Fort Worth’s Cultural District in 2023. “We’ve had to sew his head back on a couple of times,” he says of Dirty Sancho. “He’s seen some s–t.”
Wetzel opened the Fort Worth bar, in part, so he would have a place to “drink and party and not worry about people putting me in jail at night,” he says, sitting on a stool in the Riot Room sipping tequila over ice. (A second Riot Room will open in Houston later this year, with hopes of more locations to follow.)
He’s not kidding around. His boisterous “February 28, 2016” from 2016’s Noise Complaint chronicles the night he was arrested for drunk driving, describing how in his inebriated state he just wants to find someone “sober enough to take me to Taco Bell.” The song has become an anthem for his fans, so much so that they’ve made Feb. 28 unofficial Koe Wetzel Day. On that day this year, he released a live album culled from 2024’s Damn Near Normal tour to thank his fans and dropped by the bar to play a few songs live, but he winces a little when he talks about the tune.
“Whenever we play it, I’m very grateful for what it’s done for us, but I’m kind of like, ‘F–k,’ ” he says. He doesn’t hate the song, exactly — it’s just that he’s in a very different place at 32 than he was when he wrote it at 24. “I’m not that person as an artist anymore,” he says. “I’m not that person just having a good time.”
Eric Ryan Anderson
He has different regrets about “Drunk Driving” from 2020’s Sellout. In a catalog of dark songs, it’s one of Wetzel’s darkest: The narrator is driving drunk and trying to outrun his sins as he sings, “Everybody’s got to die somehow/Why not me right now.” It was Wetzel’s attempt to put himself in the mindset of some friends who had died in drunk driving accidents, and, looking back, he wishes he had named it something else. “The song’s not about condoning drunk driving or anything like that,” he says. “It’s a very emotional song.”
Then there’s Hell Paso track “Cabo,” which he swears is a true story about spending money on hookers and blow in the Mexican resort town. The crowd goes crazy when he plays it, he says, but he admits, “Me and Mama haven’t really talked about that one. I know it’s not her favorite by far.” (His mother and father do have plenty of other favorites and frequently come to his gigs: “I think they cry every damn show, her and my pops,” he says. “They’re crying, singing all the words. They’re proud of their baby boy.”)
The connection his fans have to some of Wetzel’s older, often brutally honest lyrics can lead to the misperception that he’s “some f–king hellion,” says Wetzel, who quit counting his number of tattoos at 36. “I feel like most of my music came from whenever I was going balls to the wall, and it’s just kind of not who I am anymore. I can still run it with the best of them, but I feel like they make their opinion of me before they get to meet me, and sometimes that sucks.”
Still, he admits that 1 p.m. Koe and 4 a.m. Koe are two different people. “That’s rock star Koe. He’s kind of a d–k,” he says of the late-night version. “He’s a lot of fun, but he can get out of hand really f–king fast.”
Eric Ryan Anderson
He has somewhat curbed his drinking, including switching from whiskey to tequila. On his Damn Near Normal tour last year, he and some of his bandmates had a ritual: “An hour before the show, we’ll drink a bottle of tequila. If I start earlier, then the show will be s–t, but if I start just after 5 p.m. and kind of drink a couple beers, bottle of tequila, then it’s like the right amount. You get onstage, everything’s smooth sailing, and it feels good.”
He has also changed his after-show routine, hopping straight on the bus as soon as the concert is over. “They took the after-parties away from me. I go shower on the bus, put my comfy clothes on, drink a couple beers, watch a movie, and I was in bed by midnight, 1 o’clock,” he says before admitting: “Honestly, I kind of enjoyed it. I sounded better than I ever had because I was taking care of myself a little bit more.”
Koe Wetzel’s lake house is haunted by a ghost his two younger sisters have named Irene. There’s an underwater cemetery about 100 yards away in the lake, but no one knows if there’s any connection. Irene causes all kinds of mischief, Wetzel says, including throwing bottles off the bar and turning on the TV. “You’ll see her walking the balcony up here every now and then,” he says, describing an opaque apparition. “She kind of f–ks with new people who stay here.” As if on cue, the closed front door suddenly swings wide open on its own.
Irene’s presence notwithstanding, “it’s a safe haven for me,” Wetzel says of this place on Pittsburg’s outskirts. With its spotty cell service, he can unplug, write and relax. “I bought it for us to make more memories,” he says of his friends and family, who come to grill and hang out on his five boats.
The walls on one side are lined with RIAA plaques — 12 of his songs have been certified gold or platinum — while the rest are covered with fish, bird and deer mounts, including deer killed by three generations of Wetzel men. But pride of place goes to an alligator skull on a sideboard; Wetzel killed the reptile with a buck knife during COVID-19 isolation in Matagorda Bay, Texas. “I got in the water, Steve Irwin’d him a little bit,” he says, sipping a Busch Light and pointing to a photo of him sitting astride the alligator. “Cool story to tell but my mom hates that story. She don’t like it when I do dumb s–t. She worries about her baby way too much.”
Eric Ryan Anderson
There’s also a photo of him with a giant catfish he caught with his bare hands — known as noodling — in the lake. His biggest catch has been 62 pounds, which he and his buddies tagged and tossed back. Asked whether killing a bear with a bow and arrow or having a five-week No. 1 is more satisfying, Wetzel pauses to give the question considerable thought, then decides: “Adrenaline-wise, killing a bear with a bow. Accomplishment-wise, a five-week No. 1.”
For all his love of hunting and fishing, those subjects haven’t found their way into Wetzel’s music. “I feel like I was put here to write about relationships gone bad or going good. Real-world stuff, I guess,” he says. “Not saying that hunting is not. It’s a huge part of my life and I love it to death, but I just guess I haven’t figured out what I wanted to say about it yet.”
Yet as he begins working on new music, Wetzel, who will tour this year with HARDY and Morgan Wallen, as well as play Stagecoach and other festivals, says he’s increasingly finding that all his passions are intertwined.
“I feel like every time I’m [writing], it peels back a layer of who I am. I find something that I didn’t know was there,” he says. “Whenever you get the song completed, there’s no more holes in it. There’s nothing else you could do for that song. It’s like, ‘Man, this is insane. This is really cool.’ It’s almost like the noodling and the hunting for me: It’s something that I feel like I’ll never master, but it’s what keeps me coming back and back. It’s a cool deal.”
This story appears in the March 8, 2025, issue of Billboard.
On the brick wall facing the Pittsburg Hot Links parking lot, a mural memorializes the small East Texas town’s most famous citizens, including Mean Gene the Hot Link King and Homer Jones, the New York Giants receiver who invented spiking the football after a touchdown. Soon enough, Pittsburg native Koe Wetzel could be right up […]
It’s a Thursday afternoon at a studio in Miami, and Emilia is getting glammed up for a Billboard Español cover shoot. She’s wearing a baby-pink silky robe and striped slippers, and her equally silky, chocolatey brown hair is picked up in rollers as she navigates through her playlist for the perfect song to get ready. She skips through female anthems by Beyoncé, Shakira, Britney Spears, Nathy Peluso and Doechii before selecting Rihanna’s “Don’t Stop the Music.” She sings along and dances to the beat slightly, not to mess up her wavy bucles and makeup.
“Before, to give myself confidence when I went on stage, I would tell myself: ‘You are Rihanna! You are Rihanna!’ But someone on my team recently told me: ‘Now you have to say to yourself, ‘You are Emilia! You are Emilia!’ And believe it,” she gushes.
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She is Emilia. And she’s on the verge of a global musical breakthrough as she prepares a 2025 tour across Spain, plans her first U.S. concerts in the U.S., and just recently made her debut at Brazil’s Carnival this past weekend.
In 2024, the Argentine artist earned her first No. 1 hit on the Billboard U.S. Latin Airplay and Regional Mexican Airplay charts with “Perdonarte ¿Para Qué?,” her collaboration with Los Ángeles Azules; she became the first Argentine act to be nominated for best pop vocal album at the Latin Grammy Awards with her sophomore set, .mp3; she was TikTok’s most-viewed and Spotify’s most-streamed artist in Argentina (the first female artist to do so); she sold out 10 shows at Movistar Arena in Buenos Aires in 10 hours — breaking the record previously held by Luis Miguel — and became the first Argentine female artist with four sold-out shows at the city’s Estadio Vélez, to name a few milestones.
Now, Emilia is making a serious bid for international expansion in 2025 that includes her first time at Brazil’s Carnival, where on Feb. 23 she performed “Bunda” with Luísa Sonza, her first track from an upcoming EP; a spring tour across Spain with three dates at Madrid’s Movistar Arena (formerly WiZink Center); and spending more time in Miami not only to be closer to her label, Sony Music Latin, and manager Walter Kolm, but to connect with artists and producers from different territories and develop her career further — a tried-and-true strategy that others have taken before her, including Karol G and Manuel Turizo.
“In Argentina, there are producers that I continue to work with and who are friends. I have everything there; it’s everything for me,” she says. “But I made the decision to come to Miami for a while to work and try new opportunities. I’ll always be returning home anyway. I can’t let that go. But I think what happens at the industry level here in Miami is very big. You come across new artists and producers all the time. And it’s good to experiment.”
Natalia Aguilera
Leaving the comfort of a home territory that sees you as a superstar has long been a challenge for Latin American artists. But thanks to an open-minded attitude, today, Emilia has positioned herself as a versatile pop act who can easily navigate from reggaetón to romantic ballads to cumbia to Brazilian funk and, most recently, vallenato alongside Silvestre Dangond on “Vestido Rojo.”
“She understood that she had to have her base in her home country first. She had to break into her country in every sense, in consumption, transcend that consumption in ticket sales, media visibility, visibility with brands,” says Esteban Geller, GM at Sony Music U.S. Latin. “First, she conquered her country, then the neighboring countries like Chile and Uruguay, and little by little setting foot in territories like Spain, Mexico and Colombia, while simultaneously building her story in the United States. She understood perfectly what her space was in the music scene and that what she did with Los Ángeles Azules and with Silvestre brought her closer to a more commercial space, which is also fantastic. The path has been natural.”
Emilia is already dolled up in a Y2K-inspired outfit for the photo shoot: denim mini skirt, bubblegum-pink zip-up hoodie, glitter stilettos and a fur cap that easily gives off Baby Phat clothing vibes. On her bottom eyelashes is a set of shining diamonds — eye accessories that are signature to her look. Doja Cat’s “Wet Vagina,” from her female-heavy playlist, plays in the background as she flirts with the camera with pure confidence and sensuality — something she’s worked on over time, striking that balance between sexy ingenue and likeable girl next door.
“I was always very outgoing, but I feel that today, I feel more confident with myself than ever. That took time, effort and therapy,” she says.
María Emilia Mernes Rueda, 28, was born in Nogoyá, Entre Ríos, a farming town about a five-hour drive from Buenos Aires. She’s the only child to a baker father and a cook mother. Her grandfather, a plumber but also the only musical reference in her family, gifted her a guitar when she was young so she could start taking music lessons. Growing up, her love for music expanded to uploading covers on Instagram and forming part of a local cumbia group with friends. It was a passion she never believed could go beyond a hobby.
“I thought that dreaming of being an artist, of stepping on stage and being in that world, was impossible. Super far away,” she says. “I never thought I would be able to become a professional in this and be a singer. I saw it as impossible because of where I was from. The opportunities are usually in Buenos Aires, where the casting and music producers are.”
Natalia Aguilera
But her life took a radical turn when the videos of herself playing the guitar and singing covers on social media caught the attention of Uruguayan band Rombai. At the time, the cumbia-pop group gained popularity in South America and was in search of a new female vocalist. Emilia’s first time onstage with the group was in November 2016, when she performed for 12,000 fans at the Velódromo in Uruguay. Three months later, she was performing at Chile’s coveted Viña del Mar Festival and won a Gaviota Award — an experience she describes as a “great opportunity” and “a trampoline” in her career. “The real challenge,” she says, came two years later when she decided to go solo.
In 2019, Emilia signed a record deal with Sony Music Latin and a management deal with Kolm (her former manager with Rombai), becoming the first female artist to sign with Kolm, who also manages Carlos Vives, Maluma, Wisin and Xavi.
“When she told me she wanted to go solo and make the music she liked the most, I saw her with such determination that I decided to be by her side,” Kolm says. “She is very charismatic and has her own initiative.”
Excited for what the future holds, he adds: “She moved to Miami to direct her career from the USA. Emilia has all the potential to be a global artist. She always knew where she wanted to go. This is just the beginning of a career that will be huge.”
Shortly after her debut solo single, “Recalienta,” co-written with Camilo and Fariana, Emilia earned her first entry on a Billboard chart with her Darell collaboration “No Soy Yo,” which debuted and peaked at No. 38 on Latin Pop Airplay in February 2020. She also scored chart entries with “La_Original.mp3,” with Tini; “Tu Recuerdo,” with Wisin and Lyanno; and “Como Si No Importara,” with Duki.
The lattermost song — about a secretive and daring relationship on which her rapper boyfriend Duki’s chanteos lace with Emilia’s dulcet vocals — gave the artist her first entry on the Billboard Global Excl. U.S. chart in August 2021. The downtempo sultry reggaetón song peaked at No. 3 on the Billboard Argentina Hot 100 in 2021. Emilia then released “Esto Recién Empieza,” which reached a No. 9 high on the Argentina Hot 100 in March 2022.
Natalia Aguilera
At that point, Emilia and Duki had been dating for a year; the couple made their relationship public at the 2022 Premio Lo Nuestro, where they performed “Como Si No Importara.” The collaborations have boosted both artists. Duki is a trap star, so Emilia has helped broaden his appeal to tweens. Emilia is very much a pop star, and dating Duki has given her street cred.
“We may seem different from the outside, but we are actually very similar, and we have almost everything in common. The only thing we don’t have in common is that I like sushi and he doesn’t,” Emilia says with a laugh as she opens up about her boyfriend with face tattoos. “But in general, we share everything, and we have a very nice relationship. We give each other feedback all the time. I love listening to him talk, to get advice from him. Beyond being an incredible artist, he’s a very intelligent, very cultured person. Sometimes he comes into the studio with me and we write together. We’re very passionate about the same thing and it’s beautiful to be able to share it without egos, without selfishness. It’s very genuine, and in a very healthy way.”
Despite Emilia’s celebrity in Argentina and her increasing presence abroad, it wasn’t until last year that the catchy cumbia “Perdonarte Para Qué?” with Los Ángeles Azules gave Emilia her first No. 1 on the Latin Airplay and Regional Mexican Airplay charts. It was a full-circle moment for the once teen girl who had a cumbia band back home.
“From the first time I heard it, I said, ‘100% yes!’” she exclaims. “I remember that it didn’t take me even two days to get into the studio and record it. I was so excited that they wanted to make a song with me, that they had taken me into account, being such legendary artists of Mexican culture and the world.”
Elías Mejía Avante, founding member of the Mexican group, says: “We are happy, but above all grateful to be part of this great musical milestone for her. It will always be an honor to be able to merge the talent of Mexico and Argentina, seeking to infect as many hearts as possible with our cumbia. We feel that therein lies the magic, in bringing joy and authenticity with music from the hand of one of the greats of Latin pop music today.”
Natalia Aguilera
Meanwhile, in her native country, Emilia’s a force to be reckoned with.
She’s placed 39 entries on the Billboard Argentina Hot 100 chart, 20 of those in the top 10 and five hitting No. 1. Her longest-leading hit to date, “Una Foto (Remix)” with Mesita, Nicki Nicole and Tiago PZK, ruled for 10 weeks in 2024 — the third-most behind Karol G’s “Si Antes Te Hubiera Conocido” (16 weeks atop the chart) and Valentino Merlo and The La Planta’s “Hoy” (11 weeks). Emilia has released two studio albums: the ultra-personal Tú Crees en Mí? (2022) and her early-2000s nostalgic set, .mp3 (2023). The latter was Spotify’s second most-streamed album of 2024 in Argentina, following Luck Ra’s Que Nos Falte Todo.
That success on the charts translated to ticket sales.
In April 2024, she kicked off her .mp3 tour with a historic 10-night stint at the Movistar Arena in Buenos Aires between April and May, later adding four shows at Vélez Sarsfield Stadium in October.
“With artists in development, we’ve had extraordinary success with Emilia and her 10 arena [shows], where she played to over 290,000 people,” Marcelo Figoli, founder and owner of Fenix Entertainment, who produced the shows, previously told Billboard, confident that Emilia “is going to be a big deal in 2025.”
“I underestimated it. I usually set my expectations low, so I don’t disappoint myself,” Emilia admits. “We came out with the ticket sales, and I hadn’t done any shows for my album [.mp3]. We came out with the album in November and at the beginning of December the tickets were sold out. I remember that my team had said that we were going to book 10 Movistar Arena shows because that was the idea. And I was like, ‘I would love it, obviously, a residency at the Movistar Arena, but I see it as difficult.’ I felt like we were going to sell three, four at most, but suddenly it was 10 in 10 hours.”
“The live show is the other big leg of this industry,” Geller adds. “She’s an artist who not only works in one vertical of the business, but also has visibility in the fashion, brand and music sectors and has transcended into selling tickets, which is the best thing. She is already proving it with shows. The success she had in Argentina, the huge success she is having in Spain, that is happening because music is starting to transcend to other spaces, which will surely lead her to a long career. That’s the faithful conclusion that we are on the right track.”
The shows were also a test of resilience in other areas.
“I was rehearsing for the Movistar shows and my dad got cancer… Of the most important things in my life, the two came together and it was very emotional for me, but I was able to handle both,” she says. “Today I have my dad with me, and he can see everything I’m doing. I learned to know myself a little better. What my limits are. To make mistakes and not be so cruel to myself. To value the real people I have in my life… that family is the most important thing. I learned that I love to work and that I must enjoy the moment and not live so much in the future.”
Natalia Aguilera
But living in the future is inevitable for someone on Emilia’s path.
She’s preparing for her 2025 concerts in Europe and Latin America by working out five to six days a week, something she never did before, but is essential for next-level shows.
“The show requires a lot of cardio. You have to sing and dance, you need a good diaphragm, lungs with air, endurance. I hated training! I wouldn’t touch a weight for nothing!” she says, giggling. “But if I hadn’t trained, I wouldn’t be able to do it. Exercise has become something important for me and it does me good. I feel strong and confident.”
Emilia is now in her second outfit for the photo shoot and looks like a glistening goddess dressed in baggy jeans with gold glitter, a gold bustier and matching gold heels, posing for a second round of photos as a fan blows her wavy locks and her entourage hypes her up. This time, she’s serving sultry looks to Doja Cat’s “Agora Hills.” In the far corner, her mother, Gabriela Rueda, gets emotional as she sees her daughter in action, and with tears rolling down her cheeks, she softly tells me she remembers doing photo shoots for Emilia in the living room and her father holding the fan to blow her hair.
“I love to show the ‘Emilia Pop Star’ and get into character,” Emilia says with a smile. “I grew up watching pop divas who do that onstage and it’s like playing for a while for me. But I’m also the Emilia who comes from Nogoyá, who gets together to drink mate with friends, who has problems like everyone else, who cries because I’m very sensitive. I’ve always been firm. I’m very positive too. I’ve always had a very objective and optimistic character and personality. I think that’s what also helped me to be where I am today and achieve everything I’ve achieved.”
It’s an early evening in late September, and San Francisco is gleaming. The back patio at EMPIRE’s recording studios near the city’s Mission District is all white marble, reflecting the last rays of the setting sun as dozens of YouTube executives mill about, holding mixed drinks and picking at passed trays of beef skewers, falafel, lamb dumplings, and ham and chicken croquettes. At the moment, the companies’ top executives — EMPIRE founder and CEO Ghazi, COO Nima Etminan and president Tina Davis, as well as YouTube global head of music Lyor Cohen, among others — are sequestered in the studio’s live room for a quarterly business review, discussing the platform’s new tools, the label’s upcoming projects and how the two can best work together. A cake is adorned with YouTube’s latest milestone: 100 million members of its music subscription service.
Inside, the aesthetic is flipped: Black walls, dark wood floors and a black marble bar set the tone, while a projection screen in the main lounge area shows photos of Nigerian superstar and recent EMPIRE signee Tiwa Savage, who is in town finishing her new album. As Ghazi, Cohen and the others wrap their meeting and begin to filter into the party, everyone is ushered inside to hear her play some of her new music.
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“This is my first project at EMPIRE, and it’s really emotional for me because I’ve never had a label be this invested; most labels are not in the studio with you from morning until night,” Savage says before introducing her first single from the album, “Forgiveness,” which she will release a couple of weeks later. “They made me feel so welcome. I’ve been signed several times, but I’ve never been in a situation where it felt like home.”
The next day, at a barbecue restaurant near the studio, Ghazi is reflecting on the event — and what the connection with YouTube’s Cohen means to him. “I used an analogy with Lyor: ‘This is not a full-circle moment; this is the Olympic rings of full-circle moments,’ ” he says. “This brings so many circles of my life into place. I started as an engineer; I’m in a state-of-the-art studio that I could only dream about that I built with my bare hands. I used to listen to Run-D.M.C. — he found Run-D.M.C. The first tape I ever bought was Raising Hell — now I’m raising hell in the music business.” He laughs. “I prefer to call it ‘raising angels,’ but it’s cool. And then you have a giant like him in the record business that people used to blueprint their careers after, and now he’s telling me that he’s proud of the success I’ve had and that he watched me build a legacy. That’s validation.”
For Ghazi, 48, validation has seemingly been everywhere of late. The company that he founded in 2010 as a digital distributor for his friends in the Bay Area hip-hop scene has grown into one of the most formidable and powerful companies in the global music business. It has a record label, publishing and content divisions, a merchandise operation and 250 employees around the world, with a presence on six continents and deep connections to the local culture, politics and sports, including the Golden State Warriors and the San Francisco 49ers.
And now, as EMPIRE turns 15, it’s coming off its best year yet: For 19 nonconsecutive weeks, spanning from mid-July to the end of November, EMPIRE artist Shaboozey held the top slot on the Billboard Hot 100 with “A Bar Song (Tipsy),” tying the record for the chart’s longest-running No. 1 — an enviable achievement for any label, but particularly for an independent without any outside investment or corporate overlords. Shaboozey landed five nominations at the 2025 Grammy Awards, including best new artist and song of the year, redefining what is possible for an indie act and company in the modern music business.
Even more notably, that success arrived during a year when all three major labels experienced a painful and layoff-heavy molting process, reorganizing themselves to emphasize speed, technology, artist services and distribution — or, to put it another way, to try to look a lot more like EMPIRE. (“I think the battleship has been observing the speedboat for quite some time,” Ghazi says.) Amid those changes in the business, a new school of thought has emerged: that success is often found in cultural niches that gain mainstream acceptance from the bottom up, not the top down. Ghazi embodies that change: He may not have the mainstream name recognition of his peers in New York or L.A., but in his force of personality — humble yet emphatic, as many successful founders are — and his tireless, globe-trotting pace, he fits right in among the elite movers and shakers of the business.
“This industry used to be full of super-colorful entrepreneurs that were focused on their art, and when you talked to them, they had a certain excitement and shine in their eyes. Unfortunately, there’s not that many of them [left],” Cohen says about Ghazi. “I would call him one of the few. A person that is committed to excellence, cares about the details, shows up, has continuity and he’s positive and enthusiastic.”
Hermès coat and shirt
Austin Hargrave
There’s another reason why the YouTube party held such significance for Ghazi: The video streaming service is another company born, bred and based in the Bay Area that grew into a music industry behemoth after being built on tech foundations. Ghazi worked in Silicon Valley, including at an ad-supported video streaming service half a decade before YouTube, prior to dedicating his life to music, first as a recording engineer and then at digital distributor Ingrooves. He then founded EMPIRE — and sees his company as part of that lineage. “I’ve never met a music exec that has such a grip on the three verticals — creative, business and technology — and is fluent in all of it and active in all of it,” says Peter Kadin, a major-label veteran who is now executive vp of marketing at EMPIRE. “Someone who can go from meeting with an engineering team about building out the future of our systems, to sitting with finance and going through our deal structures with all the major DSPs [digital service providers], to going to the studio at night and mixing a Money Man album. There is no other executive doing that.”
Ghazi’s tech background and San Francisco’s reputation as the center of the tech industry are among the many reasons why he has always maintained that EMPIRE will never leave the Bay. The area has been part of him since he grew up in San Francisco’s Potrero Hill neighborhood, during his days at San Francisco State, throughout his time in the trenches of the local hip-hop scene and even now, when he has the ear of the new mayor of San Francisco, Daniel Lurie, whom he’s advising on cultural matters, and is working hand in hand with the NBA and the Golden State Warriors to produce events and release projects surrounding the upcoming NBA All-Star Weekend, which will be held in the Bay Area in February for the first time in 25 years.
But for a city that has had its share of big music moments and in which several major companies got their start, San Francisco’s music, and music tech, scenes have receded over the last two decades, with many companies lured away by the brighter lights and easier connections that exist in New York or Los Angeles. It’s a fate Ghazi is determined to avoid for EMPIRE — and a trend he’s actively working to reverse.
Ghazi likes to tell a story about when he was in his 20s in the early 2000s and mixed The Game’s first mixtape at San Francisco’s Hyde Street Studios. The project, which came out in 2004, ultimately helped Game get signed to Dr. Dre’s Aftermath Records, and when Dre and one of his executives heard the tape, they wondered who had mixed it because it sounded much more professional than the typical lo-fi promotional tapes making the rounds among underground hip-hop heads at the time. The guys invited Ghazi down to L.A. and encouraged him to move to the city and start working with them.
“I was flattered by it, but I was also furious — mad that I had to leave the Bay to build a music career,” he recalls. “I remember driving past the Capitol Tower like, people drive past this building and think, ‘I’m going to work there one day.’ And we don’t have that in the Bay. And I was like, ‘That sucks! I’m going to figure this s–t out!’
“It took me a long time — a really long time — but I figured it out.”
Prada coat, shirt, pants and shoes.
Austin Hargrave
“This might be the most mellow day I’ve had in three months.”
A few weeks later, Ghazi is driving through the streets of San Francisco, giving the signature tour of the city that he offers to anyone new in town — or anyone who may have only heard of its downtown blight and violence as depicted by the national news. It’s another beautiful fall day in the Bay, the first vintage weather after an extended heat wave, and he has cleared his schedule for the afternoon. For the next four hours, he unspools the history of the city neighborhood by neighborhood, street by street.
From the EMPIRE office in the Financial District, he drives into Chinatown, then to the Marina District and the picturesque Palace of Fine Arts. After that it’s into the Presidio, where Lucasfilm is headquartered, then over the Golden Gate Bridge into Sausalito, stopping at an overlook for a view of the city. Then it’s back across the bridge into San Francisco, along Baker Beach into Sea Cliff and then Richmond District, the neighborhood where Ghazi lived in a 350-square-foot apartment when he was first dreaming up what would become EMPIRE. (“I had like four f–king jobs,” he says. “Some of the happiest times of my life, though. Some of the most stressful, but some of the happiest.”)
Along the way — passing through Lands End lookout point, Golden Gate Park, the Haight-Ashbury district and Billionaires’ Row, down the famously crooked Lombard Street and into the Mission — he calls out the landmarks of his life: the apartment where he was born, his first recording studio, the place he got his first boba milk tea, the theater where he used to watch movies for two dollars, the Haight storefront where he once co-owned a clothing store, the place where he and Etminan built the wiring for the first EMPIRE office through a hole in the wall. After a few hours, he parks near the water and gets out of the car to take it all in.
“They say San Francisco’s a doom loop,” he says, looking across McCovey Cove into Oracle Park, home of the San Francisco Giants, in the late-afternoon sun. “This look like a doom loop to you?”
Louis Vuitton sunglasses and jacket
Austin Hargrave
San Francisco is personal to Ghazi in a way that goes deeper than the typical nostalgia people feel for home. And the recent right-wing news coverage by 24/7 cable networks — which has portrayed the city as crime-ridden and drug-addled, overrun by a persistent homelessness problem that the city has not been able to handle — that has proliferated in recent years has spurred him and other music leaders in the city into action.
“San Francisco had such a heyday up until the pandemic, and it’s been really hard to watch the world s–t on our city,” says Bryan Duquette, founder of Another Planet Management and a member of the core executive team at Another Planet Entertainment, the San Francisco-based independent promoter that puts on the Outside Lands music festival and operates Bay Area venues including Berkeley’s Greek Theatre and San Francisco’s Bill Graham Civic Auditorium. Duquette, who has lived in the Bay for over 20 years, met Ghazi in 2023 and found a kindred spirit determined to rectify the negative perceptions held by outsiders. Last year, Another Planet teamed with Ghazi, EMPIRE and artist management company Brilliant Corners to assemble 100 members of the Bay Area music scene to meet with Lurie, then a mayoral candidate, to discuss his plan to reinvest in the artistic community. “Daniel really was trying to get to the people who were creating culture and helping the city become, again, what it was seen as globally,” Duquette says. “And Ghazi is a really big piece of that.”
Lurie’s outreach ultimately won him much of the creative community’s support, and in turn helped win him the election; he was sworn in as the 46th mayor of San Francisco in January. “The arts and culture have always defined us, and I firmly believe that EMPIRE and Ghazi are going to be part of the revitalization of our city,” Lurie says. “He knows what’s going on in the music world better than just about anybody, and I’ll be listening carefully to his guidance and his counsel.”
San Francisco Mayor Daniel Lurie and Ghazi in 2025.
Courtesy of EMPIRE
EMPIRE’s fierce independence, too, is an expression of the Bay’s ethos. “He’s a representative of the independent grind and the culture here; that’s something that everyone in the Bay can resonate with, just coming from the ground up and being the underdog,” says P-Lo, the Bay Area rapper who has been with EMPIRE since 2017. (P-Lo is spearheading a project with the Golden State Warriors’ content division, Golden State Entertainment, that will be released ahead of NBA All-Star Week and distributed by EMPIRE and will feature more than a dozen Bay Area artists.)
But that independence, and particularly the eye-opening success that EMPIRE has experienced over the past few years, has also brought scrutiny — and tests of Ghazi’s commitment, particularly during a time of intense consolidation in the music business. When a media report circulated in November 2023 positing that LionTree was lining up a $1.5 billion bid to buy EMPIRE — “Most believe Ghazi is not a seller, but big checks have changed other people’s minds,” the report needled — Ghazi was furious and sent a staffwide email emphatically denying it, according to multiple employees. A week after EMPIRE’s YouTube event, he was even more publicly defiant, insisting while onstage in October at the industry conference Trapital Summit in Los Angeles: “I’m not for sale. Period. I am dead serious. I am living my purpose. There’s no price on that.”
It’s a frustrating topic for Ghazi, not least because it implies a fundamental misunderstanding of who he is and why he does what he does. “You don’t understand — I just don’t care about money,” he says. “It’s not my motivation.” Instead he talks about the principles instilled in him by his father, a Palestinian refugee who brought his family to America to put them in a position to control their own paths if they were willing to work for it. “I don’t see myself ever working for somebody else,” Ghazi continues. “I’d rather retire. There’s no price for my autonomy. It’s the greatest gift to a leader.”
Still, his insistence on sole ownership — and the sheer force of personality that he exudes in binding the company together — has left enough of an opening for industry analysts to wonder about succession planning, about what might happen to the company when, or if, Ghazi decides to hang it up. He freely admits he won’t stick around as a hands-on CEO forever, but also that EMPIRE is about legacy for him and that he values legacy and autonomy — the freedom to chart his destiny — more than anything else. In that sense, he’ll never truly leave EMPIRE, even as the rumor mill keeps churning. “I always admired athletes who retired when they were on top. I want to be at the top of my executive game when I quit,” he says. “I don’t want to be the guy who hung on for too long. I’m already the owner, so I could still hang around as a chairman, but I don’t need to hang around as the guy running s–t day to day.”
Austin Hargrave
But that’s not happening anytime soon. In the past six months alone, EMPIRE has expanded into Australia, East Asia and South Africa and completed the acquisition of Top Drawer Merch to bring another monetization vertical into the fold for its artists. Ghazi is engaged in the industrywide debates surrounding superfandom revenue and is constantly seeking new opportunities; the two weeks prior to this driving tour, he had been in Tokyo, Seoul, Beijing, Cambodia, Singapore, Bali, San Francisco, Paris, Marrakesh, Singapore again, Seoul again, Las Vegas, Seattle and back to San Francisco: taking label meetings, shooting music videos, meeting with DSP partners, attending conferences and awards shows and directing work on the EMPIRE studios here, with the goal of expanding the company’s reach step by step — taking the stairs rather than the elevator, as he puts it.
“The goal is to be in all the places that make sense for us culturally,” he says. “Is the music interesting? Is the culture interesting? Holistically, how does it play with our DNA? What’s the cost of acquisition and retention? Do I like the music here? But the initial fuel is the passion; then, from there, start to figure it out.”
Joice Street is mobbed. The Nob Hill alley, around the corner from the Bruce Lee mural that adorns the wall next to the Chinese Historical Society of America Museum, is the location this afternoon for P-Lo’s “Player’s Holiday ’25” video shoot, and dozens of people, including some of the Bay’s biggest rappers — Saweetie, G-Eazy and Larry June among them — are filming on a basketball court on the roof of a building overlooking the city. Ghazi is there, not just because EMPIRE is distributing the song, which will appear on P-Lo’s album with Golden State Entertainment, but because he’s scheduled to make a cameo in the video.
Ghazi spends more than an hour on the rooftop, where he seemingly knows everyone — and everyone wants a minute of his time. But soon he heads back to the studio to return to work. The vibe there is low-key, but a typical cross section of artists and creatives are at work: Nai Barghouti, an Israeli-born Palestinian singer, flautist and composer, is in Studio C, working on songs for her new album before heading back out on tour; two producers from dance label dirtybird, which EMPIRE acquired in 2022, are in the live room, “ideating the next big hit of 2025”; a regional Mexican group sits on the patio outside, figuring out songs on a guitar; YS Baby from EMPIRE-owned viral content aggregator HoodClips (which has over 11 million followers) is talking about the podcasts he has lined up. Later, Japanese rapper-singer Yuki Chiba — whose 2024 collaboration with Megan Thee Stallion, “Mamushi,” reached No. 36 on the Hot 100 — takes over Studio A, where he plays a slew of songs slated for upcoming projects and discusses rollout plans.
EMPIRE may have gotten its start in Bay Area hip-hop and made waves on the front lines of West African Afrobeats, but these days it embodies the global outlook that Ghazi always envisioned; Shaboozey’s “A Bar Song (Tipsy),” after all, is a country crossover hit out of Nashville that reached No. 1 in 10 countries. EMPIRE partnered with Nashville-based indie promotion company Magnolia Music to handle its country radio campaign, and from there the single branched out to other formats, ultimately becoming the first song in history to go top 10 on four different Billboard airplay charts: country, top 40, adult top 40 and rhythmic. And Ghazi sees himself as a global citizen helping people around the world — “creating microeconomies” within the territories EMPIRE operates, he says — not just within the confines of the Bay Area.
Shaboozey and Ghazi at the 2024 CMA After Party.
Becca Mitchell
He is also the highest-profile Palestinian executive in the music business and has openly condemned the humanitarian crisis that has erupted during Israel’s war in Gaza. His Instagram profile picture is the Palestinian flag; he regularly shares videos and photos decrying the violence against civilians; he helped facilitate the remix to Macklemore’s track dedicated to Palestine, “Hind’s Hall,” and went to Seattle in October to support the rapper at a Palestinian benefit concert, despite Macklemore not being an EMPIRE artist. He stresses that he does this on a personal level, explicitly not to politicize the company. When asked if he feels a responsibility of sorts, given his profile, to help raise awareness about that humanitarian crisis, he simply says, “I feel like I want to be proud of the man in the mirror.” (“He’s Palestinian and I’m Israeli; we shared our great pain and anxiety over what’s happening in the Middle East,” says Cohen, who also calls Ghazi “a genuinely good guy.”)
But despite its global activities, EMPIRE has stayed focused on its local roots — and is continuing to strengthen them, too. In 2020, it started putting on the cultural festival 415 Day (which takes its name from a San Francisco area code) and has gotten further into live events through its deepening relationship with Another Planet. The San Francisco studio has become not just the creative center of EMPIRE’s operations but also an event venue for the city’s music and civic communities. And in a massive move in January, EMPIRE purchased the 100,000-square-foot historic Financial District building One Montgomery, built in 1908, for $24.5 million, according to The San Francisco Business Times; Ghazi plans to move the company headquarters there after renovating it. Eventually, One Montgomery could become the San Francisco version of the Capitol Tower that Ghazi envisioned all those years ago.
“There have been so many times that people have told him he couldn’t do something, and then he was able to do it, that it gave him all the fire and was the catalyst for him to be the person he is today,” says Moody Jones, GM of EMPIRE Dance, who has been with the company since 2018. “They told him he was crazy to have a music company in San Francisco; that he would never compete with a major; that he would never get out of hip-hop; that he would never open up a studio. They told him San Francisco would never be cool again. And every single time he was able to show them that, ‘No, I’m right.’ ”
That all builds into the larger cultural role Ghazi is playing in his city and beyond. Lurie just announced the inaugural San Francisco Music Week, a celebration of the city’s local music industry culminating in an industry summit with a keynote conversation with Ghazi. And while he says he’s not interested in San Francisco politics, he wants to be consulted from an advisory perspective on cultural events in the city and try to bring in more events beyond just music — Art Basel San Francisco is one that he has begun to advise on, though that project is currently on pause. He has worked with the city and the NBA on a slew of events around NBA All-Star Week and discusses the Super Bowl and World Cup in 2026 as further opportunities to showcase all that San Francisco has to offer. “For events like the NBA All-Star Game, Super Bowl LX, the World Cup, we get to show off all the greatness here, and Ghazi and EMPIRE and the artists they represent are part and parcel to what makes San Francisco so great,” Lurie says. “We need more Ghazis.”
Ahead of All-Star Week, he has made a series of moves and partnerships with the NBA and the Golden State Warriors, including with the game NBA 2K25, with which EMPIRE partnered for a first-of-its-kind deal that includes a limited-edition vinyl box set with 13 tracks by EMPIRE artists; EMPIRE artists on the game soundtrack; and Ghazi and some of EMPIRE’s artists scanned into the game itself. At the studio in September, he sat for an interview with NBA 2KTV host Alexis Morgan — who, to Ghazi’s delight, is also from the Bay Area — that will be part of NBA 2K25’s bonus features.
Ghazi (right) with NBA 2KTV’s Alexis Morgan.
Courtesy of 2K
But ultimately, it is all about the music. Shaboozey’s career is now in a superstar arc, and “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” will soon become EMPIRE’s fifth record with more than 10 million equivalent units in the United States according to Luminate, with over 1 billion on-demand streams. A few years ago, EMPIRE was flying largely under the radar, but Ghazi now has it at the top of its game, with a track record that speaks volumes in an industry based just as much on history as on what’s coming next.
“You always learn, all the time; you’re always adapting to what’s going on around you,” he says. “And sometimes you can’t believe how far you’ve come. But that only inspires you to go further.”
This story appears in the Feb. 8, 2025, issue of Billboard.
It’s an early evening in late September, and San Francisco is gleaming. The back patio at EMPIRE’s recording studios near the city’s Mission District is all white marble, reflecting the last rays of the setting sun as dozens of YouTube executives mill about, holding mixed drinks and picking at passed trays of beef skewers, falafel, […]