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Jennie’s to-do list is growing by the minute. For the last year, the pop star has been so consumed with the launch of her own label and arrival of her highly anticipated solo debut album — plus, now, the impending reunion of Blackpink, the globally renowned K-pop quartet she is part of — that she hasn’t had a moment to envision her ideal release-night party. That is, if she even has time for one.
“I like planning parties. I like creating an album,” Jennie says. “It’s fun, but sometimes it gets hard. I’m just trying to make sure everything is perfectly done.”
Sitting on a cozy couch in a small back room of a photo studio in Seoul’s Gangnam district, Jennie’s post-shoot look on this late-October afternoon calls to mind Gossip Girl “It” mom Lily van der Woodsen after a particularly tiring day. Leaning back in matching black pants and zip-up hoodie after hours spent staring at a camera, Jennie slides on a pair of dark-lensed Gentle Monster sunglasses to give her eyes, and perhaps herself, a bit of a break. (She partnered with the eyewear brand in April 2024 on her own line, Jentle Salon.)
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The 28-year-old appears at ease despite the chaos swirling around her. She’s also strikingly self-aware, which seems to be both freeing and consuming for her — she knows the pursuit of perfection is exhausting and never-ending, and yet she’ll settle for nothing less. Recently, this has manifested in the secrecy surrounding her upcoming album, which for the self-described “workaholic” is far from manufactured marketing mystique. Rather, it may well be a way to buy time until she feels the project she has dreamed of for so long is as close to perfect as possible — even as pressure to release it builds.
“It’s not nice to be someone who’s always like, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t say anything,’ ” she says of the album she began working on in early 2024 — and that the world still knows very little about. “I want to say I’m almost there,” she offers. One of her biggest takeaways from the process? “I’m just going to say, ‘I don’t do well with time,’ ” she says with a laugh.
Jacquemus top and AREA hat.
Songyi Yoon
Since Jennie became a YG Entertainment trainee at 14 and a Blackpink member at 20, her career has been clearly defined and carefully handled — a meticulous approach that has yielded historic results and global fame. In 2019, Blackpink became the first K-pop girl group to perform at Coachella, and just four years later, the first Asian act to headline the festival. And the group — rounded out by Lisa, Rosé and Jisoo — made history in 2022 as the first South Korean girl group to top the Billboard 200, with its celebrated second album, Born Pink.
Yet that well-paved path to stardom also offered Jennie little time to explore her own creative voice. From Blackpink’s 2016 debut through 2023, she released just two solo singles, both through the group’s label, YG: the aptly titled Korean-English “Solo” in 2018 and the dance-pop “You & Me” in 2023, the latter of which peaked at No. 1 on the Billboard Global Excl. U.S. chart. All the while, Jennie was growing eager to piece together “the puzzle of my dreams,” as she calls her solo-album-to-be. So in 2023, when Blackpink re-signed with YG for group activities and its members became free agents for the first time in their careers for solo activities, she jumped at the chance.
“While I was on my last Blackpink tour [it wrapped in 2023], I couldn’t stop myself from starting to plan ahead. I’m just like that,” she says. “I listed out the things that I want in my life and started pinpointing, or prioritizing, what’s my very next step. And instantly, I was like, ‘I still haven’t accomplished the dream of releasing a solo album.’ I wanted to satisfy myself by achieving that goal.”
With a clear runway, she set out to do just that. In December 2023, she announced her own independent label, OddAtelier (commonly referred to as OA). At the start of 2024, she began her “album journey” in Los Angeles, where she says she worked on “99%” of the project, whose title has yet to be unveiled. By September, she announced a partnership with Columbia Records, and in October, she released the album’s fierce and sassy lead single, “Mantra,” which peaked at Nos. 2 and 3 on the Billboard Global Excl. U.S. and Billboard Global 200 charts, respectively.
“It’s been a long process because American artists, they usually take a few years to make one album, but we have time limitations because [this year] she’s got to go back into Blackpink activities again,” says Alison Chang, OA’s head of global business and Jennie’s self-described “right hand.” “She really wanted to show her artistry through this album, and in the beginning, we were meeting producers and writers who she didn’t really match with. I think finding her sound throughout this process was kind of hard, and landing with ‘Mantra,’ that took a very long time. Just finding that first perfect single to let the world know this is the start of her solo career.”
And while Jennie’s years as a trainee prepared her for nearly every aspect of stardom, nothing could have braced her for the pressure and responsibility that comes with being truly in charge.
“The thing is, even back in the [trainee] days, I was never OK with what other people approved. I would check on every single team like, ‘Can I look at other options?’ ” she recalls. “So I am used to the process, but it’s more of a mental thing. The idea of ‘you’re on your own, make the right decision.’ And sometimes that’s the scariest feeling. Sometimes I wake up like, ‘I don’t want this overwhelming control.’ ”
“Just touched down in L.A.,” Jennie sings on “Mantra,” later noting, “We’ll be 20 minutes late ’cause we had to do an In-N-Out drive-by” — and days after its release, she found herself back in town.
She was there to perform the playful pop hit on Jimmy Kimmel Live! — her solo U.S. TV debut — and it was the first time in a long time she had seen her fans, who gathered en masse for the appearance. “Mantra” “was a good start for her because it [showed the] things people still expect from Jennie — she’s dancing and she’s singing and rapping at the same time,” Columbia vp of A&R Nicole Kim says.
Later that night, it was Jennie’s turn to be a fan: She attended Charli xcx and Troye Sivan’s Sweat Tour and snapped pics with Charli, Sivan and her pal and The Idol co-star Lily-Rose Depp. Jennie made her TV acting debut on the shocking 2023 drama about an aspiring pop star (Depp) and her controversial relationship with a producer (The Weeknd); Jennie’s collaborative single with Depp and The Weeknd, “One of the Girls,” became her first appearance on the Hot 100 under her own name.
Jennie feels “more freedom” in L.A. compared with her native Seoul, saying, “I could definitely go out and eat whenever I want to, wherever I want to,” but adds that the biggest difference between the two cities is who surrounds her. “I learn a lot from people [in L.A.]. It’s a great environment, especially for people in music, to meet people that can inspire you.” (She was back in November for Tyler, The Creator’s Camp Flog Gnaw Carnival, where she made a surprise appearance during Matt Champion’s set to perform their 2024 collaboration, “Slow Motion,” and posed with Doechii backstage. In April, she’ll return to California to make her solo debut at Coachella.)
It’s why, Jennie says, recording most of her album in L.A. was “very intentionally done. I just really wanted to throw myself out there to experience it. [In Seoul], I was so comforted in an easy environment that I created a long time ago, and I didn’t enjoy it. I was like, ‘No, if this is your career and if this is your life, explore and learn.’ I kept telling myself that.”
Alexander McQueen coat, David Koma top and Coperni bottoms.
Songyi Yoon
Jennie had worked with just one producer, acclaimed K-pop veteran Teddy Park, prior to her debut album — so when it came time to build a new creative network in a new city, she says the process was “rough.”
“I struggled a lot in the beginning,” she admits. “A few months, I would say, was just me throwing myself out there, walking into rooms filled with new people. I just had to keep knocking on the door, like, ‘Is this it?’ ‘Is this it?’ and then eventually, we got to a point where I found a good group of people that I linked with, sonically and as friends.” (“Mantra” was co-written by songwriters affiliated with management, recording and publishing company Electric Feel such as Billy Walsh, Jumpa and Claudia Valentina, among others, and was mostly produced by El Guincho, known for his work with Rosalía and Camila Cabello, among other left-of-center pop girls.)
Jennie spent six years as a YG trainee before being placed in a group — the longest of any of Blackpink’s members — and while working on her solo album, she reflected on those early days, especially her individual tastes. Back then, she had time to listen to “so much music,” she recalls. “I can’t explain how much that helped in terms of the beginning era of making this album. I never really had a chance to look back at myself [during Blackpink’s rise], so [this process] was a time to really be like, ‘What was I interested in back then?’ Those times played a big role to get it started.”
So did her childhood. Born in South Korea as Jennie Kim, she recalls her mother playing a lot of ’90s pop music, which she says was “rare” for anyone living in Korea at the time. “She had a big passion for Western culture, too,” Jennie says. “She would be playing Norah Jones and Backstreet Boys … Naturally, I was drawn to R&B and, of course, Korea is known for its K-pop culture. So that was also very familiar. I was just always into the idea of music.” (Jennie says she and her mom still “live super close to each other,” allowing them to see each other often.)
Markgong top
Songyi Yoon
From a young age, Jennie also craved independence. Following a vacation when she was 10 with her mom to Auckland, New Zealand, Jennie spent the next five years there attending school and participating in a homestay with a Korean family. That’s primarily where she learned English and where she ideated her alter ego of Ruby-Jane, inspired by the desire for a middle name like her new friends all had. “I feel like I am great at creating different characters within myself,” she says. “I like that about me.”
These characters, it seems, all come to play on her upcoming debut (along with a few features she’s hesitant to share more on just yet). “I intend to complete myself as Jennie Ruby-Jane, for that to be a whole person, in a way,” she reveals. “You’ll definitely know what I mean once the album drops, but because I’m playing with a lot of different genres and elements — I’m rapping here, I’m singing here, I’m harmonizing here, I’m talking here … The overall sound was me making sure I like every single [song]. I didn’t want to be forced into putting a song onto my album — that’s what I really fought for. And I was lucky to have all these people believe in me and support me so I could get to a level where we were like, ‘Wow. I think we’re ready.’ ”
When it came to her new label, Jennie knew what she wanted in a name: something that looked and sounded pretty, that represented herself and her team — but that wasn’t so specific it would box them in. “I wanted it to be [a name that signifies] we’re open to do anything,” she says. “I didn’t want anyone to label what we were.” OddAtelier, named for the French word for a collaborative workshop or studio, “just made sense,” she says. “Atelier is a place where we create art.”
Still, soon after deciding to launch it in late 2023, Jennie took a look at herself in the mirror and thought, “ ‘Do you realize the choice that you’ve made?’ It was really an all-or-nothing situation,” she says. “I didn’t one day decide I want to make a label for myself. For me, building the relationship with my team, we started dreaming together, naturally. Because a lot of them I’ve worked with for a long time. So when we had a chance to go our individual way, I thought that would be like six years in the future. I didn’t think it would be so soon. So I got the courage to start my independence in life, and every step of the way has been a learning process for me. I’m studying this whole new world. Now that it’s been a year, I can say I’m glad I was brave enough to have started this label. I couldn’t be more proud.”
As for whether she plans to sign other artists to OA, her response makes clear how overwhelming a moment this is: “I’ve been getting this question left and right, and my answer is ‘Please, I am so busy on this album. Let’s not even get my brain on that path just yet,’ ” she says while laughing through a polite sigh.
Chang, OA’s global head of business, met Jennie in 2019, when she was working with YG Entertainment USA handling licensing, merchandising and intellectual property for acts including Blackpink. The two “just hit it off,” Chang says. “We formed this bond, and then from there, we just saw each other every day, and it evolved into managing her stuff along with Blackpink. We went on tour together, and then [in 2023], she was like, ‘Hey, I want to create OA.’
“From the day I met her, I just knew, ‘Wow, this girl is so smart,’ ” Chang continues. “She knows what she wants. She’s ambitious. Our standards for each other are so high. As a solo artist, she’s able to spread her wings a bit more and have more authority over her creative direction and strategy for how she wants to develop into an even bigger global artist.”
Jacquemus dress
Songyi Yoon
The hope is that Jennie will become the Korean pop star to represent the Asian music market — a bit like Bad Bunny does the Spanish-language one. But she and her team couldn’t conquer the world on their own. Chang knew that if the goal was to break even wider in the United States, they would need more resources and experience. “It was just a given,” she says. “We needed to partner with an American label.”
She and Jennie took “a lot” of label meetings in late 2023, but ultimately signed with Columbia for its “proactiveness” and how much the team they met had researched Jennie ahead of time. “Jennie values her roots and heritage more than anyone else, and while she does want to establish herself as a global artist, including in the U.S. market, she also deeply cares about her base and wants to make them proud,” says Kim, who worked at HYBE with acts including BTS prior to joining Columbia. “And I think our team is working really hard to support her in achieving that.” (For additional support, Jeremy Erlich will co-manage alongside OA; as Interscope’s executive vp of business development in the late 2010s, he helped facilitate the conversations between the label and YG that ultimately led to their global partnership and Blackpink signing with Interscope.)
But as the web around Jennie spreads, she remains firmly at its center — and is intent on calling the shots. Jennie attributes that to the woman she calls the “No. 1 boss lady”: her mom. “I don’t even have to look anywhere else. She’s taught me how to be a woman, how to be a boss, how to be myself. She’s my idol,” she gushes.
While coming up in Blackpink, Jennie says she had to learn how to compromise; with her own album, the only person she has to do that with is herself. “It’s a fight between me, myself and I — I’m not easy to convince,” she says. “It’s not easy working with me.” And that’s why Jennie craved this experience: It forced her to look into a metaphorical mirror.
“I needed this. I wanted this,” she says, her tone growing more confident. “The more I get to know myself, the more I try to love myself. I’ve had a time in my life where I didn’t — I had no clue how to do that. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know what I was living for. The time where I was feeling clueless. The fact that I’ve moved on from that phase and being so committed to myself, I’m very proud.
“It’s so easy to lose yourself, which is OK,” she continues. “There was also a time where I was feeling lost about ‘K-pop,’ ‘pop music,’ all these labels that I was chasing after … Now that I look back, I just want to tell myself, ‘Maybe enjoy it a little, feeling lost in the struggle, because there will be a time where you don’t even have time to think you’re lost.’ ”
Blackpink’s group chat is ID’d with a simple yet fitting emoji: a family of four. Jennie says her groupmates check in there as often as they can.
“We are all so caught up with life. Obviously, we can’t be calling each other every day,” she says. “Even though we know we can’t see each other so much, it doesn’t really feel any different than all the other years because we know we’re here for each other. They’re literally a phone call away. And at this point, we respect each other’s space so much. So if there’s anything to be happy for, to celebrate, we’re all in it together.”
For the group’s dedicated Blinks, Blackpink’s 2025 reunion, which will include new music and a tour — and follows Rosé’s just-released solo album, a forthcoming album and a role on The White Lotus for Lisa and an acting gig on a forthcoming K-drama and a Dior campaign for Jisoo — is indeed cause for celebration. “I’ve missed the girls. I’ve missed doing tours with them. I miss our silly moments,” Jennie says. “I’m excited to see what everyone brings. You know, everyone took their own journey [during] this time, and I’m excited to share that with the girls. I want to say it’s going to be the most powerful [versions] of ourselves that anyone has seen.”
As Blackpink’s members continue to grow, Chang says the best part of her front-row seat to Jennie’s journey has been seeing her evolution. “People don’t really know, but she’s a very shy, introverted person,” she says, “and seeing her throughout this whole process, I’m just really in awe of how much she’s grown. She put her heart into this.” As Kim recalls, while Jennie was recording her album, there were periods when she would be in sessions every day until six or seven the next morning: “It was surprising to me that she wanted to stay longer and write more. She was really, really passionate. It was inspiring for me to see her working so hard in the studio.”
Annakiki dress
Songyi Yoon
Most of Jennie’s album, as a result, is rooted in deeply personal songwriting about “what I’ve experienced, what I resonate to or what I want in my life. That’s one other thing that’s changed from being in Blackpink, is that I get to say my message in my way.”
And with so much time to reflect — both in and out of the studio — parts of Jennie’s life came into focus for the first time, including the realization that this is her life. Given her fluctuating schedule, she says her body often struggles to catch up or get into a rhythm, but over time, she has become better at prioritizing self-care. Her ideal day off (“Which is rare,” she says) includes morning coffee or tea, Pilates, a sauna or bath, dinner with friends and organizing her home. “That’s healing for me,” she says.
Understandably, she was thinking of such things while getting her hair and makeup done earlier today as she prepared for her Billboard shoot, and they inspired a thought that she shared with her team. “I said if I ever had a chance to tell people that are in their teenage [years] that look up to this job or this world, all I can say from experience is, ‘This is your life — and you have a whole lifetime to live.’ Not the next 10 years, not the next three years. It’s amazing to chase after your dream, but don’t forget to live.”
For now, Jennie is taking her own advice. When asked if her solo debut is the start of a continued solo career, her answer is succinct: “Let’s not put pressure on me. I want to live my present for now, and then let me ease myself into the next thing.”
Has she ever done that before?
“Oh, definitely not,” she says. “Every day has made me into who I am right now.”
This story appears in the Jan. 11, 2025, issue of Billboard.
In July, Jamaica’s most influential living artist walked out of a Kingston prison after 13 years, drove straight to his mother’s house for a tearful reunion over steamed fish and okra — and dove immediately into preparations for Freedom Street: his first performance since his release, and the biggest concert the country would see in nearly 50 years.
Locked up for the murder of Clive “Lizard” Williams, Vybz Kartel went away as a 35-year-old man at the height of his career with seven children, two of whom would make their own musical debuts in 2014. But even behind bars, he never stopped making music — managing to secretly record and release five projects that would reach the top 10 of Billboard’s Reggae Albums chart.
“Being in prison, you can’t feel sorry for yourself. I didn’t have time to do that. I had kids to feed. I had family to take care of. I had health issues, too,” Kartel tells Billboard in a private room at Downsound Records, the live-entertainment producer behind Freedom Street, in Kingston. “There was no time to be weak. You just fight the case and do the right thing.”
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Now, just days before Freedom Street — his New Year’s Eve show that will draw over 35,000 people to Kingston’s National Stadium — Kartel tells me he’s been holding daily three-hour rehearsals to ensure a “Taylor Swift- or Madonna-style” show while he records a new album at several studios, including one his children built for him while he was away. As I follow the Teacha around Kingston over the course of a sunny December day, fans of all ages stop him to profess their love and grovel for selfies — and if they aren’t trying to get his attention, they keep their eyes glued to him and hum whatever song of his comes to their minds.
It’s no exaggeration to say that Vybz Kartel is the most influential Jamaican recording artist since Bob Marley. But understanding Kartel’s singular career means grasping that his pop stardom and underground dominance have always worked in tandem. For every song of his that became a global mainstay, one of his raw, evocative mixtapes simultaneously ruled the streets of Kingston. Born Adidja Azim Palmer in Portmore, Jamaica — a coastal municipality about 15 miles outside of Kingston — Kartel has racked up 1.58 billion official on-demand U.S. streams, according to Luminate, making him one of dancehall’s commercial giants. But his countless controversies and towering sociopolitical influence have also made him a divisive cult figure.
His ’90s Alliance era cemented him as one of dancehall star Bounty Killer’s protégés and the genre’s fastest-rising star, wielding an impressive songwriting approach that blended his private and public personas through riveting gangster narratives and sexually explicit anthems. In the early to mid-2000s, Black Kartel reigned, with spunky, lewd hits like “It Bend Like Banana” launching his near-absolute rule over Jamaican society, which culminated in a seismic yearslong beef with fellow dancehall star Mavado (born David Brooks). By the dawn of the ’10s, White Kartel — by this point, the skin-bleaching he controversially sung of in 2011’s “Cake Soap” had visibly altered his skin tone (and spawned a new nickname) — had achieved several bona fide global crossover hits despite Jamaica’s banning of “daggering” songs (extremely sexually explicit tracks).
Fittingly, the Kartel I meet today is clearly a changed man. This newest iteration of Kartel is calmer and more collected; he seems firmly in his Unc era — cream Amiri beanie, custom tour T-shirt and a naughty joke always in his back pocket. His excitement for his upcoming show beams through the black sunglasses he never takes off, and the reverent air of gratitude around him is unmistakable. Kartel and his co-accused — Shawn Campbell, Kahira Jones and Andre St. John — have always maintained their innocence, and their second chance at freedom was hard-fought. According to a unanimous Court of Appeal ruling in summer 2024, the trial judge marred the original guilty verdict by allowing the jury to proceed despite knowing that one juror had attempted to bribe the others.
“Towards the end of my incarceration, I started connecting more with God. That’s why I tattooed ‘love God’ on my forehead,” Kartel reveals. “Nobody can tell me that God isn’t real. Ten years ago, I would have been saying something else, but God is real.”
Destinee Condison
Kartel’s return marks the start of a new era for both him and dancehall at large. In a Downsound Records rehearsal room, a poster displays five different Kartels with varying hairstyles, fashions and skin tones, each representative of a different chapter of his illustrious career. But whether he’s sporting a New York fitted or showing off his locs, the 48-year-old man known to his fans as Worl’ Boss has always been a chameleon, unafraid to alter his appearance to deepen his own mythos.
Inspired by dancehall icon Ninjaman and uncles who “used to DJ around the sound system,” Kartel began “writing 10 to 15 songs a day” as a teenager and released his debut single, “Love Fat Woman,” in 1993, which eventually landed him a spot in The Alliance, a group of dancehall DJs. “I’ve been fascinated with writing ever since I found out Babyface wrote [Karyn White’s 1989 hit] ‘Superwoman,’” he recounts. “As a kid, I was like, ‘How does a man write a song for a woman?’”
Two major factors ignited Kartel’s mainstream ascent in 2003: The release of his debut album, Up 2 Di Time, and a contentious clash with Ninjaman at Sting, Jamaica’s longest-running one-night-only reggae/dancehall showcase. At the time, Sean Paul was leading the early 2000s stateside dancehall crossover wave, but Kartel’s gritty “gun tunes” and X-rated “gyal tunes” were a far cry from the sugary-sweet riddims that made their way to top 40 radio. He smartly gilded his edgier lyrics with slick wordplay and head-spinning flows; Kartel could, and still can, dictate Jamaica’s culture with the flip of a single phrase. But some of those lyrics courted levels of controversy that threatened his — and the genre’s — continued crossover: In 2004, the U.K. Music of Black Origin Awards revoked Kartel’s nomination for best reggae act, alongside fellow Jamaican dancehall artist Elephant Man, over homophobic lyrics — a longtime point of tension in the genre as a whole. Twenty years later, speaking to Billboard, Kartel alludes to an evolution in his point of view: “The world has changed, and sometimes, you got to change with the times.”
By 2006, Kartel’s highly publicized split with The Alliance culminated in him joining the Portmore Empire — a collective of artists hailing from the neighborhood and signed to his Adidjahiem Records, which he’d established three years prior — leading to a feud with The Alliance’s Mavado, who took it upon himself to reply to Kartel’s disses. From 2006 to 2009, Kartel and Mavado lobbed searing disses at one another over the hottest riddims; Kartel even once carried a coffin with Mavado’s name on it onstage. Jamaica’s youth divided themselves between the camps — Kartel’s Palestine-referencing Gaza crew and Mavado’s hood-repping Gully clan — and, in certain cases, committed street violence in their names. On Dec. 7, 2009, in an effort to end that strife and unite the country’s youth, the two officially ended their feud with a joint performance; the next day, both met with Jamaican Prime Minister Bruce Golding.
Like any good dancehall clash, the Gaza-Gully feud only boosted Kartel’s popularity. Buoyed by its irresistible interpolation of Ne-Yo’s “Miss Independent,” Kartel and Spice’s intensely carnal “Ramping Shop” duet reached No. 76 on Billboard’s Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs chart in 2009, marking both artists’ charts debut. His crossover continued with 2010’s “Straight Jeans & Fitted” and “Clarks,” the latter a team-up with Popcaan, Kartel’s most successful protégé — a testament to his influence on late-’10s dancehall crossover artists. But as Kartel finally started to snag true crossover smashes, he continued oscillating between being dancehall’s global face and an underground provocateur: In 2011, he became the first musician to receive an artist-specific ban from Guyanese radio.
Kartel calls Lil Wayne his “favorite rapper,” and his life outside the studio mirrored that of the hip-hop legend in 2011. Charged with two separate murder counts, Kartel was found not guilty of murdering Jamaican businessman Barrington Burton by one jury, while a different jury found him guilty of the murder of Clive “Lizard” Williams. On April 3, 2014, Kartel was sentenced to life in prison after a 65-day trial, one of the longest in Jamaica’s history.
While incarcerated, Kartel clandestinely recorded — with the help of an iPad and his producer, Linton “TJ” White — a litany of projects, including 2016’s King of the Dancehall, which spawned “Fever,” arguably the biggest dancehall crossover hit of the latter 2010s. “Fever” entered two Billboard airplay charts and has earned over 104 million official on-demand U.S. streams — a win for Jamaica in a year when non-Jamaican artists such as Drake and Justin Bieber had propelled dancehall back onto top 40 radio. But between his incarceration and dancehall’s nonstandardized approach to music distribution (compilations of years-old singles tend to lord over regular studio album cycles), Kartel’s impressive consumption numbers don’t paint the full portrait of his cultural impact.
“Freedom Street [will] bring dancehall back as a serious contender in the international market,” says Downsound Records owner and CEO Joe Bogdanovich, who also notes that 700 police officers and private security workers were enlisted for the event. “[Kartel] is more conscious of good over evil and he’s doing something really positive for the youth and himself. That kind of positivity is going to make Jamaica uplift fans around the world.”
Destinee Condison
The concert — which featured explosive appearances by Spice, Popcaan, Busta Rhymes and more dancehall heavyweights — set the stage for Kartel’s incredibly busy 2025. A deluxe version of his 2015 Viking (Vybz Is King) album is due later in January, while a proper comeback album is currently in the works. “Kartel won’t say nothing. Then, tomorrow, he drops a banger that he recorded last night or the day before,” producer Cordell “Skatta” Burrell jokes. “So there’s not much I can say!”
Outside of the studio, Kartel can finally focus on the kinds of major life activities he couldn’t address in prison — like treating his Graves’ disease and wedding planning (he got engaged in November). The evolved, post-incarceration Kartel is ready to reclaim his throne — but don’t expect a run for Parliament. “Everybody loves me on both sides — I want to keep it that way!” he quips.
“Freedom Street is about Vybz Kartel’s journey for the past 13 years,” Worl’ Boss explains. “The concept is me coming out of prison, the road to that freedom and celebrating with the fans as I go into the new year a free man. We were planning this concert before I even got released. I’ve been prepping for this concert since birth.”
What was your first time back in the studio like after you were released?
The first song I recorded when I came out was at my house. When I got arrested, my kids were [so small]. Now, I’m out and recording in a studio that my children built.
How exactly did you record while incarcerated?
Initially, I figured out how to record using an iPad but a lot of times, the sound was metallic because the cell didn’t have padding like a recording studio. The sound bounced all over the place. Then, I figured out that I could use my mattress as a sponge over my head.
Me and Linton “TJ” White produced the riddim for “Fever.” At the time — don’t come for me! — I used to love watching Gossip Girl and Vampire Diaries. Every time this show ended, a voice would say, “XOXO, Gossip Girl,” so that’s where I got the concept from to start “Fever” with “XOXO, my love is very special.” I recorded the song line by line, looking outside to see if anyone was coming. One line, look outside; two lines, look outside. It was necessary at the time to do what I love most. I would send the iPad out to TJ and then he got it mixed by Dunw3ll and the rest is history.
The entire process probably took a half hour. If I was in a studio, it would take maybe five or six minutes.
Did you ever get caught?
Never. I had people in other cells. If someone was coming, they would knock on the grill. [The guards] found a recording device lots of times, but they never caught me in the act of recording.
Were you aware of just how big “Fever” was even while you were away?
Not initially, but when we released the video and the numbers started going up, I [understood]. I wanted to shoot a video for “Colouring This Life,” but TJ thought how I was flowing on “Fever” was tough. I was like, “Alright, do whatever, man,” and he shot the “Fever” video. Bro, in a few months… Jesus Christ! I was like, “Good choice!” (Laughs.)
Being in prison, you can’t feel sorry for yourself. I didn’t have time to do that. I had kids to feed. I had family to take care of. I had health issues, too. There was no time to be weak; you just fight the case and do the right thing. It was crazy seeing the impact the song had, especially when it [got certified] gold [by the RIAA].
How far into your sentence were you when you started recording new material?
In 2013, we started running out of prerecorded material, so we started recording new songs. I dabbled in it one time in 2012 with “Back to Life,” but the quality [wasn’t the best]. Young people were in the comment sections of the new songs like, “No way Kartel can see the future!” (Laughs.) They knew what was up.
What went through your head when you learned your sentence was overturned?
We had been fighting for so many years, so the feeling was overwhelming. The other guys I was charged with started getting ready and putting their clothes on, but then the judge said, “The case is overturned, but we are sending it back to Jamaica [from the United Kingdom] to let them decide if they’re going to retry the case or throw it out.” I was just listening because, as a ghetto yute, I’m used to disappointment. I don’t get excited too quickly. It’s never over till the fat lady sings, right? I was sitting with my legs crossed in my cell, listening to the radio and talking to my lawyer on my cell in my cell — get it? (Laughs.) He was like, “Yo, I think this is it,” and I said, “I’m going to put my clothes on.”
Immediately as I hung up, it was like an earthquake. [The decision] came over the radio and everyone in the prison was listening. Imagine 2,000 people shaking the bars and rumbling and celebrating — that’s when I knew, “Yeah. This is it.” I put my clothes on, jumped up, they came for me, I packed and left. I didn’t even bring anything with me; I gave my sneakers and TVs and stuff to the guys still in there.
What was the first meal you had after your release?
Steamed fish with okra. My mom made it for me. I went to her house first before I went anywhere else. It was a tear-jerking moment; tears of joy, and, in a sense, tears of sadness to know that I missed out on so much with my mother and my kids. [Kartel has five sons and two daughters.] My mom didn’t say anything to me when I went away because I never made her come visit me. It’s not her fault that I was in there. Why would I want her to see me in that place? I only saw her once during my incarceration; I was so sick that they had to take me to the hospital. I said to the superintendent, “Can you grant me a special visit, so I can see her?” And she and my dad came to the hospital.
How does present-day Kartel compare to the man that went away 13 years ago?
The Vybz Kartel of now is more chill and more mature. He’s more laid-back. The one that went in was a beast. I’m still a beast musically, but Iooking back at my personal evolution, I like who I am now. The Vybz Kartel of old gave me musical fame and fortune, so I don’t have any regrets about him. But I don’t want to go back to that Kartel. I’m good right here. That evolution was something I never knew I needed, but I did — especially having faith in God and believing and seeing him work.
I was born in the ’70s, so of course I grew up going to church. I started going around 11 years old, and, like most Jamaicans, when you reach a certain age, you start to fuss about going. I haven’t been to church yet since I’ve come home; every day my mom is asking me, but I’m going soon, mom!
Destinee Condison
How has Kingston changed from when you first went away?
The roads look different. The other day, my fiancée [Sidem Öztürk] had to tell me where to drive, and I’m like, “You’re from England!” But she’s been here for two years while I was locked down, so she got to know the place. Even on the highway going to the country, she had to drive me. It’s like relearning your own country. It’s fun, though! The other day, I literally got lost. I couldn’t believe it. I eventually figured it out, but so much has changed.
In hip-hop, there have been a few instances where prosecutors tried to use artists’ lyrics against them, which has sparked interesting debates about music censorship. Do you have any thoughts?
I don’t think art should be censored for the artist. It should be censored for the consumer. For example, “Vybz Kartel does adult songs, don’t let your kids listen.” But you can’t tell me that, because your children have ears, I can’t sing what I want to sing. That’s rubbish. The same shop that sells sweets also sells alcohol. If you catch your 10-year-old son drinking a beer, you’re not going to run to the beer-maker like, “What the hell are you doing?” So, if you catch your child listening to Kartel, don’t come to me. That’s a “you” problem.
Drake has called you one of his “biggest inspirations.” How do you think he handled his feud with Kendrick Lamar last year?
I’m not a fan of Kendrick. I don’t even listen to Kendrick, so I wouldn’t know. What does he rap? I saw it on the internet, but no disrespect to the dude, I hear him, but I don’t listen to him. Drake is more in tune with Jamaica and the culture. Drake is a better and bigger artist.
When did you and Mavado last speak?
When I came out! But we spoke a lot of times while I was inside. His son is also in the same prison that I was in. His appeal is coming up next year. Our sons grew up together, were in the same class at school and went to each other’s houses for birthdays. They’re still friends to this day. Me and David cool.
Since you went away, Afrobeats has exploded in global popularity. How in tune with that world are you?
Shatta Wale, Wizkid and Burna Boy are my three favorite Afrobeats artists. I like Tems too. Afrobeats is nice, you can just vibe to it. I think Buju Banton was saying something [controversial] about it [during an interview last year], but I understand where he’s coming from. Buju is a dancehall/reggae artist, so he’s going to be singing more conscious stuff about society. But there is a space for happy, fun music.
Destinee Condison
How can dancehall score another crossover moment?
What they do now is called trap dancehall, so it’s going to take a minute for the big markets to get used to it. It’s the kids’ time now. I like Kraff Gad and Pablo YG. Once the sound catches on in mainstream markets — London, New York, Toronto — I think they will have success.
There was a big thing a few years ago — I was even a part of it — with older artists saying, “This music is not going to go anywhere!” The music that runs the place is dictated by the kids at all times. That doesn’t mean the legends can be removed, but don’t fight the kids. Let them do what they’re doing.
I think the lyrics could [also] be a bit more tolerant and less X-rated. Says Kartel! (Laughs.) Afrobeats made such a big global impact because it can be played anywhere and for all ages. The lyrics need to be more commercialized and more tolerant, and sky’s the limit. Jamaica gave the world five genres: reggae, rocksteady, ska, mento and dancehall. We had hands in creating hip-hop and reggaetón. We’re not short of talent.
You’re nominated for your first Grammy, for best reggae album for Party With Me. How does it feel to finally earn that recognition?
If I wasn’t incarcerated, I would have been nominated already. But I understand, why would they want to nominate a dude in prison? I know if I wasn’t arrested, based on the trajectory that my career was on, I would have definitely won. But I’m very, very grateful.
[The 2024 Party With Me EP] was done in prison. I was under a vibe and got some beats from [producer] Din Din. It was getting closer to crunch time because the case was now in England. I was writing to keep my mind occupied, ended up with these songs and said, “Let me just put them on a little EP.” Bam, Grammy.
How’s the process of organizing your catalog been going?
Slowly but surely. I’m going to shoot videos for a lot of those songs I released while in prison. I’m in talks right now with a few American companies that want to give me a distribution platform so I can sign artists and get Jamaican dancehall music released in a more standardized way. We’re also working on a new album.
Destinee Condison
When will you be back in the United States?
We put the documents in. It would be a good look for all of us who are nominated to be at the Grammys. I’m headlining Wireless Festival in England this year. I’m already booked for some German shows in July. My No. 1 market was always America, but, over the last two years, my biggest streaming market is now the U.K. My fiancée is from the U.K. too. [The couple met during his incarceration in 2015 after she found him by “stalking his babymother’s Instagram”; he moved her to Jamaica in 2022.] I think that has a lot to do with the love, like, “Oh, wow. He’s dating one of us.”
When’s the wedding?
We wanted to do it in January on my birthday, but we’re going to wait because of unforeseen circumstances. Maybe Valentine’s Day. I’m such a romantic, right?
How did you prepare for Freedom Street?
We did roughly three hours of rehearsal each day, but the first one was four hours and eight minutes — and we still didn’t DJ half of the songs. We sacrificed around 1,000 songs and ended up down to three hours. And that’s just like my performance. Everybody and their mom wanted to come. And I have no problem with that anyway, because it’s New Year’s! Let’s ring it in in a star-studded manner.
Where are you most excited to perform?
The entire Caribbean and New York — that’s Jamaica outside of Jamaica.
Speaking of New York, would you ever hop on a song with Cardi B? She recently jumped to your defense when people criticized your post-release appearance.
I love Cardi! We got a song coming out next year. We are actually in the process of writing it. Even if I have to walk, I’m performing that song in New York!
In North Miami’s Electric Air Studios, surrounded by a collection of Gibson guitars, a grand piano and various percussion instruments, Edgar Barrera earlier in December found himself in an unusual position: in the spotlight.
“I’m not used to this,” Barrera admits, dressed in Prada shoes and a Chanel jacket. His voice carries a hint of vulnerability as he debates whether to smile or maintain a serious demeanor for the camera. This rare moment of hesitation from a man who is usually so sure-footed in the recording studio underscores the paradox of Edgar Barrera: a towering figure in Latin music who is most often behind the scenes.
This year, the 34-year-old further cemented his formidable impact in the music industry. He ends 2024 with 23 song credits as a songwriter and 19 as a producer on the Billboard Hot 100, with tracks ranging from pop stars like Maluma, Shakira and Karol G to música mexicana mavericks like Peso Pluma, Grupo Frontera and Carín León. He just secured his second consecutive nomination for the Grammy Awards’ songwriter of the year, standing out as the only Latino and only producer to achieve this distinction for two straight years. He also garnered three Latin Grammys, which included consecutive wins for songwriter of the year and producer of the year. Barrera, who topped Billboard’s Hot Latin Songs Producers year-end chart in 2023 and finishes 2024 at No. 2, is a key player designing the sound of modern-day Latin music.
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“Edgar is someone who knows what he wants, and that, to me, is something that sets him apart from all other songwriters,” says Peso Pluma, who is with Barrera in the studio the day of this photo shoot. Barrera has collaborated with the música mexicana hit-maker on several tracks, including “14-14” and “Santal 33,” from Peso’s groundbreaking album Éxodo (2024), which debuted at No. 5 on the Billboard 200. “He is someone very dedicated with a lot of values, a very educated person who respects you musically as an artist,” adds the “Vino Tinto” hit-maker.
Peso is one of the many artists who have praised Barrera’s steadfast work ethic and humility. “He is one of the most important producers of our time and yet he is one of the most humble human beings,” Maluma says. “He is the same person as the day he started and that’s an amazing quality to have.” The Colombian superstar attributed many of his hits to his collaboration with Barrera, including “Según Quién” with Carín León, “Por Qué Será” with Grupo Frontera and most recently “Cosas Pendientes.”
Over a decade into his career, Barrera’s adeptness in straddling diverse musical genres has rendered him one of the most coveted songwriters and producers in Latin music. His portfolio boasts extensive work with household names like Shakira (“Soltera”), Christian Nodal (“No Te Contaron Mal”), Grupo Firme (“Ya Supérame”), Camilo (“Vida de Rico”), Becky G (“Chanel”) and Marc Anthony (“De Vuelta Pa’ la Vuelta”), in addition to non-Latin stars such as Ariana Grande (“Boyfriend” with Social House), Madonna (“Medellín” with Maluma), XXXTentacion and Lil Pump (“Arms Around You” with Maluma and Swae Lee) and Shawn Mendes (his “KESI” remix with Camilo). In January 2021, he made history by topping four Billboard genre charts — pop, rhythm, tropical and regional Mexican airplay — with four different tracks, an unprecedented feat for a Latin songwriter.
But how did this “border kid” raised between Roma, Texas, and Miguel Allende, Tamaulipas, Mexico, harness his unique cross-cultural experiences to rise as one of the most in-demand songwriters and producers in Latin music?
Barrera grew up in a home filled with music. His father, a member of the 1970s grupera band Mister Chivo from San Miguel Allende, instilled in him a deep passion for music; and discovering his uncle’s songwriting credits on an Elvis Crespo album further fueled Barrera’s musical ambitions.
“In my house, there was always music playing all the time. All those nights I would see my dad listening and listening to vinyl because his band recorded a lot of covers,” Barrera says. “One time, my uncle bought an Elvis Crespo record that had one of his songs in the credits, and I realized that there is a part in music where you don’t have to be the artist but part of the artist’s career.”
Mary Beth Koeth
While he was raised in Mexico, he regularly crossed back into the United States for schooling — a common occurrence in border towns. However, Barrera’s passion for Latin music often put him at odds with the school’s more rigid musical curriculum. “I remember that in school I was scolded all the time. It was forbidden to play grupera songs or any other type of music other than the classical music they taught us, or jazz,” he recalls. Yet, this didn’t deter him, and together with like-minded classmates, they indulged in the joys of playing songs like the Mexican ska-punk track “Pachuco” from Maldita Vecindad y Los Hijos del 5to Patio, “Carnavalito” or the Mexican cumbia of “Juana La Cubana” by Fito Olivares y Su Grupo. During these school years, he played the saxophone. (As a preteen, he had already learned both bass and guitar.)
“All these young musicians from across the Rio Grande Valley would gather to compete and form a unified band made up of the most talented musicians from each school,” recalls Marco Roel Rangel, a fellow bandmate from McAllen, Texas, who remembers Barrera as a standout musician nearly 20 years ago. “Once a year you’d get to play in a band comprised of all the other top musicians from other schools for one weekend. The Roma [Edgar’s school] kids, who were formidable competitors, would walk into the rehearsal space playing a synchronized song they had prepared called ‘Carnavalito.’ Almost like [saying], ‘Hey, we’re from Roma and we’ve entered the building,’ ” Roel Rangel says. “It was unusual to hear this Latin tribal sound. But Roma brought that Latin flavor; going from Tchaikovsky and Pavel to ‘El Humahuaqueño’ is a vibe.”
“I remember we were the rebels at school when we played those,” Barrera says. “We felt like we were playing the forbidden, and at the end of the day it was what I liked to play.”
When it came to college, Barrera initially enrolled as an electronic engineering student and took a classical guitar class. “That’s when I started studying music more seriously.” His guitar teacher urged him to audition for the Berklee College of Music. Instead, he took a detour to the Miami music studio of Colombian songwriter-producer Andrés Castro, a revered figure in Latin music known for penning some of Carlos Vives’ greatest hits.
“I met Edgar through a friend of mine, Luigi, who worked with A.B. Quintanilla. He was 18, 19 years old and was studying electronic engineering. He wanted to do an internship because it was going to be worth it for his career. They were deciding whether he should study that or music,” Castro recalls.
Castro, almost offhand, told Barrera he was welcome to come work in his studio. Barrera took him at his word and drove from Texas to Miami. “Obviously, it was a life change to come to live here. He was committed to his career to the fullest. And the first thing I can highlight about him was his attitude of service.
“He arrived and instead of thinking, ‘Well, it’s an internship, I’m not getting paid, I’m going to stay put,’ he was looking to see who he could make a coffee for. If he had to take an artist and pick them up at the airport, he would pick them up,” Castro continues. This eagerness to serve, learn and genuinely connect with others in the industry rapidly transformed Barrera from a hopeful intern to a respected collaborator.
“I started from the bottom, being the one who went and brought everyone’s food, the one who served the coffee,” Barrera says. “But thanks to that I also learned to never look down on anyone’s work, much less the one who serves me coffee, because maybe tomorrow he could be the next producer of the year, or songwriter of the year, as it happened to me. I had the opportunity to meet many artists and industry executives.”
Mary Beth Koeth
Castro remembers the bonds that were nurtured in the studio. “When an artist like Carlos Vives came to the studio, we would do more than just make music. We discussed life, what he desired, what he was searching for, his thoughts, the moment he was living, the music he was listening to and things that had caught his attention. That’s where the creative process began. Edgar saw a lot of that in the studio.”
The Colombian producer also vividly recalls a defining moment early in Barrera’s career. During a session with the renowned Panamanian singer-songwriter Omar Alfanno, the young Barrera, who was typically expected to just observe, proposed an idea for a song that Castro and Alfanno were struggling with. Initially surprised, Alfanno cautioned him, “Young man, that’s not how things are done,” Castro remembers, highlighting the respect required during songwriting sessions. However, impressed by Barrera’s insight, Alfanno gave him a chance, marking Barrera’s official entry into the world of professional songwriting.
As Barrera’s career flourished, Latin music also underwent dynamic shifts. In the late 2010s, while música urbana’s popularity soared — with reggaetón’s commercial growth eclipsing other Latin genres — regional Mexican music began to carve out a new and thrilling identity. While the south-of-the-U.S.-Mexico border genre had remained an enduring force within Spanish-speaking communities in the United States and Mexico for decades, a regional Mexican-urbano hybrid began to ascend Billboard’s U.S. Latin charts, led by Natanael Cano, Junior H and Fuerza Regida, followed by Peso Pluma.
Parallel to this movement was the music of Christian Nodal, a Sonoran superstar who innovates within the confines of música mexicana with his unique blend known as “mariacheño,” a fusion of mariachi and norteño music. His groundbreaking approach reached a new height in 2021, when “Botella Tras Botella,” a collaboration with Mexican rapper Gera MX — co-written and co-produced by Barrera — became the first regional Mexican music track to enter the all-genre Hot 100 chart.
Nodal praises the creativity and connection present in his work with Barrera: “Working with Edgar was always a lot of fun. There was always an instant connection on the songs. He came from the urbano school, and bringing him into my world was always a challenge,” Nodal explains. “I think that’s why we were able to reach a middle ground between urbano and regional. We always had very good chemistry, and we found the lyrics and melodies that could touch the heart so that people could enjoy it and feel it. It was always genuine.”
Among Barrera’s major bets was the 2022 signing of Grupo Frontera, a popular six-piece band from Edinburg, Texas, to BorderKid Records — an imprint the songwriter had launched earlier that year. Grupo Frontera was fresh off its first major hit, “No Se Va,” which peaked at No. 3 on the Hot Latin Songs chart.
“He took a chance on us when we were just starting out,” Grupo Frontera says in a statement. “We didn’t even know what we were doing and he has been with us every step of the way. Our bond with Edgar is extra special because we are from the same town. We have similar values and traditions, and he really understands us. That’s reflected in the music we make together.” Barrera adds: “They share with me a very similar growth because we grew up on the border, we have many friends in common, they are from my town. We have the same values, and we understand each other very well when we work.”
Mary Beth Koeth
“Aside from being technically one of the best and very detail-oriented — everyone who works with me knows I am, and he is always up to the task — the amazing thing about Edgar is his ability to bring together artists, composers and producers and always make sure that things get done with the right team to achieve the best result,” says Shakira, who collaborated with Barrera on her latest hits such as “Soltera,” “El Jefe” with Fuerza Regida and “(Entre Paréntesis)” with Grupo Frontera. “Many songwriters do not combine all the elements and ensure the ideas are carried out, but he has as much of a business mind as he does an artistic one.”
“I’m a creative before I’m an executive, and I give a lot of freedom to artists,” Barrera adds, emphasizing his commitment to his relationships with them. “When it comes to business, I try to educate the songwriter,” he says. “I help them make their own publishing company, and then we make a business together — your publisher with my publisher. I try not to be their owner but partner. We [at BorderKid Records] are a tool for them, to help them make more money, and that they own their music always.”
Within this framework of mutual growth, Barrera continues to push musical boundaries. “A lot of new experiments with artists are coming; we’re experimenting with new things,” he says about upcoming music.
Barrera’s role fluctuates between mentor and musical collaborator and innovator. Recently, for example, he spent time with Shakira as she prepares for her 2025 Las Mujeres Ya No Lloran stadium tour, making new arrangements for her live band. He’s been working on new music with Peso Pluma, and, also, with Karol G. “The day after [working with Peso], I worked with Karol another three days in a row, and it’s always a breath of fresh air making corridos with Peso one day to then doing another kind of music with Karol,” Barrera says. “I like it because I don’t get to do the same thing with one artist and then the other.”
However, despite the exhilarating pace of his professional life, Barrera is embracing a new personal development: fatherhood. “I just became a dad,” he says proudly. “I’m in another stage for the first time in life looking for that balance.”
I asked Barrera if his songwriting process has changed since. “Yes, a lot,” he says. “Now I’m thinking, like when I write a lyric, ‘When my daughter hears it, she’s going to think this was her dad.’ You think twice. But I’ve always tried to give a good message in the songs.”
Bro, everything I thought I knew was gone. I thought I had a grasp on s–t. The songs that’s been out three weeks went up more than the classic records.”
It’s an early Tuesday afternoon in mid-November and Tyler, The Creator is still in disbelief. Just a few weeks earlier, he’d released his new album, Chromakopia, and the response was unlike any in his entire career. “It’s been a f–king crack in my reality, for this album where I’m just crying about being 33 like a b–ch.”
Three days before our conversation, he’d performed a set largely dedicated to the album at Camp Flog Gnaw Carnival, a two-day music festival in Los Angeles that he started in 2012 and continues to curate. This year was the 10th edition, a triumphant moment for an event that began with seven acts and now feels like a smaller, more walkable Coachella for locals — complete with music and food and rides and merch and fashionable selections from Tyler’s line GOLF — in the Dodger Stadium parking lot.
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At Flog Gnaw, Tyler took the stage atop a shipping container, wearing a green suit fit for a bellhop in a slightly bizarro Emerald City, a bust-like mask with cutout holes for his eyes and an Afro with two peaks and a valley between them — an ensemble with hints of Janet Jackson circa Rhythm Nation (at least from the neck down), and which Tyler described to me as both “Captain Crunch” and “a gay dictator.” It’s the uniform of the character he takes on for his new album, both haunting and militant, the latest alter ego the Hawthorne, Calif., native has assumed. After performing the first four tracks, he paused to thank those in the audience for their love — and let them know that Chromakopia was No. 1 on the Billboard 200 for a third straight week. Only Taylor Swift and Sabrina Carpenter did three straight weeks in 2024. “To do that, at my 10th carnival, in my f–king city, what are we talking about?” The crowd cheered for him and themselves: Together, they did it.
Tyler released his album on a Monday instead of the standard Friday; he wanted people to start their week with Chromakopia instead of in the middle of the night as their weekend began. The decision reflected three distinct sides of his personality — putting the music over everything, rejecting industry norms and a confidence that, regardless of the day of the week, his fans will show up. “The hope was that people listened actively, not alongside thousands of other things that come out every Friday,” says Jen Mallory, president of Columbia Records, which has been releasing Tyler’s music since 2017’s Flower Boy. “Of course, shortening the release week is not an instinctive idea in today’s market, but when you deliver the creative T did alongside the album — visual trailers, touring announcements, live events and more — it was undeniable. And the absolutely massive response indicates that his hypothesis was more than correct.”
“I kept telling n—as for a year-and-a-half, ‘Whatever I put out next, I’m putting that b–ch out on a Monday,’ ” Tyler says. “I’m not doing that stupid Friday s–t. We’re putting that s–t out on Monday and everyone’s going to know about it.” The plan worked, with Tyler hitting the top spot that week, even while handicapping himself with a shortened sales week. Only Beyoncé, Swift, Carpenter, Travis Scott, Billie Eilish and Kendrick Lamar had bigger first weeks in 2024. “I knew people would be interested,” he says with a confusion that he’s embracing. “But I didn’t expect this.”
Luis Perez
Following his short Flog Gnaw speech, he transitioned into songs from his catalog. But even as fans enjoyed his earlier material — belting every word of “Dogtooth,” moshing to “Lumberjack” — there was a palpable eagerness for Tyler to get back to the new album. The opposite is typically true at festivals; an artist’s faithful primarily in attendance to see their favorite bring the hits to life. But that Saturday night, Tyler was performing for people who hadn’t turned off Chromakopia since its release 20 days prior. And as he marched through his eighth studio album, the crowd was right with him, screaming along to every lyric, ad-lib, chant — even Tyler’s recordings of his mother that appear throughout the album and rang out as if she was the voice of the nighttime California sky.
Tyler and Sexyy Red traded verses and threw ass at the crowd during “Sticky,” a big fun song built around horns and whistles and beating on the cafeteria table. “I wanted something for the drill team at the f–king pep rallies,” Tyler told me, “something for the band to play at halftime.” His wish came true before his performance; Jackson State University’s Sonic Boom of the South broke it out earlier in the day in its matchup against Alabama State. He brought out ScHoolboy Q — whom Tyler describes as one of his few real friends in the music industry — for “Thought I Was Dead,” and, 10 minutes later, he performed “Balloon” with Doechii and Daniel Caesar, fueling a “Doechii, Doechii” chant and thanking Caesar for his help in finishing Chromakopia. The love and appreciation was at an all-time high, both in the crowd and onstage.
“I have friends that’s been to about every show,” Tyler says after Flog Gnaw is over, “and they were like, ‘That’s the loudest crowd I’ve ever heard.’ ”
I was prepared for the adoration Tyler gets in his city because I saw him in June at the Kia Forum in Inglewood, up the street from where he grew up. It wasn’t even his show — this was The Pop Out: Ken & Friends, Lamar’s first concert since his beef began in the spring with Drake. “I wasn’t even supposed to go — I was in Atlanta working on this album,” Tyler explains. “But I landed that morning and couldn’t miss this s–t. And I don’t even get FOMO at all, n—a — I’ll go to sleep. But I’m cool with Kenny and Dave [Free] and Tim [Hinshaw] from Free Lunch. So I went home, showered and ran straight there.”
He performed two songs, including “Earfquake” from his 2019 album, IGOR. Seemingly everyone at the Forum knew every word. “I genuinely think I’m better at my R&B singing s–t as a whole than my rap s–t,” he tells me. “And those are usually my biggest records.” And when Tyler screamed “Say what!,” the capacity crowd turned into the Southern California Community Choir, belting, “Don’t leeeeeeeeeeeeeeave, it’s my fault.”
Tyler, The Creator photographed November 20, 2024 at Quixote Studios in Los Angeles.
Luis Perez
For years, Tyler has continued to complicate what a pop star can embody. He’s taken on different personas, different looks, rapped about different things and keeps getting bigger and bigger. But as he’s become one of popular music’s most reliable and admired mavericks, he’s existed outside of the L.A. hip-hop zeitgeist. The city wasn’t a leading identifier for him, at least compared with a Lamar, a YG, a Vince Staples. But he’s central to the current historic run of Los Angeles music, as well as the community that makes L.A. one of the special hubs for hip-hop.
“I’m really from the city,” he says. As he continues to talk about home, his accent gets thicker and thicker. That love for Los Angeles is why he started Flog Gnaw in the first place: “Outside of sports stuff, it felt like L.A. didn’t have something that was its own thing.” With this year’s fantasy lineup — including Staples, Kaytranada, Playboi Carti, André 3000, Erykah Badu, Denzel Curry, Faye Webster, Blood Orange and Syd — Tyler’s wish to at least somewhat correct this came true. “I’m happy that Flog Gnaw has folks from the city feeling like this is theirs,” he says a bit coyly. “At least that’s what it feels like every year.”
“I’m not who they were introduced to at 20. I’m not even who I was a year ago,” Tyler says, sounding a bit annoyed at the notion that he possibly could be. “When they’re like, ‘I want the old version,’ I know it’s because they’re still there. But I’m not. And I’m OK with it because my identity doesn’t rest in a version of myself.”
I first saw Tyler, The Creator perform in 2012 at the Hammerstein Ballroom in Midtown Manhattan. His rap collective, Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All (OFWGKTA), had become an online sensation over the last few years — not just for its transgressive music, but also for antics that felt like the Black evolution of Jackass — and there was a level of buzz around the show, both from the rap-fan concertgoers and the young music bloggers eager to see if the phenomenon would translate offline.
While some in the audience anticipated possible appearances by erstwhile members Earl Sweatshirt and Frank Ocean, it was Tyler, the gang’s de facto leader and chief provocateur, who defined the show. He’d mostly been known for his 2009 debut album, Bastard, and the Odd Future mixtape Radical that came the following year, both notable for their distinctive production and shocking lyrics. But Tyler’s true star turn came in 2011 on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon, Odd Future’s first nationally televised appearance. Beforehand, Tyler tweeted, “I want to scare the f–k out of old white people that live in middle f–king America.”
He kept his word, as he and fellow Odd Future rapper Hodgy Beats performed “Sandwitches” from Tyler’s second album, 2011’s Goblin, backed by The Roots. They wore ski masks and raced around the stage like it was a hardcore show as the camera occasionally panned to scattered garden gnomes and this one creepy white girl floating around the band, her long dark hair covering her face like she was in The Ring. Tyler eventually left the stage, ran to Fallon’s desk and finished the episode on the host’s back. It was a cultural reset — an undeniable TV moment.
Like many at that 2012 Hammerstein show, I wanted to feel that Fallon energy in real life. And while Tyler did replicate it there, my own takeaway was very different: Yes, he was the leader, a true frontman, but even more so, he was head cheerleader for every Odd Future member. When Frank sat at the piano and sang “White,” Tyler went to the side, pulled out a Polaroid camera and started taking photos. As Earl, in his first performance in two years, pushed through his verse on “Oldie,” Tyler brought their entire crew onstage to back him — a wall of support, a visualization of a musical and cultural movement that deserved attention.
Luis Perez
Tyler, The Creator loves to love things. He’s a fan of the highest order, a quality that often gets lost during a climb to the top and a trait of his that hasn’t wavered to this day. When I arrived for our first of two conversations for this story, a couple of days before his Flog Gnaw performance, Tyler was standing with his longtime managers, Christian and Kelly Clancy, obsessing over something on his phone. Someone had sent Tyler a Pharrell Williams performance clip, one he’d been hunting for for the last decade, and his mood was a mix of Christmas morning, winning the lottery and discovering buried treasure. His enthusiasm was entrancing: a star whose inspirations still made him feel like a little kid.
“The ones who were the North Star for me, if you generalize it, they were always left of center,” Tyler says. So it’s no shock that he decided to musically and aesthetically follow suit. “If I’m 12 and folks at school are like, ‘That’s weird, that’s wack,’ I’m like, ‘But the n—as on my walls will think it’s cool. And y’all can’t compare to them. So f–k y’all.’ ”
That mentality is part of what makes him a singular artist. He isn’t shackled by the fear of failure, the driving force that stifles creativity. The other driving force comes from his mother, Bonita Smith. “I got hugs at home,” Tyler proudly says. “I’m very lucky and grateful to have grown up in a house full of love, with a cheerleader that was like, ‘Be yourself,’ ‘Do what you want,’ ‘F–k what they think,’ ‘I’m your friend.’ ” On Chromakopia’s first track, “St. Chroma,” she says, “Don’t you ever, in your motherf–king life, dim your light for nobody.” The combination of her influence, teenage rebellion and the blueprints left by his favorite artists gave him a confidence that became foundational. “I have no choice but to be opinionated and don’t care if I look dumb as f–k. Even if I change my mind the next day.”
Chromakopia, like most of Tyler’s discography, tells the story of his life in the present. “Everything is self-indulgent to me,” he says about making songs, because he’s not doing it to be relatable or appease an audience or some former version of his fandom. Few artists have as honest and combative of a relationship with listeners as Tyler. He’s constantly vacillating between inspiration and frustration. He loves watching people respond to his tweets about favorite lyrics and songs, what grew on them, what they hated at first. Because it’s not about whether you like his music or not — it’s that he craves true engagement. “Expound on that f–king thought, b–ch,” Tyler says of the opinions, the comments, the takes, the lack of articulation about why you like or dislike something. “If I was president, the first thing I would do is take podcast mics away from n—as.”
It can be risky for artists to abandon the sound or subject matter that gave them initial fame, a decision that some fans treat as a betrayal. But this album, much like 2017’s Flower Boy, 2019’s IGOR and 2021’s Call Me If You Get Lost, is a time capsule, a front-row seat to the life and mind and current creative headspace of Tyler Okonma. On Chromakopia, he explores themes ranging from monogamy (“Darling, I”) to unplanned pregnancies and fatherhood (“Hey Jane”) to the trappings of fame that run throughout the album. “It’s people saying that they can’t relate to the song,” Tyler says of “Noid,” the first single. “Of course you can’t. That’s why I made the song, because you don’t know what it’s like not to go outside and not own yourself, people stealing from you, voice-recording you, following n—as home, people trying to trap you — nobody trying to trap y’all n—as. I’m a catch.”
The album is deeply personal. “I’m a super extrovert, but I’m a very private person with my life,” Tyler says, “so putting some of this stuff on wax was a lot for me.” The day after Chromakopia’s release at a show in Atlanta, he went further: “It’s so honest that I think I had to wear a mask on my own face to get that s–t out.” He faces those fears on the album’s aptly titled emotional high point, “Take Your Mask Off,” and when he performed it at Flog Gnaw, by the song’s conclusion, his mask was gone.
Tyler does have a level of maturity that can come from growing up in public, which, as he points out, he did: “I’ve been famous and financially stable since I was 19, on my own since 16.” And now, at 33, he’s a veteran, making music about getting older and what it feels like. “I told my homie, ‘This is the 30s album,’ ” Tyler says. “This album is probably s–t that folks go through at 24, but I’ve lived a different life. N—as around me are having kids and families and really being adults and I’m over here like, ‘I think I’m going to paint my car pink.’ That feels crazy, but it’s all I know.”
Tyler, The Creator photographed November 20, 2024 at Quixote Studios in Los Angeles.
Luis Perez
And the reception to Chromakopia makes it clear that plenty of Tyler’s listeners do share his worries, anxieties, dilemmas. “People are connecting with the words in a way that feels bigger than me,” he says. “I’ve never hit people at this level.”
When I ask him about the album’s closer, “I Hope You Find Your Way Home,” he lights up. “I think the way you end an album is so important!” he exclaims. From Kevin Kendricks’ neck-tingling synthesizer to Tyler’s own background vocals alongside Daniel Caesar and Solange Knowles to his grand finale of a rap verse, it’s a reflection and a resolution, one filled with hope for our respective journeys ahead. “I knew that’s how I wanted to end it, with the synth, just letting n—as sit there and think about whatever the f–k just happened,” he says, clearly thrilled with the way he landed the plane.
But for Tyler, uncertainty about the future is also a source of joy. He’s currently dipping his toe back into acting, with his first feature film, the Josh Safdie-directed, Timothée Chalamet-starring Marty Supreme, on the horizon. “This is where I am at 33; who knows what I’ll be making at 36,” he says. “My 30s have been so much iller than my 20s. I’m excited for us to be 43 years old and see where we’ve taken it. I don’t know what the f–k I’m doing at that point, maybe bald — with one braid and a dangling earring, making gospel, telling everyone about the zucchinis.”
Whatever it is, he’s excited, as always, by the unknown. “I’ve never not stuck to my guns. Any version y’all see me in is the most honest version at that time,” Tyler says. He’s brash and bold and uncompromising about his art, but it’s also clear how grateful he feels. “I’m so blessed and fortunate. Thirteen years in and my latest s–t is my biggest. Sometimes it’s like, ‘What the f–k, this can’t be real.’ But then it’s also like, ‘I told y’all.’ It’s beautiful.”
This story appears in the Dec. 14, 2024, issue of Billboard.
“Bro, everything I thought I knew was gone. I thought I had a grasp on s–t. The songs that’s been out three weeks went up more than the classic records.” It’s an early Tuesday afternoon in mid-¬November and Tyler, The Creator is still in disbelief. Just a few weeks earlier, he’d released his new album, […]
On Sept. 13, 1988, the media assembled at the United Nations for a press conference. Representatives for the nonprofits Greenpeace, Cultural Survival and Rainforest Action Network sat before them, alongside the U.N. Environment Programme’s director and three, less expected emissaries: the Grateful Dead’s Jerry Garcia, Bobby Weir and Mickey Hart.
The band was about to begin a multinight fall run at Madison Square Garden and had decided to make the ninth and final concert of the stint a rainforest benefit. Garcia, Weir and Hart weren’t at the U.N. as rock stars; they were there as activists.
“Somebody has to do something,” Garcia told the assembled crowd, before adding wryly, “In fact, it seems pathetic that it has to be us.” As the audience applauded and Hart and Weir voiced their agreement, Garcia cut through the din: “This is not our regular work!” Eleven days later, in a more familiar setting, the band invited Bruce Hornsby, Hall & Oates and Suzanne Vega, among other artists, onstage at the sold-out benefit show, which grossed $871,875, according to an October 1988 issue of Billboard.
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At the press conference, Garcia had said, “We hope that we can empower our own audience with a sense of being able to do something directly and actually having an effect that’s visible in some way.” But he’d also expressed the Dead’s trepidation concerning activism.
“We don’t want to be the leaders, and we don’t want to serve unconscious fascism,” he said. “Power is a scary thing. When you feel that you’re close to it, you feel like you want to make sure that it isn’t used for misleading. So all this time, we’ve avoided making any statements about politics, about alignments of any sort.” While Garcia’s comment wasn’t entirely accurate — the ’88 benefit was far from the first time the Dead had aligned itself with a cause — its sentiment was honest: He understood the influence his beloved band wielded.
“As a young fan, I really learned about the issue in the rainforest from the Grateful Dead when they did that press conference,” recalls Mark Pinkus, who started seeing the band in 1984 and was a college student in 1988. “If a band like the Grateful Dead took the time to care about a cause, it definitely got our attention as young fans.”
From left: Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, Bob Weir, Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart outside San Francisco’s New Potrero Theatre in 1968.
Malcolm Lubliner/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images
For a then-17-year-old David Lemieux, who had started seeing the Dead the year before and whose father worked at the U.N. from 1953 to 1973, “it added this huge level of legitimacy to this band I was following around” for his parents. “It certainly had me go out and learn more about [the issue],” he reflects. “To this day, the way I view the world is very much what I learned from my days on tour — and seeing the Dead take a stance that was so big … meant a lot to me.”
At the time, Pinkus and Lemieux were impressionable young Deadheads. Today, they’re central to the Dead’s present and future business. Pinkus is president of Rhino Entertainment, the Warner Music Group branch that publishes the Dead’s archival releases, and Lemieux, the band’s legacy manager and archivist, is intimately involved in the curation of those releases.
It’s telling not just that the Dead’s business is shepherded by members of the very community it fostered, but that the band’s philanthropic work in particular resonated with Pinkus and Lemieux from the jump. The Dead’s members haven’t merely been philanthropically active since the band’s 1965 formation in the Bay Area — they have been forward-thinking, reimagining the potential of the good works musicians can do and inspiring other artists to follow in their footsteps. All the while, their activism has fed on — and been fed by — their passionate fans.
“We’re part of a community, and so the better the community is doing, the better we’re doing,” Weir says today. “Jerry always used to say, ‘You get some, you give some back.’ It just makes sense.” And since the beginning, “that’s been our mode of operation,” the Grateful Dead’s Bill Kreutzmann says. “We help people and give them stuff. It’s just a good way to live life. I wish that more people in the world lived life that way, instead of wars and bombings.”
From left: Randy Hayes of Rainforest Action Network (seated), Dr. Jason Clay of Cultural Survival, Jerry Garcia, Mickey Hart, Peter Bahouth of Greenpeace and Bob Weir at a New York press conference in 1988.
Marty Lederhandler/AP
Since Garcia’s death in 1995, the Dead’s surviving members have continued to tour — and continued to advocate for the causes that matter to them. That’s why MusiCares, the charitable organization that the Recording Academy founded in 1989 to support the music community’s health and welfare, is recognizing the Grateful Dead as its 2025 MusiCares Persons of the Year.
“It all follows in that tradition of teaching the industry what it should know about,” Hart says. “That’s that Grateful Dead kind of style, where we just did it because we knew it was the right thing to do. If we wanted to do this the rest of our lives was the idea, we have to do these things, because people support us — and we reciprocate.”
“Everybody had everybody’s back in the Haight-Ashbury, and we were a big functioning organism,” Weir recalls. “And we had roles within the community.”
It’s a crisp, mid-November evening in Chicago, where Weir, 77, has just spent the afternoon doing what he does best: playing Grateful Dead music. He’s in town for two shows at the Auditorium Theatre with the Chicago Philharmonic Orchestra, which will accompany him and Wolf Bros, his current solo project, and after rehearsing “Weather Report Suite” and “Terrapin Station” — two of the Dead’s densest, most ambitious compositions — he’s back on his tour bus, reminiscing about the band’s early days.
Even then, philanthropy was core to the group. It began performing as The Warlocks in mid-1965, and while accounts differ about when, exactly, it changed its name later that year, many believe it debuted its famed moniker on Dec. 10 — at Mime Troupe Appeal II, the second in a series of benefits for a satirical San Francisco theater troupe that often clashed with local law enforcement over free speech.
From left: Jerry Garcia, Bob Weir, Bill Kreutzmann, Phil Lesh and Mickey Hart onstage at the Oakland (Calif.) Auditorium in 1979.
Ed Perlstein/Redferns/Getty Images
The first decade or so of the Dead’s philanthropy “is an incredibly eclectic mix,” Lemieux says. In San Francisco, the band gigged for radical activists, arts spaces, spiritual centers (a Hare Krishna temple, a Zen monastery) and music education. As the band grew, it played for hippie communes and music venues, for striking radio workers and bail funds, for the Black Panthers and the Hells Angels. It performed with the Buffalo (N.Y.) Philharmonic Orchestra in 1970 to support the ensemble; in a concert that became one of its most revered live recordings, the Dead played in Veneta, Ore., on Aug. 27, 1972, to save the local Springfield Creamery.
“We saw something in need, and we would just write a check,” Hart, 81, remembers today. “The Grateful Dead, we never thought of business. We just wanted to play, play, play.”
“That was really delicious for us, to make everybody happy,” says Kreutzmann, 78. “Because that’s the goal: Make everyone happy, not just the band.”
But as the band’s following grew throughout the ’70s, that charitable approach — guided by the band’s generous attitude, which meant lots of “yeses” and not many “nos” — became untenable. It needed to streamline its operation. “We had always been given to community service, but we just wanted to get organized about it,” Weir says, alluding to the tax burden of the band’s initial model.
So the Dead did something that was then novel for a musical act: It started a foundation. In 1983, the band’s early co-manager Danny Rifkin (who held a number of roles in the group’s orbit over the years) helped it launch The Rex Foundation, named for Rex Jackson, a roadie and tour manager for the band who had died in 1976. The foundation eliminated the need for the Dead to do the types of one-off, cause-based benefits it had done previously, instead directing earnings from its charitable initiatives into the foundation, which then disbursed that money — after approval by its board, which included the band’s members and others in its inner circle — to various grant recipients. By refusing to accept unsolicited grant proposals (applications were, and still are, submitted by the Rex board and those in the Dead’s extended community) and focusing its grants on organizations with small, sometimes minuscule, budgets, the Dead retained the homespun feel of its earlier charitable efforts.
The Rex Foundation quickly became the primary beneficiary of the Dead’s philanthropy. The band played its first Rex benefits in San Rafael, Calif., in spring 1984 and made a point of staging multishow Rex benefit runs — generally in the Bay Area or nearby Sacramento — annually for the rest of its career. “They were just regular gigs, there was no other fanfare, but the money would go to The Rex Foundation,” Lemieux says. “We all thought that was pretty darn cool. It wasn’t like the Dead played any less hard because it was a benefit gig. The Rex Foundation mattered to them.”
From left: Jerry Garcia, Mickey Hart, Bill Kreutzmann, Phil Lesh and Bob Weir at Berkeley’s Greek Theatre in 1985.
Richard McCaffrey/ Michael Ochs Archive/ Getty Images
Over the next decade, the Dead played upwards of 40 Rex benefits. Without the requirement that a given show benefit a specific charity — and with the larger grosses Dead shows now earned — “it allowed the money to be spread a lot more,” Lemieux explains. A beneficiary “wouldn’t be like a multi-multimillion-dollar organization that needed $5,000. It was a $10,000 organization that needed $5,000. That makes a huge difference.” (Weir, Hart and Garcia’s widow, Carolyn, and daughter, Trixie, are among the present-day board members of Rex, which still holds benefits and disburses grants; in July, Dark Star Orchestra, which re-creates classic Dead shows, played a benefit at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley, Calif., to celebrate the foundation’s 40th anniversary.)
During this period, the Dead also continued to play non-Rex benefits for specific causes, including AIDS research and eye-care organization Seva. The 1988 rainforest benefit was a hybrid — the rare Rex benefit with pre-announced beneficiaries in Greenpeace, Cultural Survival and Rainforest Action Network. “Those were all people that we had already funded to in their infancy,” says Cameron Sears, who managed the band in the late ’80s and ’90s and is today Rex’s executive director. (As it happens, Sears’ entrée into the Dead’s world as a recent college grad in the early ’80s was through philanthropy: He’d pitched the band on getting involved in California water politics.) As Garcia put it at the U.N., “We’ve chosen these groups because we like that direct thing … We don’t like a lot of stuff between us and the work.”
The model continues to reverberate through a music industry where it’s now common for major artists to have charitable foundations. “The fact that all these bands now have looked to that model and replicated it, [the Dead] don’t need to take credit for it, even though it may rightly belong to them,” Sears says. “They’re just happy that people are doing it. Their vision has had a multiplier effect now around the world. What Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam are into might be different than what Phish is into and is maybe different than what Metallica is into. But together, the amount of philanthropy that’s being generated through all these different people makes an incredible difference.”
Pull up just about any bootleg of a Phil Lesh show from 1999 through his death in October, and you’ll see a track between the end of the second set and the start of the encore, usually called “Donor Rap.” Lesh received a life-saving liver transplant in 1998; henceforth, he used his platform to encourage Deadheads to turn to their loved ones and say that, if anything happened to them, they wanted to be an organ donor.
After Garcia’s death, the Dead’s surviving members remained active musically — and philanthropically. When The Other Ones — the first significant post-Garcia iteration of the Dead comprising Weir, Lesh, Hart and a cast of supporting musicians — debuted in 1998, it did so with a benefit, raising more than $200,000 for the Rainforest Action Network. They all championed causes important to them: Weir with the environment and combating poverty, Hart with music therapy and brain health, Kreutzmann with ocean conservation, Lesh with his Unbroken Chain Foundation, which benefited a litany of things including music education. The Rex Foundation has also remained active, supporting a range of organizations across the arts, education, social justice, Indigenous peoples’ groups and the environment.
And, over the years, the band members began to work more closely with MusiCares. Early in the pandemic, Dead & Company — the touring group formed in 2015 by Weir, Hart and Kreutzmann and rounded out by John Mayer, Oteil Burbridge and Jeff Chimenti — and the Grateful Dead launched weekly archival livestreams that raised $276,000 for the organization’s COVID-19 Relief Fund. Dead & Company expanded the affiliation to epic proportions on May 8, 2023, when the band kicked off its final tour at Cornell University’s Barton Hall in Ithaca, N.Y., where it played one of its most revered gigs 46 years earlier to the day; the 2023 show raised $3.1 million, with half going to MusiCares and half to the Cornell 2030 Project, a campus organization dedicated to sustainability.
“If you want to talk about making a statement in modern times,” Pinkus says, “here they return to the venue of arguably the most famous Grateful Dead show ever, play the tiniest show that they play on a farewell tour, which is all stadiums, and then they turn around and do it as a fundraiser. It really spoke to everything about the Grateful Dead and Dead & Company’s commitment to giving back.”
“The industry is a very dangerous place at times,” Hart says. “When you get engulfed with the harder side of the business and fall through the cracks or stumble and you need some help getting your mojo back, that’s really what MusiCares does.”
From left: Bruce Hornsby, Jeff Chimenti, Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Phish’s Trey Anastasio, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann at one of the band’s Fare Thee Well shows at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, Calif.,
on June 28, 2015.
Jay Blakesberg/Invision for the Grateful Dead/AP
Over the last decade, Activist Artists Management has helped guide the band members’ philanthropic efforts. The company is both the manager of record for the Grateful Dead — a status conferred by Grateful Dead Productions, an entity comprising the band’s living members and representatives of Garcia’s and Lesh’s estates — and co-manages Dead & Company alongside Irving Azoff and Steve Moir of Full Stop Management. (Kreutzmann toured with Dead & Company from 2015 to 2022 but did not appear with the group on its final tour in 2023 or during its 2024 Las Vegas Sphere residency. On Dec. 4, Dead & Company announced it will play 18 shows at Sphere in spring 2025; a representative for the band confirmed the lineup will not include Kreutzmann.)
“There was this mosaic of incredible good works that this band was doing, and there was a feeling that we could help amplify those good works and those dollars by putting a little more structure and support around it and a little bit more intentionality around it, which is what Activist came in and did,” Activist founding partner Bernie Cahill says.
When discussing the Dead’s activism with the band and its affiliates, words like “apolitical” and “nonpartisan” come up often. As Kreutzmann puts it, “It’s much more fun to see all the people smiling, not half the people bickering at the other half.”
“These are objective things that I think everyone will agree with,” Lemieux says of causes ranging from rainforest preservation to AIDS research. “And that’s what the Dead were kind of getting on board with and raising awareness.”
Mickey Hart, Phil Lesh, Bill Kreutzmann, Bob Weir, Tom Constanten (with a cut-out standee of Jerry Garcia) and Vince Welnick of the Grateful Dead at the 1994 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction.
Steve Eichner/WireImage
But while it’s true that, both before and after Garcia’s death, the Dead’s members have avoided the strident political rhetoric some other artists favor, the band has still advanced progressive causes. In the ’60s, it rubbed shoulders with radical groups in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury. In the ’80s, when AIDS was a stigmatized topic, it headlined a relief show for Northern California AIDS agencies.
That has continued in recent years. Dead & Company’s Participation Row — an area it allots at its shows for nonprofit and charitable partners — has featured entities like the voter registration organization HeadCount and the sustainable-touring group Reverb, among other social justice, environmental and public health organizations, helping the band to raise more than $15 million since its 2015 debut. But Dead & Company have not shied from using their touring to platform more contentious causes. The summer following the Parkland, Fla., high school shooting, Dead & Company included the gun control group March for Our Lives on Participation Row. And after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in June 2022, the band displayed pro-choice messages at its shows and even sold a “Save Our Rights” shirt benefiting women’s health organizations.
“We support artists being authentic,” Cahill says. “If an artist feels called to speak out … our job is to make sure they have all the information so that they can speak intelligently on the matter. I think we’ve done a really good job with that over the years. We have both protected our clients and amplified their positions.”
And the Dead’s members have, judiciously, supported political candidates. Weir, Lesh and Hart played a February 2008 benefit dubbed “Deadheads for Obama,” and that fall, Kreutzmann joined them for another pro-Barack Obama gig. This fall, both Weir and Hart publicly endorsed Kamala Harris. While “you don’t want to tell people what to do,” Hart explains, “there are some issues you must speak out [about] if you feel right about it and if you’re really behind it.”
Bob Weir, Phil Lesh and Mickey Hart backstage at the Warfield Theater in San Francisco at a rally for Barack Obama in 2008.
Carlos Avila Gonzalez/The San Francisco Chronicle/Getty Images
As the Dead nears its 60th anniversary in 2025 and adds its MusiCares honor to a lengthy list of accomplishments — induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award, recipients of Kennedy Center Honors, a recording included in the Library of Congress, among numerous others — its surviving members are emphatic that this is far from a denouement.
“Obviously, they’re quite humbled and honored by it all,” Cahill says. But “they always see these things as something that you get at the end of your career, when you’re done. And of course, these guys don’t feel like that’s where they are in their career. They feel like they have a lot more ahead of them, and I believe they do.”
Rhino continues to mine the Dead’s vault for new releases — its ongoing quarterly archival Dave’s Picks series helped the band break a record earlier this year previously held by Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley for most top 40 albums on the Billboard 200 — and orchestrate merchandising partnerships from Igloo coolers to Nike shoes that ensure the ongoing omnipresence of the band’s iconography. (“We’re always open for business — if it feels right,” Pinkus says.)
Most importantly to Deadheads, Weir, Hart and Kreutzmann are all resolute that they’ll remain on the road as long as they can; in 2024, Weir toured with Wolf Bros and, along with Hart, staged Dead & Company’s 30-show Sphere residency, while Kreutzmann kept his livewire Billy & The Kids act alive with Mahalo Dead, a three-day November event near his home in Kauai, Hawaii. Last year, Weir toured supporting Willie Nelson, whom he’s shared bills with for decades — and who at 91 is 14 years his senior. “His hands don’t work as well as they used to,” Weir says. “Nor do mine. But as the years go by, you learn to help the music happen through force of will. And Willie is as good as he’s ever been.”
Willpower is something the Dead’s surviving members have in spades. “These guys have always been the outsider,” Cahill says. “They’ve flourished by being the outsider and by being a maverick and doing things their own way. Because they’ve written their own rules, they’re not beholden to anybody. They’re not looking for anyone’s approval, and they continue to write their own rules and to do things that inspire them.”
That core ethos is what has driven, and continues to drive, the Dead’s approach to both its business and its philanthropy — two things that, as the band is still proving to the industry at large, need not be mutually exclusive.
“I would like to be able to have people who disagree with me still be fans of the music or the art that I make,” Weir says. “But at the same time, I’ve got to be true to myself, and I expect that they have to be true to themselves as well.”
This story appears in the Dec. 7, 2024, issue of Billboard.
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Lisa looks stumped. She raises her eyebrows slightly and purses her lips, staring out from underneath her immaculate, walnut-brown bangs. She is trying to answer a question that for most people qualifies as Small Talk 101, but for her is a Sphinx-level riddle: “Where do you live?”
“I can’t really tell where I’m based,” she says, breaking into a giddy giggle. As one-quarter of the record-setting, superlative-defying K-pop girl group Blackpink, she called Seoul home. But now? She’s all over the place: Los Angeles, where we’re meeting and where she’s been spending a lot of time recording new music; her native Thailand, where she also filmed the highly anticipated third season of HBO’s The White Lotus; and Paris, where you can find her front row at fashion shows as a new house ambassador for Louis Vuitton. “I don’t even know which time zone I’m living now,” says Lisa, clad in a Kith track jacket and baggy Celine jeans, as she sips orange juice in a tucked-away booth of the star-friendly Polo Lounge at The Beverly Hills Hotel.
In her rare downtime, 27-year-old Lisa (also known as Lalisa Manobal) likes to hit up Pop Mart, the international toy-store chain whose adorable characters she can’t get enough of. (She once visited three different Paris locations in a single day in search of a rare figurine, and she jokes that she has more collectibles than furniture: “I have no space to walk anymore!”) Or she’ll seek out the best Thai food wherever she may be. Everyone in L.A. tells her to go to Anajak or Jitlada, two local culinary institutions, “but it’s not the OG taste for me,” she says. “It doesn’t taste like home. It tastes different.” She prefers Ruen Pair.
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“I just randomly walk in. I don’t really do any makeup, so I just go in like this” — she pulls her hair over her face — “and they barely notice me.” When people do recognize her in public, they usually play it cool, at least in America. “They come to you like, ‘I just want to say I love your music, I just want to say hi!,’ and leave,” she says in a chirpy faux-American accent. And if they don’t? “Well, of course, I always have him,” Lisa says, nodding toward the burly tattooed man at the next booth over who, I now realize, is her bodyguard.
Welcome to the totally fabulous, totally exhausting, jet-setting life of one of pop’s most exciting stars. On her fast and furious recent single “Rockstar,” she recites airport codes like they’re her ABCs (“Been MIA, BKK so pretty!”), flexes her multilingual skills (“ ‘Lisa, can you teach me Japanese?’ I said, ‘Hai, hai!’ ”) and name-drops her designer partnerships (“Tight dress, LV sent it!”) with the casual ease of someone describing their sock drawer. She’s the rare pop star for whom bone-rattling bangers about life in the fast lane and personal, autobiographical material are one in the same. As Lisa embarks on a solo career outside the girl group that made her famous, this world-building has been one of her biggest joys. “At first, I was scared and nervous because I never really come out here to do my own stuff,” she says, before lowering her voice as if she’s not supposed to say what comes next. “And now I’m having fun,” she whispers. “When [my singles] came out, the reaction from the fans, it’s healing me. It’s like, ‘Oh, my God. Yeah — I did a great job!’ ”
Diesel dress
Joelle Grace Taylor
Success in a pop group is no guarantee of success as a solo artist, but then again, Blackpink is no ordinary group. With its multinational members, onomatopoeic hooks and blockbuster music videos, the quartet was practically engineered for world domination. Since 2016, Blackpink has racked up 40 billion official on-demand global streams, according to Luminate; scored nine Billboard Hot 100 hits; and played some of the world’s biggest stages. The act was the first Korean girl group to play Coachella in 2019 and the first Korean act of any kind to headline the festival in 2023. By the end of Blackpink’s 2022-23 Born Pink world tour, named for its first No. 1 album on the Billboard 200, the group was selling out stadiums in the United States — one of only a handful of K-pop acts to have done so.
Alongside peers like BTS, Blackpink helped dismantle the lingering walls between “K-pop” and the American mainstream, making regular appearances on morning and late-night shows, recording music in English and teaming with U.S. hit-makers, eased by a partnership between YG Entertainment, the group’s Korean home, and Interscope Records.
Though all of Blackpink’s members have star power in spades — Jennie’s unbothered cool, Rosé’s singer-songwriter smarts and Jisoo’s sly humor and older-sister elegance — Lisa is an unmissable force in the group. She raps with the big, bouncy energy of the Pixar lamp, and her swaggering flows have made her a compelling face of hip-hop’s globalization. Her 2021 solo track “Money,” released through YG and built around a brassy beat worthy of Hot 97, reached No. 36 on the Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs chart — making her the first K-pop artist to enter its top 40 — and she fit right in next to Megan Thee Stallion and Ozuna on that year’s DJ Snake team-up, “SG.” As Lisa has been recording solo music, she has realized genre-fluency is her ace: “I kind of… kill it in every single thing?” she says sheepishly, twirling her hair. “So I’m like, ‘Oh, why not!’ ”
In the past, K-pop’s brightest breakout stars have typically pursued solo careers either independently (like rapper-singer CL of YG girl group 2NE1) or through the company behind their groups (such as the members of BTS, whose home base, HYBE, has a global partnership with Universal Music Group). Lisa, however, is pursuing a different model with the creation of her own management company and label, Lloud, and a partnership with RCA Records in which she will own her masters.
“It was very clear that she wanted to go for global domination as one of the biggest pop stars on the planet, and we’re right there with her,” RCA COO John Fleckenstein says. K-pop companies — typically one-stop shops that combine management, label, agent and other functions under one roof — “work in a certain way in terms of how they market, promote and A&R everything, and over the years, they’ve established this architecture that the fan base is really used to,” he says. “It’s pretty rare for someone to go from one architecture to another.”
Area jacket, Coperni boots.
Joelle Grace Taylor
And Lisa’s not the only one learning how — so are her bandmates, as they all simultaneously launch their next phases. Jennie released the sun-kissed bop “Mantra” in October through Columbia Records and her own Odd Atelier company. Rosé will release her debut album in December through Atlantic Records; her first single, the punky Bruno Mars duet “APT.,” debuted at No. 8 on the Hot 100 — a record high for a female K-pop soloist. Jisoo, meanwhile, has focused on acting in Korean TV shows and movies, but she unveiled her own company, Blissoo, in February, and Lisa thinks she’ll eventually do music, too. Coming from the world of K-pop idols — where stars are not exactly known for their agency and the quasi-diplomatic pressures on their shoulders can be immense — it’s a whole new competitive landscape.
As Lisa finishes her debut solo album against the ticking clock of Blackpink’s planned 2025 reunion, can she transform herself from a K-pop queen into a global girl boss? She’s up for the challenge. Technically, she’s the CEO of Lloud, though she squirms at the title. “I don’t want to say that,” she says, grinning. “Call me boss — call me Boss Lisa.”
When Blackpink wrapped its yearlong, globe-traversing, 66-date Born Pink world tour in September 2023, sleep was low on Lisa’s list of priorities. “I was super tired,” she says, “but I don’t know, I feel guilty when I’m not working. It’s like, I need to do something. It was weird. My body is sending me a sign: ‘Beep! Beep! Beep! Don’t rest too much!’ ”
She had already been thinking a lot about her future. Blackpink celebrated its seventh anniversary that summer — a critical milestone for K-pop groups, as seven years is a common contract length in the industry. (K-pop fans even speak of the “seven-year curse” to describe groups’ tendency to break up at this juncture.) For years, Blackpink’s trajectory had had a clear outline. But now, as its members pondered a contract renewal, they had to make decisions about an uncertain future — including what exactly they wanted from it, both together and individually. “Of course we want to do more, because Blackpink, it’s part of our lives. We still want to accomplish more,” Lisa says. “But on the other side, we also wanted to do something for our solo careers.”
They decided on an unusual arrangement: The members re-signed with YG for group activities but became free agents for their individual projects (though Rosé ultimately signed with The Black Label, which YG has had a stake in, for solo management). It was time for Lisa to chart her own course, and to do that, she needed her own team.
The first person she reached out to was Alice Kang, who had spent five years on the management team at YG’s L.A. branch, where she touched a bit of everything — marketing, merchandise, label relations — and got to know Lisa well. Joojong “JJ” Joe, who headed North American operations for YG for several years, had assigned Kang to be Lisa’s point person on staff. “Both of them have easygoing and fun personalities, so I think that’s why they have worked perfectly [together] so far,” he says. After spending a lot of time away from home on tour with Blackpink, Kang had left her job in late 2023 and was looking forward to some quiet time off as she figured out what was next. “I’m like, ‘Holidays are coming up, it’s the end of the year — family time!’ ” Kang says, laughing. “And then Lisa was like, ‘Hey!’ ”
Vaillant coat, Coperni dress.
Joelle Grace Taylor
Lisa pitched her on starting what would become Lloud. “She’s had this drive to really make her presence known in this U.S. music market,” recalls Kang, Lloud’s head of global business and management. Though Lloud brings to mind other artist-founded, multipronged companies like Beyoncé’s Parkwood Entertainment, Lisa says she hasn’t thought about eventually signing other artists, and she doesn’t cop to having any Rihanna-level empire-building aspirations. “I feel like Lloud is like my safe zone that always focuses on Lisa, supports Lisa,” she says. “I was just thinking about what I want to achieve this year, [taking it] year by year. So this year, what I wanted to do is work on new music and focus on that.”
As Lisa and Kang mapped out the steps they would need to take, they also brought in Joe, who had left YG as well, as an adviser. (He has a brand consultancy, ABrands, and an artist management and consulting company, The Colors Artists Group.) Much of Joe’s job at YG had been networking and relationship-building in the United States, and he helped Lisa construct her core team and set up meetings with major labels.
Lisa clicked with RCA right away. “As soon as I got in the car [after meeting with them], I was telling Alice, ‘I kind of love them!’ ” she says. It was mostly a gut feeling, but Lisa appreciated that they had done their homework: Lisa has five cats, and RCA made her a gift basket with cat-themed paraphernalia like stickers and plushies. “They made the meeting very, very personalized to Lisa specifically,” Kang says, “and they had already thought out plans on what they were going to do to help support Lisa and make her a bigger star than she already is.”
The gist of their pitch: amplify Lloud’s work and complement Lisa’s strengths. “K-pop is kind of a defined universe in terms of what the fan base expects and what people are going to do, and for Lisa, it was a very conscious choice to work with someone like us, because of the resources and connections that we have,” says Fleckenstein, who notes, for instance, that terrestrial radio play is one area where acts from the K-pop world “struggle a bit.” “She’s very clear on where this is going and what it should feel like, but we help her fill in the gaps about how to get there.”
RCA also made some key introductions — like connecting her to choreographer Sean Bankhead, who’s worked with Normani and Tate McRae and collaborated with Lisa on videos and live performances, including her fiery MTV Video Music Awards medley in September. Bankhead calls Lisa a “robot” when it comes to picking up choreography and says she mastered much of the “Rockstar” routine on location in Bangkok the day before filming started. “Which is really unheard of,” he says. “She’s a trouper.”
Mugler dress, Paris Texas shoes.
Joelle Grace Taylor
For Lisa, directing this phase of her career has been eye-opening. Does being the boss of her own company mean she now enjoys such corporate thrills as, say, budgets and expense reports? “Oh, of course,” Lisa says. “Nothing is boring yet because everything is so new. It’s like, ‘Oh, my God. I have to do this too?’ OK!
“Now I know how much it all costs,” she continues. “I’ve been under YG, and everyone was taking care of that, so I never really knew what’s going on or how much we spent for our music videos or photo shoots or hotels. But now I do kind of know about it, so I was like, ‘Oh, OK — no first class anymore,’ ” she says with a laugh as she mimes poring over a spreadsheet. (“The worst boss would be the one who doesn’t make decisions,” Joe says. “She makes decisions, so that’s great.”)
Compared with a giant company like YG, Lloud feels “like a family business,” Lisa says. It has fewer than 10 employees right now, and in true startup fashion, department responsibilities are porous. “We’ve been just so busy, so we haven’t had time to hire people,” Joe says of the biggest challenges facing Lloud. They’re building the car as they’re driving to the destination. “We’re shooting a music video and discussing the next music video at the spot,” he says. “We’re always doing the next one when we’re doing something [else].”
Which, at least for now, is how Lisa likes it. “These days, when I go to a restaurant to have a meal with Alice and my team, we just can’t stop talking about work. Even though it’s like, ‘OK, for this dinner, we’re just going to celebrate’ — we can’t do that. There’s no line,” Lisa says. “There’s so much stuff going on, so when I think about something and it’s popping into my head, I just have to say it right away. Otherwise, I’ll forget.” She pauses. “Yeah, I need to fix that.”
Success for Lisa is in her name. Born Pranpriya Manobal, she auditioned for YG when she was 13 years old. When she didn’t hear back, her mother took her to a fortune teller who recommended she change her name for good luck — a common practice in Thai culture. “We really wanted to get it,” Lisa told me in 2021, when we were speaking about her YG solo tracks. According to Lisa, the week after she rechristened herself “Lalisa,” which roughly means “one who is praised,” YG invited her to train in Seoul.
K-pop’s trainee system is like an artist-development program on steroids. Aspiring stars — chosen through global auditions as tweens and teens — spend years studying music and dance as they vie for a spot in a group. It is a grueling, pressure-cooker environment, with long hours, few days off, frequent evaluations and the constant threat of being cut. For Lisa, who spoke some English but didn’t know any Korean when she started, it could be isolating. “They wanted me to focus on speaking Korean more, so they told all the girls who trained with me: ‘No English with Lalisa,’ ” she recalls. But for Lisa, there was no other path. “I feel like I’m born to be onstage,” she says. (Her future bandmates agreed: “Lisa would always get As for everything,” Jennie told Billboard in 2019.)
Joelle Grace Taylor
Now, in her solo career, Lisa has made her own artist development a guiding priority. One of the first things Joe did last fall was help set up recording sessions. “She’s been working with one producer,” Joe says, referring to Teddy Park, who is credited as a writer or producer on the majority of Blackpink’s songs. “So I’m like, ‘Maybe you should just work with a different producer to see who can work together well.’ ”
Unlike many pop-group alums, Lisa has not felt particularly stifled in Blackpink. She and her bandmates have always credited Park with encouraging their input, and though Lisa has started co-writing some of her new material, she won’t be racking up credits just to prove a point. “I’m not like, ‘OK, I’m going to sit down and write the whole thing,’ ” she says. Still, she had her defined role in the group and has played it dutifully. “In Blackpink, I’m a rapper, so I always rap,” she says. “But now it’s a chance for me to show the world that I’m capable of [so much more].”
With its pummeling beats and Tame Impala-esque breakdown, “Rockstar” bridged her Blackpink sound and her next chapter. “We knew on launch we really wanted to come correct with her existing core fan base,” Fleckenstein says. Subsequent singles gave Lisa more room to experiment and play with new textures in her voice. “New Woman” is a bilingual team-up with Rosalía that features a dizzying beat switch and credits from Swedish hit-makers Max Martin and Tove Lo. The syrupy “Moonlit Floor (Kiss Me)” interpolates Sixpence None the Richer’s “Kiss Me” and is of a piece with recent disco-lite hits like Sabrina Carpenter’s “Espresso” and Doja Cat’s “Say So.” “I feel like I have more creative freedom with everything,” Lisa says.
Diesel dress, Paris Texas boots.
Joelle Grace Taylor
That includes the freedom to be a little edgier. When pop stars go solo after starting in a group, they usually break from their youthful pasts with strong statements of adult independence. But the rules are often different for K-pop stars, who have historically been expected to maintain squeaky-clean images by abstaining from dating and partying (at least publicly). Although those norms are evolving, they still shape the industry: Seunghan, a member of the SM Entertainment boy band RIIZE, was suspended from and, this year, ultimately left his group after photos and videos of him kissing a woman and smoking leaked online.
Lisa has been growing up gradually. When Blackpink headlined Coachella, she took the stage for a pole-dance routine before launching into a new, explicit version of “Money” packed with F-bombs — and fans noted online how gleefully she seemed to deliver them. (“I was waiting for that moment to sing that version,” Lisa tells me, though she notes that the occasion was Jennie’s idea: “She was like, ‘Lisa, just do it. It’s Coachella. Everybody’s doing it at Coachella.’ ”) Today, there’s a palpable maturity to Lisa’s new era, from her October performance at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show alongside lingerie-clad models to some bolder lyrics. It’s hard to imagine a double entendre as blatant as “I’m a rock star … Baby, make you rock hard” fitting neatly into Blackpink’s brand of playful sensuality.
“It’s a little looser [now],” Lisa says of her image, but she feels she has earned it. “We’re not rookies anymore. I’m 27 and headed toward 30. Of course I’m still young, yes, but I feel like it’s more flexible for us. And it’s nothing crazy,” she adds. “I feel like I’m just doing whatever I want, and it doesn’t hurt anyone. As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone’s feelings.” (As for her dating life, when I gently tease her about the “green-eyed French boy” she sings about in “Moonlit Floor,” Lisa — who is rumored to be dating LVMH heir Frédéric Arnault — looks over her shoulder, delivers an expert hair-flip and says coyly, “Well, I didn’t write that [song].”)
Bankhead says she’s navigating her evolution in real time. “I’ve always had those performances or music videos that have shock value, whether it’s Lil Nas X dancing naked in the shower or Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion doing a scissor move at the Grammys,” he says of his previous work. With Lisa, “There are a couple of times that I will push the envelope, and she’s like, ‘I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that yet.’ And then other times, like when I had this idea to do a more sexy breakdown for the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, she was like, ‘I think I want to do more.’ ” For now, any growing pains are primarily physical. Says Bankhead: “She had a little bit of a groin injury because we kept doing that split move in those heels.”
The best part of a Blackpink show isn’t the explosive pyrotechnics or glittering costume changes, but the encores: The four singers, dressed in their own merch, skip their usual windmill-limb choreography and just goof around with one another. They seemed like the rare girl group who, at the height of their powers, were not sick of one another. And their close bonds go way back. Lisa recalls that during trainee breaks, when most students would go home to visit their families, Jisoo — who grew up just outside of Seoul — would stay behind to keep her company.
Today, and as the members unveil their solo projects, they are among one another’s biggest supporters on social media.
“We know each other so well and know how much energy we have to put into every single project,” Lisa says. “So we want to support and say, ‘You did really well!’ Like, Jennie and Rosie just released their own songs, and we’re on texts, we’re on FaceTime. They’re like family. I’m just so happy that they’re releasing something. This is what we all wanted to do, so I just wanted to say that I really do love their songs.”
She confirms the group will reunite in 2025 — “I can’t wait,” she says — though exactly what form the reunion will take appears to be up in the air. YG announced earlier this year that the group would have an official comeback as well as a world tour next year. But when I mention the tour to Lisa, she squints. “That’s what they say?” she responds, in a voice that conveys some skepticism. (“I don’t know,” Kang tells me later. “We’ll have to wait and see what YG confirms.”)
How Lisa will juggle her own career with her group obligations going forward is something “we’re going to figure out as we go,” Fleckenstein says. “My gut feeling is, it will be a benefit to everybody. There really aren’t rules, and I don’t see why there should be any kind of rules around this either.”
Joelle Grace Taylor
Lisa currently doesn’t have plans to tour on her own, and she doesn’t think she can until she has a finished body of work. So for now, she’s full speed ahead on the album. “It’s so embarrassing to say this,” she says when I ask what music she has been enjoying lately, “but I listen to my album. I’m trying to figure it out, the track list and everything, what I can change in there.” Some unfinished songs her team plays for me evoke British iconoclast M.I.A. and Loose-era Nelly Furtado. Will there be ballads? “Everything’s there,” she says. “I think they’re going to be shocked at how capable I am [at] doing so many things.”
When I first met Lisa in 2019, on the band’s first proper stateside trip here in L.A., she seemed excited to take on the world — she bounded toward the window when she spotted the Hollywood sign — but also nervous about all the expectations on the group’s shoulders. The looser, wise-cracking Lisa of today seems like she is genuinely enjoying the ride. What advice would she give the Lisa of nearly six years ago?
“I’m not going to tell her anything,” she says, wide-eyed. “That’s not fun! It’s like when the fortune teller tells you something, and you have that stuck in your head. If someone says, ‘You’re going to win this thing,’ and you’re like, ‘Oh, well, I’m going to win that thing anyway, so I’m not going to do anything now,’ then you’re not going to achieve that. So I guess I will not say anything to my old self.” She leans back in the booth. “ ‘Whatever you’re doing right now? Just keep going.’ ”
This story appears in the Nov. 16, 2024, issue of Billboard.
Lisa looks stumped. She raises her eyebrows slightly and purses her lips, staring out from underneath her immaculate, walnut-brown bangs. She is trying to answer a question that for most people qualifies as Small Talk 101, but for her is a Sphinx-level riddle: “Where do you live?” “I can’t really tell where I’m based,” she […]
In 2024, the average merchandise campaign consists of 50 pieces of artwork that can easily be adapted for use on varied tour and direct-to-consumer items, says Matt Young, president of Bravado, Universal Music Group’s merch and brand management company. But for Olivia Rodrigo’s GUTS campaign, he says, “I think we’ve done at least 375 unique pieces of art.”Rodrigo’s singular vision for her first arena tour extended to the products sold at its kiosks. As the album rollout and tour details came together last year, the pop star coordinated with management, Bravado and label partners to ensure that each piece of merch “felt cohesive to the greater GUTS world,” says Michelle An, Interscope Geffen A&M president/head of creative strategy.
The number of items kept ballooning as Rodrigo leaned into the creative process, with a literally hands-on approach to identifying opportunities — from concocting mood boards to helping create color palettes to touching fabrics to ensure T-shirt quality. “This was Olivia saying, ‘I think this could be more. How do we do it?’ ” Young recalls.
Some highlights of Rodrigo’s GUTS merch line include unique jewelry (silver crescent moon rings and star necklaces, a nod to the tour’s set design), a butterfly design on tote bags and pool floats, an elastic bandage tin to store “vampire”-ready Band-Aids and, ahead of Netflix’s Oct. 29 release of her tour film, a set of five GUTS popcorn boxes, perfect for a premiere-night group hang. Along with the souvenirs that are now widely available at Rodrigo’s online shop, Young also points out that her various retail partners, ranging from global fashion chains to suburban Targets, also featured their own exclusive items: “The Zara in Europe has to have something different than the Hot Topic in the U.S.”
And just as Rodrigo ended each show sporting a tank top with a cheeky message customized for each city, every GUTS tour stop with multiple shows offered customized merch, including city-specific T-shirts and unique concert artwork designed in conjunction with local female artists. Rodrigo and Bravado approached the posters (shown below) as the ultimate collectible item — and once word got out about them early in the live run, fans started arriving to shows hours early to hit the merch booth.
“Is it logistically challenging? Sometimes, yes,” Young admits. “But it’s offset by the passion. You’re helping build a relationship with a fan in a way that they can’t really get anywhere else.”
This story appears in the Oct. 26, 2024, issue of Billboard.