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At just 10 years old, Christopher Brent Wood’s metamorphosis into indie disruptor Brent Faiyaz began.
As he collected CDs by D’Angelo, Lauryn Hill and Joe, among other R&B/hip-hop artists, the youngster would steadily pore over album liner notes, absorbing the behind-the-scenes details of how his favorite albums were made. By middle school, he had set up his first home studio, with a USB mic and downloaded software — the start of his shift from music fan to music-maker.
“I was making money selling beats; that’s how I got a lot of my friends when I was younger,” Faiyaz, 28, recalls today of his teenage years in the Baltimore area. “It’d be like grown motherf–kers coming to the house to get beats off me. My parents were like, ‘Who are these grown adults coming by the house? What’s going on?’ ”
Faiyaz’s parents had once pushed him to attend college. But eventually, that morphed into, “Can you just please graduate [high school]?” Faiyaz recalls with a chuckle, “because my grades were so bad. It was like you can do something all day every day, but if it’s not bringing no money to the house, they figured you needed a plan B or C. But music was all I wanted to do. So I kind of had to prove them wrong.”
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Faiyaz has done just that. Since he began releasing his own music on SoundCloud over a decade ago, he has upended the contemporary R&B scene with his raw, frank lyrics and ’90s-vibed alt-R&B sound — and become a bona fide mainstream hit-maker in the process. After gaining national attention with his guest turn (alongside Shy Glizzy) on GoldLink’s multiplatinum hit “Crew,” Faiyaz dropped his debut studio album, Sonder Son, in 2017. His loyal fan base continued to grow, and he broke through on the Billboard 200 in 2020 with his EP F–k the World, which bowed at No. 20; two years later, his second studio album, Wasteland, debuted at No. 2 on the chart, powered by the platinum singles “Gravity” (with Tyler, The Creator) and “Wasting Time” (with Drake and The Neptunes). Faiyaz has earned 4.7 million equivalent album units in the United States and 6.5 billion official on-demand U.S. streams for songs on which he’s the lead artist, according to Luminate, and he has charted 13 songs on the Billboard Hot 100, 20 on Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs and 33 on Hot R&B Songs. Faiyaz’s solo catalog of songs on which he’s credited as a primary artist generated 2.16 billion on-demand audio streams (inclusive of user-generated content) in the U.S. over the past 12 months ending May 30, 2024, according to Luminate. That’s the most among acts whose catalogs are distributed independently and outside of the major-owned indie distribution system.
It’s Faiyaz’s unwavering work ethic, creative visual flair and keen entrepreneurial instincts that have helped him craft one of independent music’s biggest recent success stories. In 2015, he and his manager, Ty Baisden, co-founded the label Lost Kids, which released F–k the World and Wasteland, and their success caught the attention of music distributor UnitedMasters and its founder and CEO, Steve Stoute. The company partnered with Faiyaz in 2023 to launch creative agency ISO Supremacy, and Faiyaz’s first ISO album, Larger Than Life, arrived that October, reaching No. 11 on the Billboard 200. The same year, he embarked on his F*ck the World, It’s a Wasteland world tour, playing theaters and grossing $5.3 million over 18 shows, according to Billboard Boxscore.
“A lot of it was timing,” the soft-spoken Faiyaz reflects today over his lunch of Mongolian lamb at a tony Beverly Hills restaurant. “I was fortunate enough to be in a space where I had the mainstream hit record with ‘Crew,’ and then I also had the underground sh-t. So I was able to tackle the super music heads and the mainstream audience all at one time. By the time Wasteland dropped, it was just perfect timing.”
Wales Bonner suit and Ray-Ban sunglasses.
Austin Hargrave
Of course, for him to take advantage of such perfect timing, he had to put in the work first. After graduating from high school in 2013, Faiyaz (whose stage surname means “artistic leader” in Arabic and was inspired by a close high school friend who’s Muslim) relocated to Charlotte, N.C. While he worked jobs at a grocery store and Dunkin’, Faiyaz continued to record and upload music on SoundCloud for his budding fan base. That’s where his kindred indie spirit — and eventual manager and business partner — Baisden discovered him. But it was Faiyaz’s singing, not his rapping, that intrigued Baisden.
“I clicked on a song called ‘Natural Release,’ ” says Baisden, who broke into the business as a manager in 2008 before co-founding multisector firm COLTURE in 2018. “It was the only song that Brent was singing and had more plays than all the other songs. While it gave me a whole wave like Frank Ocean, the way Brent’s tone felt made it his own world. I was like, ‘Man, this is fire,’ because he raps how he talks but he doesn’t sing how he talks. It’s a completely different audio experience.”
But despite his love of R&B, Faiyaz didn’t initially see himself as “built for R&B singing. I wasn’t really a take-my-shirt-off-and-show-my-abs kind of guy [onstage], so I didn’t think I was suited for it. And Ty said, ‘That doesn’t necessarily have to be what you do.’ So I just took the things that I would have been rapping about and put it in a way where I could sing it.”
Givenchy shirt and jacket.
Austin Hargrave
Baisden flew to Charlotte to meet Faiyaz, and the pair ultimately joined forces as founding partners in Lost Kids, named for Faiyaz’s high school crew; he has the letters tattooed on his knuckles. “The whole ideology of Lost Kids came from [Brent],” Baisden says. He handles everything related to Faiyaz’s business; Faiyaz maintains control over all creative aspects of his career. (“He isn’t in the studio with me; he isn’t picking my singles,” he says of Baisden.) As 50/50 partners in Lost Kids, Baisden and Faiyaz have — beyond music and publishing — also invested in startup companies, real estate and the Show You Off grant program, which supports Black women entrepreneurs. In a full-circle moment, Faiyaz’s mother, Jeanette, is also involved in Lost Kids’ philanthropic efforts.
“If we hadn’t met each other,” Faiyaz says of Baisden, “we would both definitely still be successful in our respective lanes because we’re both so driven and focused with similar visions. We’re learning from each other, but we didn’t go into this trying to do each other’s jobs. That’s what makes our alliance so special.”
As he and Faiyaz started working together, Baisden laid down one cardinal rule out of the gate for independent success: “That budget is the Bible.” Indie artists especially “have to really understand that,” he says today. “Brent would get mad because I’d say, ‘We can’t afford that, it’s too much. We’ll go out of business.’ ”
“Oh, man, it was the worst,” Faiyaz recalls with a laugh. “I was so focused on creativity that my ideas were outrageous. For me, a budget limited my creativity; it was like, ‘Pop the balloon.’ ”
“The funny thing,” Baisden explains, “[is] that when you look back today at our 2018 video for ‘Gang Over Luv’ [an early Faiyaz single], it only cost $50,000. But we still had Brent on a dirt bike, flying on a plane, the plane blowing up… it was incredible for being shot independently. There weren’t a lot of videos, but those that were shot were good investments. And the [budget] backlash at the time grew a smarter executive.” Now Faiyaz says he knows not only how to work with a budget but “how to maximize off the bare minimum — probably one of the most important things I’ve learned.”
When Faiyaz began truly blowing up in 2020, he found himself among a formidable contingent of male crooners including PartyNextDoor, Bryson Tiller, Lucky Daye and fellow newcomer Giveon. His supple tenor, which effortlessly slides into falsetto range in a way that’s reminiscent of R&B’s ’90s heyday, helped him stake his claim.
“I love things that sound throwback but are unique,” says Grammy Award-winning producer No ID, who collaborated with Faiyaz on Wasteland. “Brent’s music gives me a lot of the energy I felt from what I call the basement crew back then with Jodeci, Timbaland and Static. It has a gospel overtone, but it’s not gospel. There’s a tension in it. But it’s not overly soft even when he says ‘soft’ things.”
Brent Faiyaz photographed April 11, 2024 in Los Angeles. Stüssy x Levi’s pants.
Austin Hargrave
That tension stems from Faiyaz’s raw, fearless lyrics, which explore subjects ranging from life post-pandemic and the pressures of fame to romance and self-love, paired with his melodious and innovative blend of R&B, Afrobeats, rap, pop and other sonic influences. “His music always has a little edge to it. I love witty lyrics and syncopation,” No ID adds. “It’s just a great mixture for me. And a lot of people don’t have that naturally.”
Because of that edge, especially in its lyrics, some listeners have labeled his music “toxic,” pointing to songs like “F*ck the World” (“Your n—a caught us texting/You said, ‘Baby, don’t be mad, you know how Brent is’ ”) and “WY@” from Larger Than Life (“I be doing sh-t I really shouldn’t do for real/That’s why I always tell you to come through for real”). But Faiyaz says he’s simply drawing on real life, whether his own experiences, those of friends or just “keeping my ear to the street and checking the temperature.”
“R&B music is soulful and reality-driven,” he continues. “I want to portray the good, the bad, the ugly… I want to have a song for every situation you could possibly be going through. Life can be toxic sometimes, and I have records for that. That word tends to be the narrative because of the shock involved when people say, ‘Man, I can’t believe you said that.’ But people who have been following my music know that for every toxic record, there’s a heartfelt record, a sweet record. But being toxic was never the vision or intentional identity I was trying to portray. I’m making songs that to me are true.”
The initially shy Faiyaz grows impassioned as he discusses his love of songwriting. Prince and Stevie Wonder first sparked it in him, but he also names Max Martin, Dolly Parton, Kurt Cobain and more from far beyond R&B and hip-hop as influences. “When it comes to songwriting, genre doesn’t matter,” he says. “I grew up on a lot of different music, and I’m big on lyrics. I love writing music because it’s cathartic, my biggest form of release. If I leave it on a song, I don’t have to walk around with it.”
Faiyaz has considered, more than once, what a nonindependent career might look like. Early on, he pitched himself to major-label A&R executives. “The idea of going to a label and doing a deal was only something that I knew to do because that’s what I’d seen done so many times,” he reflects. “They offered me deals that I wasn’t trying to sign: Giving me a percentage of some music that I made before I even came to [them] just didn’t sit right. There was no deep spiritual stance or me planting a flag of independence. It was just, ‘This deal doesn’t make sense, so I’m not going to do it.’ ”
By 2016, multiple labels under the majors were courting him. And following the one-two punch of F–k the World and Wasteland, they came calling again. At that point, it had been several years since Faiyaz had last met with executives on that side of the industry — so despite “already having a grudge” from that first experience, he was willing to hear them out. This time around, however, he kept another of Baisden’s key rules of independence in mind: Know your value.
“It kills me when labels sign an artist knowing who that artist is creatively, but then they try to dictate their music and other things,” he explains. “Nothing is going to stifle your creativity more than having to say yes to some lame sh-t that you don’t want to do or being told no to some really cool sh-t that you want to do. It’s really no deeper than that for me. So I went with my gut.”
Isabel Marant jacket, shirt, pants and shoes.
Austin Hargrave
That brought Faiyaz to UnitedMasters and Steve Stoute. “Brent was unapologetically independent prior to me meeting him,” Stoute recalls. “In fact, that was what made me so interested in him. I knew that he was turning down major labels left and right. He had built a very strong team and infrastructure with his manager, Ty. So what he was looking for was a partner to provide him financial capital to go into other ventures that were creative.”
In a partnership deal signed in May 2023 — which a source close to the situation told Billboard at the time was valued at nearly $50 million — the pair announced the launch of Faiyaz’s own creative agency specializing in “visual and sonic art”: ISO Supremacy (ISO stands for “in search of”). “I liked the model, the creative freedom,” says Faiyaz, who serves as CEO. “And I was able to keep working with the people I’d been working with.” At the agency, “from the artists we work with to the creatives and directors we have on board, everything is pretty much about just what we think is cool [or are] hearing word-of-mouth spreading about something that is fire — and then we see how we’re going to translate and elevate this sh-t to the world.”
“Brent is a very talented musician and visual artist,” Stoute says. “He’s a very intelligent businessman whose contributions to the music business and independent artists have been profound.” One of those artists is R&B/hip-hop singer-songwriter Tommy Richman, ISO Supremacy’s first signee — brought to Faiyaz’s attention by his high school friend and ISO partner/COO Darren Xu — through a joint venture with PULSE Records. (Faiyaz’s relationship with PULSE dates back to 2016, when he entered his first publishing deal with PULSE Music Group after moving to Los Angeles; he renewed it in 2022.) Following his August 2023 signing, Richman — also managed by Xu and who opened Faiyaz’s recent tour and appeared on Larger Than Life — rocketed to No. 2 on the Hot 100 in May with his first single, “Million Dollar Baby.”
“You soak in a lot,” Richman says of his time spent with Faiyaz. “I feel like if I didn’t move with Brent this past year — with the shit that’s happening right now — I would crash and burn. Being with him at clubs or shows, seeing how he interacts with people and how he carries himself, I picked up on a lot. You’d think that hanging out with somebody like that, you’d get a big ego. But honestly, it has humbled me more. He’s just a normal f–king guy from Maryland who just makes beautiful songs.”
As with Baisden, PULSE Music Group senior vp/head of creative Ashley Calhoun and now with Xu, Stoute and Richman, Faiyaz’s business interactions reflect how he has prioritized building long-term relationships as an independent artist. “I’m about the people more than I am about anything else,” Faiyaz says. “If I can run with you and kick it with you when there’s no business being discussed, then you’re somebody I want to do business with.”
Givenchy shirt, jacket, pants and shoes.
Austin Hargrave
Since wrapping his most recent tour in November, Faiyaz, who lives in Miami, has been enjoying some downtime. But that doesn’t keep him from enthusiastically reeling off a list of projects he’s currently developing, ranging from films, commercials and signing more artists to further expanding his clothing brand, NUWO (an acronym, in keeping with his indie ethos, for Not Unless We Own). He’s even picking up a long-forgotten passion again: drawing, which he last did in a class he received a scholarship for at the Maryland Institute College of Art when he was 8. When it comes to creation of any kind, Faiyaz says, “I love everything about the ideation process, every piece of it. Then once it gets to the point of consumption, I’m past it and moving on to the next.”
As our lunch winds down and the restaurant becomes quiet, our waiter returns with the culinary director in tow: It turns out that both are major-league Faiyaz fans. “Thanks for coming,” the director says with palpable excitement. “I wish you’d been at Coachella. Keep doing your thing; you’re killing it!”
Faiyaz seems surprised to be treated like a rock star. “Thank you, man. Appreciate you,” he responds politely, seeming to register a gamut of emotions that evolve from slightly surprised to humble to quietly moved as he agrees to the duo’s tentative request for a photo. But that brief exchange encapsulates just how far Faiyaz has come in his unwavering quest to own all facets of his career — and to telegraph that message to aspiring artists and listeners alike.
“My role musically and artistically, that’s not really up for me to interpret,” Faiyaz says matter-of-factly. “There are still a lot more things I want to learn. But now I’m realizing how important it was to break the mold so that people can see my story, see what we did and say, ‘All right, I can do that. It’s just another way to go about it. It doesn’t really have to be so black and white.’ That has been my role: to usher in this new wave of creative freedom.”
Additional reporting by Shira Brown and Carl Lamarre.
This story will appear in the June 8, 2024, issue of Billboard.
It’s a sunny May afternoon in Miami’s lush Coral Gables neighborhood, and Camila Cabello greets me at her family’s one-story home accompanied by a small menagerie: four dogs — including her golden retriever, Tarzan, and German shepherd, Thunder — along with her rescued cockatoo, Percy.
Cabello is home “to recharge” amid a hectic few days that included time in California and will soon take her to New York for the Met Gala. But today, with her messy pigtails, Daisy Duke shorts and silver flip-flops, Cabello looks more like a college girl on break than a major pop star about to release her fourth solo album — a fearless artistic statement coming June 28 titled C,XOXO. Her father washes the driveway, her mother offers me cafecito, and her aunt plays with the dogs.
Cabello will receive the Global Impact award at Billboard’s Latin Women in Music, produced by and airing on Telemundo on June 9.
“Let’s go to lunch — I’ll drive!” Cabello exclaims as she grabs her tote. The 27-year-old got her license just two years ago and learned to drive during the pandemic; as we hop into her white Tesla — nicknamed “Tessie” — she admits that getting behind the wheel (with a good album or podcast on the stereo) is her favorite form of stress relief. She takes us to Pura Vida, one of her favorite local health spots, where we sit down outside with summer chicken bowls. “Girl, it’s this Met Gala coming up… I can’t wait to stuff my face after,” she jokes.
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With her still fairly new platinum blonde tresses (a fresh ’do she debuted on social media in February), Cabello largely goes incognito; some passersby seem to recognize her but are perhaps too shy to approach. Just one screams, “Camila, I love you!” — a reminder that while Cabello might periodically crash at her parents’ house, she’s still a global superstar. But while she jokes that her new look has the side benefit of granting her some anonymity in public, she explains that it has a deeper meaning.
“The voice that I found with my new album has this big baddie energy vibe,” she explains animatedly. “Part of that spirit is taking risks, not giving a f–k and doing whatever you want. I think the blonde was me staying true to that feeling. With the hair, it was like, ‘How do I tell people, visually, that this is my new era?’ Sometimes you need the physicality to let them know, ‘Oh, this is a new thing, a new character.’ ”
CD1974 courtesy of Retail Pharmacy top, SHAY earrings and rings.
Erica Hernández
On March 27, Cabello unleashed the first taste of what C,XOXO might bring: the Playboi Carti-featuring “I Luv It,” co-produced by Spanish hit-maker El Guincho (Rosalía) and Jasper Harris (Jack Harlow, Doja Cat). “I Luv It” samples Gucci Mane (“Lemonade”), interpolates a 2011 Rihanna loosie (“Cockiness [Love It]”) — and has a hyperpop aesthetic that marked a significant departure from the more conventional pop (and more recently Latin-influenced) sound that made Cabello a household name, first as a member of Fifth Harmony, then as a solo artist.
The unexpected track was also significant for another reason: It was Cabello’s first Interscope Records release after leaving Epic Records, her label home of nearly a decade where she had been since Fifth Harmony’s debut and released her first three solo albums — Camila, Romance and Familia — between 2018 and 2022.
Reactions to “I Luv It” on social media were mixed, and the song debuted and peaked at No. 81 on the Billboard Hot 100. Still, the song (and its somewhat unhinged vibes) piqued interest in Cabello’s next musical chapter. “The unpredictability of it is so different for me,” she says. “It’s such a kick-the-door-down moment, sonically, that it makes me feel strong and powerful. At least for me, in this stage of my life, it would feel so unfulfilling to just have a song that was big but felt like something that I’ve already done before. That brings me no joy. I would rather have a song that’s weird and be new territory to me.”
While the strangeness of “I Luv It” encapsulates Cabello’s new era, it was a different track that truly set the tone for the C,XOXO sessions. “At first, we played around with different genres, trying to find the sonic world the album lives in,” she explains. “ ‘Chanel No. 5’ really cracked open the album. For me, as a writer, that was the voice I wanted for the album: coy, cheeky and kind of devious.”
Gucci jacket, SHAY earrings, Harlot Hands rings.
Erica Hernández
On “Chanel No. 5,” Cabello sings between trippy piano interludes, her falsetto distorted, about being a “cute girl with a sick mind.” At one point she even raps — she has recently taken inspiration from “c–ty, cocky girl rap” like Flo Milli and Baby Tate, she explains.
“We realized we hit this key transition in the process,” says Harris, who co-produced the album, of the track. “That’s the first song we knew was very C,XOXO, and creating every song forward, we would ask if it felt as true as ‘Chanel.’ It was our north star.” (“Chanel No. 5” will be released pre-album drop as a fan track.)
Cabello, El Guincho and Harris devoted most of 2023 to working on the album — in New York, Los Angeles and the Bahamas but primarily Miami — and along the way, she had another creative epiphany: Her previous sets all had a why, a when and a who at their center, but never a where. C,XOXO would: It’s a love letter to Miami.
Cabello wasn’t always a Miami girl, but her journey here — a city full of sounds and culture enriched by immigrants — was a big part of what ultimately made her one.
Born in Havana, Cuba, she moved to Mexico City with her parents at age 6 and ultimately arrived in Miami with her mother (her father joined almost two years later). Her mom, who had been an architect in Cuba, worked in the shoe department at Marshalls; her dad washed cars at Dolphin Mall. Today, they run a successful contracting company called Soka Construction (named after Camila and her younger sister, Sofia).
In ninth grade, Cabello auditioned for The X Factor, where she eventually joined contestants Ally Brooke, Normani, Lauren Jauregui and Dinah Jane to form Fifth Harmony. With Cabello in the fold, the girl group — one of the most commercially successful ever — went platinum with its first two albums, in 2015 and 2016, and notched a top five Hot 100 hit with the Ty Dolla $ign-featuring “Work From Home.”
Erica Hernández
Amid Fifth Harmony’s success, Cabello started exploring opportunities outside the group. In 2015, she teamed with Shawn Mendes for “I Know What You Did Last Summer,” which cracked the top 20 of the Hot 100; the following year, she released “Bad Things” with Machine Gun Kelly, which went to No. 4. In December 2016, Fifth Harmony announced Cabello’s departure from the group on social media. “After 4 and a half years of being together, we have been informed via her representatives that Camila has decided to leave Fifth Harmony,” the other four members stated. “We wish her well.”
Cabello quickly flourished on her own: Her first three solo albums all reached the top 10 of the Billboard 200, and she has logged 21 Hot 100 entries as a solo artist, plus picked up two Latin Grammys. All the while, she continued notching star collaborations, like “Hey Ma,” an early-2017 teamup with Pitbull and J Balvin from the Fate of the Furious soundtrack. But her solo career really took off in August of that year with the Young Thug-featuring “Havana,” which climbed to No. 1 on the Hot 100 the following January. Her second Hot 100 chart-topper followed two years later: the steamy duet “Señorita” alongside Mendes, with whom she was in a much-photographed, two-year relationship.
Still, Cabello hasn’t yet delivered her lasting, full-length statement — the one that strongly defines her creative ethos and is entirely her own. Her latest album, 2022’s Familia, scored a top 40 hit with the Ed Sheeran-featuring “Bam Bam,” but it was Cabello’s lowest-charting solo project. (Her feature film Cinderella the previous year — a splashy starring role that could’ve further boosted her profile — received, at best, middling reviews.) In September 2022, Cabello left Epic to sign with Interscope — home to young stars like Billie Eilish and Olivia Rodrigo, who have become some of the biggest names in pop music by unapologetically establishing strong musical identities. With C,XOXO, Cabello is poised to potentially do the same.
“This was the first time she had the chance to decide on her own record label,” says Cabello’s longtime manager, Roger Gold of Gold Music Management. “[Epic was] wonderful and super supportive, but there’s a difference between being signed to a label without your own selection process and making decisions and then really getting to do that for the first time. It was a big deal for her to find people who deeply wanted to work with her, respected her and understood her. [Interscope] truly makes us feel like we’re the only artist on the label sometimes.”
“She’s the kind of artist who doesn’t compromise,” says Michelle An, Interscope Geffen A&M president and head of creative strategy. “It sounded like Camila wanted a label team that really gets into the weeds of everything. What are the big looks with the [digital service provider] partners? What is the strategy with radio? How are we implementing it internationally? She’s the boss of the boardroom, and she can tell us how she feels and how she wants to market. She’s really embracing the fact that she has a big team that operates like a boutique.”
No Sesso dress, SHAY earrings.
Erica Hernández
That level of label support, Gold says, allowed Cabello to treat C,XOXO as the kind of creative departure she had never explored before. “She’s feeling very confident in her womanhood, owning her own power,” he says, “and feeling like this is her time to bravely say the things she wants to say.” It may have been a sonic jolt and, to some fans, an outlier, but “I Luv It” was no red herring.
On C,XOXO, Cabello’s musical hallmarks remain — her hypnotic falsetto, her vulnerable ballads, her heartfelt songwriting — but in an entirely different sonic context that now blends hip-hop, Afrobeats, R&B, reggaetón and electronic music. They’re the sounds of Miami itself, vividly evoking the scenes of the city: driving past the clubs on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach or through bustling, artsy Wynwood on a busy weekend.
“So much of the inspiration for this album was driving, listening to music, rolling the windows down and hearing what people in the city are listening to,” Cabello says. “The voice she was using as a writer felt very much like the city itself,” El Guincho adds. “I thought it was a very interesting angle to have Camila represent her city strongly in a pop album context, which are usually very displaced and decentralized.”
Because the album was made almost entirely in Miami, Cabello says she looked at the city “with binoculars and extra-close attention. Sonically, it feels like it’s a Miami art piece.” For her palette, Cabello drew on a diverse group of collaborators to add unique colors, including Carti, Lil Nas X, The-Dream, fellow Floridians City Girls and BLP Kosher — and, most notably, Drake. That much-discussed (and paparazzi-snapped) jet ski adventure Drake and Cabello took in the Turks and Caicos Islands last year? They were finishing up a track together.
“He’s the f–king GOAT, so it felt like shooting for the stars,” Cabello recalls of initially approaching the Canadian rapper by sliding into his Instagram DMs. “I showed him the album when I felt comfortable enough and he really liked it. [The feature] came out of a nontransactional place. He had this idea of a song called ‘Hot Uptown,’ and it just felt like I was in the city. I was in Miami.”
ABLONDI dress
Erica Hernández
The flirtatious, Caribbean-infused track (which until their Turks meetup was, according to Harris, the only album cut created with a remote collaborator) isn’t Drake’s only C,XOXO appearance. On the nearly two-minute-long interlude “Uuugly,” sequenced immediately after “Hot Uptown,” he sings over soft synth beats and Cabello’s ghostly backing vocals. According to Harris, the interlude was Drake’s idea: “He wanted to do one more thing for the album.”
“Why does he have his own song? Because selfishly, I just want to hear Drake on my own album,” Cabello says with a laugh. “I love that for me — it’s like that rebellious mood. Who says I can’t do that? It’s Drake talking his sh-t.”
Another ballsy move for Cabello: This is the first time she has written all her lyrics and lyrical melodies for an album, taking full responsibility for the ideas and concepts behind them. “She’s fast, curious, has great instincts for melody, is strong with her opinions but also open for them to be challenged. She’s pretty much a freestyler with great first takes,” El Guincho says. The producer “really believed in me to take on the writing,” Cabello says. “That felt good and important to me. It makes me feel different when the whole body of work is purer, my thoughts and my taste in words. I think that’s why it sounds so cohesive, because it really feels like me.”
Today, at Pura Vida, Cabello pulls out her phone and opens a Pinterest board she created last fall. It has movie stills from Spring Breakers, girls wearing balaclava masks, long manicured nails, BMX bikes, photos of the city at night — all conjuring the quintessential DGAF Miami girl energy that Cabello telegraphs on the cover of C,XOXO, which features the sweaty-haired star with heavily mascaraed, just-out-the-club lashes, licking an electric blue lollipop, her tongue stained with its fluorescent color.
“She had specific memories of Miami and growing up there,” An says. “She described driving through the tunnels, with [their] very specific yellow lighting that you don’t see anywhere else. She described a specific hue of blue at the beaches and was focused on blue hour. The blonde hair was also a big deal. The party culture. She spent a lot of time trying to get us to understand the visual world of Miami.”
Erica Hernández
As she honed the album’s voice and vision, Cabello started dressing differently, always wearing lip gloss, fully embracing her bold new persona. “It was important for me on this album to feel that way,” she explains. “Pop music is so uncomplicated — it’s very one-toned. In a weird way, this album shows these chaotic, sometimes toxic scenarios, and I think we as humans are like that — we’re messy, complicated, super twisted.”
“There’s a lot of people that want you to be formulaic in this business,” Gold says. “There’s pressure in general to not rock the boat too much: If something isn’t broken, don’t fix it. Camila is not that type of artist.”
With C,XOXO finished, Cabello has some time to unwind and focus on herself. She finally started watching Breaking Bad; she’s currently into cold plunges; and she’s maximizing the time that she spends in chancletas (flip-flops).
“It’s when I feel the freest. I just want my toes to be free,” she confesses with a smirk. “I hate heels, I hate sneakers, I just want to be in chancletas all the time. This is actually the first time that I’ve gone to an interview in chancletas, and I feel that this album has given me the permission to do that.”
C,XOXO also allowed her to embrace her personal relationships. Simply being able to hang out with her friends at home enriched the creative process, she says: “That energy of being with your friends and that girl gang vibe felt so sick to me.”
That vibe particularly comes through on “Dade County Dreaming,” the final track she recorded for C,XOXO. Inspired by its namesake county, the collaboration with Miami hip-hop duo City Girls (who Cabello connected with through her sound engineer) captures the essence of both the album and who Cabello is today: a city girl herself, having fun and living life. The hard-hitting track — with its ’90s freestyle undertones, haunting piano lines and geographic name drops — was, Cabello says, “the missing piece on the album [because] City Girls represent Miami so hard.”
Erica Hernández
Just weeks ahead of releasing C,XOXO, Cabello tells me she doesn’t have any expectations. “Many things can happen, and they are out of my control,” she says. But she’s ready to face the feedback with the clarity and maturity she has cultivated in the 12 years since her Fifth Harmony debut.
“[When I was starting out], I wish I knew that not everybody is going to like me, and it has nothing to do with me,” she admits. “That affected me a lot in the beginning. When you’re that young all you want is acceptance and love, and you can’t understand when people don’t like you. You take it so personally, and it makes you feel like you’re doing something wrong. Once you get older, you realize that people’s reactions have nothing to do with you, and you don’t have to take it so personally and be affected by it. I’m way more at peace with it today.”
On an ordinary day, she’ll go to the beach, read a book, invite her friends to her condo in Sunny Isles for dinner, sip a Bacardi and sparkling water, put on a cute outfit and go dancing at Swan, a chic Euro-style spot in the luxurious Miami Design District, or Dirty Rabbit, an edgy Wynwood dance club. After a night out, she’ll make a mandatory stop at the 24-hour Pinecrest Bakery for some croquetas. Even if she’s tired, she pushes herself to go out and won’t hold back from dancing with a cute guy if she feels a vibe. “I’m living the Sex and the City life, but Miami,” she says with a laugh. But really, it’s the C,XOXO life.
“To me, it’s about going out more, going to more parties and just being a bit more fearless and rebellious,” she muses. “Before, I would go out and not care about what I looked like. If I felt kind of ugly, it was whatever — but now, I always want to feel pretty for myself. It’s about really enjoying life, and I always think to myself, that’s what sensuality is all about. It’s a sensory thing: enjoying the food you eat, enjoying putting on a few outfits in the mirror, enjoying the senses of being alive. It’s about taking in that baddie energy.”
This story will appear in the June 1, 2024, issue of Billboard.
When Lainey Wilson played Australia for the first time in March, she made sure to meet the country’s animal ambassadors: She held a koala; she pet a kangaroo. But it wasn’t all furry fun.
“I got crapped on by a bird twice,” Wilson says in her thick Louisiana drawl, shaking her head in bemused disbelief. “In the exact same spot. I heard it was good fortune, so I was like, ‘Go ahead. Do what you got to do, bird.’ ”
But if there’s anyone who doesn’t need luck, it’s Wilson. With a perseverance and grit that’s reflected in her music, the ascendant 31-year-old country star has made her own. After she moved to Nashville in 2011, Wilson endured a decade of disheartening struggles — including seven American Idol rejections. But over the past two-and-a-half years, she has broken records and reached new milestones at a staggering pace — all without compromising her traditional country sound.
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When “Save Me,” her urgent duet with Jelly Roll, reached No. 1 on Billboard’s Country Airplay chart in December, only six weeks had passed since her solo hit, the coming-of-age tale “Watermelon Moonshine,” had summited the list — the shortest stint between No. 1s for a female artist in the chart’s 34-year history. “Watermelon Moonshine” appeared on Wilson’s most recent album, 2022’s Bell Bottom Country (Broken Bow Records/BMG), which took home both the Academy of Country Music (ACM) and Country Music Association Awards for album of the year, as well as the Grammy for best country album — only the ninth record ever to complete that trifecta. And at November’s CMA Awards, Wilson became the first woman to win entertainer of the year since Taylor Swift in 2011 and the first artist since Garth Brooks in 1991 to win best new artist one year and entertainer of the year the next.
At times, the rush has been overwhelming. “I do feel like the 10 years of nothing happening slightly prepared me, but I don’t think you can ever really fully prepare yourself for everything coming at once, and you’re just trying to hold on for dear life,” Wilson says.
“Sometimes when you’re moving that fast, maybe artistically you’re not ready. But she spent 10 years honing her craft,” says Jon Loba, BMG’s president of frontline recordings for North America, who signed Wilson in 2018. “The music was there, the personality was there, the performance was there. So in a sense, that happened overnight, but it has been a long build. It’s just the awards and the recognition have all come in an accelerated fashion.”
Georges Chakra suit, House of Emmanuele earrings.
Joelle Grace Taylor
One line in particular from Wilson’s acceptance speech for female artist of the year at the ACM Awards last May encapsulates her personal credo: “If you’re going to be a dreamer, you better be a doer.” And Wilson is nothing if not a doer. On this late-March morning, she has flown 14 hours on a commercial flight from Sydney to Los Angeles, landing at LAX at 7:30 a.m. and coming straight to Pasadena for this interview and its associated all-day photo shoot, even showering on location instead of first stopping at her hotel.
Getting a caffeine jolt from an iced brown sugar oatmeal shaken espresso from Starbucks, she sits on a bench in the lush backyard as birds chirp. Clad in a cozy, loose-fitting sweatsuit, Wilson pulls her knees up against her chest to shield against the slight morning chill. She’s not wearing any makeup, her long blonde hair sticking out from under a ball cap, her bare feet still sunburned from sitting in a Sydney park.
Wilson’s relaxed vibe contrasts markedly with the electric buzz she says she’s still feeling from the reception she received in Australia. “All I could think about was little 9-year-old Lainey just wanting to write music about my life and how in the world could somebody on the other end of the world relate to it,” she reflects. “It just goes to show you that we’re all a lot more alike than you think.”
Growing up in tiny Baskin, La. (population 200), 9 was a big age for Wilson. It was when she wrote her first song, “Lucky Me,” while at a sleepover with a friend; when she got her first horse; when she went to the Grand Ole Opry for the first time, where she saw Bill Anderson, Crystal Gayle, Phil Vassar and Little Jimmy Dickens. “My daddy actually still has the ticket stub,” she says. “He put it in the lockbox.” And it was when she first knew that one day she would perform on that stage. “My sister was asleep on the church pew like she could care less,” she says. “I remember eating popcorn and thinking, ‘Oh, I’m going to do this.’ ”
She worked her way through high school as a Hannah Montana impersonator, learning how to entertain audiences at places like St. Jude Children’s Hospital in Memphis and realizing she was “born” to perform in the process. Wilson, who calls herself a “fifth-generation’s farmer’s daughter,” combined that desire with the whatever-it-takes work ethic she inherited from her father. “It definitely has to do with coming from a farming community, getting up and planting those seeds and watching them grow,” she says of the diligence she applies to her career. “I really do view it as ‘I’m a song farmer.’ I just try to take care of what I have, and I take a lot of pride in what we’ve grown.”
By 2011, Wilson had moved to Nashville, where her career as a singer-songwriter started germinating. But with a traditional sound out of step with the pop-dominated country in vogue, she had to survive years of setbacks before reaping her first rewards. She hit a low point in 2014: On her third year living in a camper trailer, career stagnant, the man she was dating impregnated another woman, and Wilson’s producer, who was letting her live in his studio parking lot, died. “It was a lot of dark moments in my life,” she recalls, “and I just felt not worthy.”
(Years later, she would draw on that challenging time when she collaborated with Jelly Roll on “Save Me” and its desperate yearning-for-salvation theme. “I love Lainey’s ability to be vulnerable, and I wondered if that would translate on the song,” Jelly Roll says. “Lainey has such an authentic voice [that] I felt if she could connect with the song, then she could share these lyrics from a woman’s point of view.”)
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Still, even amid those struggles, there were bright spots, like when her pal Luke Combs cut a song they co-wrote for an EP he released before he got signed. (Wilson, who considers herself first and foremost a songwriter, has also co-written songs cut by Chrissy Metz, Flatland Cavalry and Thompson Square, among others.) While working on her songwriting, she also started developing a signature country-hippie look, with bell bottoms and a wide-brimmed hat, and her sound, which combined traditional country with a slight rock edge. Around 2017 — the year she inked her Sony Music Publishing deal and a year before she signed with Broken Bow — she began tagging her social media content with #bellbottomcountry. “I just felt like during that time people were having a hard time getting it — everything from the way that I dress to the way that I sound,” Wilson says. So she came up with her own clear explanation: “country with a flare.”
Half-jokingly, Wilson says she succeeded by outlasting the gatekeepers. “I think we just kind of shoved it down their throat enough to where they’re like, ‘All right, she ain’t going away,’ ” she says.
In an era when women still struggle to get airplay on terrestrial country radio, that has been no small feat. As her popularity has grown, Wilson has flexed different facets of her artistry — and scored radio hits — by both releasing solo songs and featuring on duets with male artists. After “Things a Man Oughta Know” became her first Country Airplay No. 1 in September 2021, she featured on Cole Swindell’s “Never Say Never,” which reached No. 1 in April 2022. The following April, her “Heart Like a Truck” peaked at No. 2, as did “wait in the truck,” her collaboration with HARDY the same month. She then returned to the top spot with “Watermelon Moonshine” and “Save Me” in October and December, respectively.
“Honestly, there was not a grand strategy of alternating singles with collabs,” Loba says. “Quite simply, it has been those acts reaching out to Lainey with great songs she connected with, and the timing has fortunately worked out well.”
As Wilson’s career gained momentum, Loba says that — in addition to making sure her music was where it needed to be — her team focused on stressing Wilson’s authenticity, which was on ample display in her charming, gracious Grammy acceptance speech earlier this year. “She’s not copying anyone else,” Loba says. “At the end of the day, everyone can see her heart and is cheering for her.”
Lainey Wilson photographed on March 26, 2024 at Paradise Pasadena in Pasadena, Calif. Kelsey Randall shirt and pants, Double D Ranch boots, Brit West necklace and cuff, Minnie Lane earrings and Tenee Estelle Trading Co & Modern Myth Jewelry rings.
Joelle Grace Taylor
Long-awaited success hasn’t diminished Wilson’s ambition — when asked if she wants to headline stadiums in five years, she answers three — but she is temporarily pulling back on the throttle just a little.
After spending only 15 nights in her own bed in 2022 and then playing 180 shows in 2023, she has trimmed her itinerary to a more manageable 80 concerts in 2024; following brief Australian and European runs earlier this year, she’ll mostly play North American festivals and headlining shows (other than opening for The Rolling Stones in Chicago on June 30) for the remainder of the year. “I feel like you can see the light at the end of the tunnel when you hear, ‘100 less,’ ” she says. But with new opportunities come fresh obligations.
“As this career grows, I feel like there’s a lot of other jobs that come along with it,” Wilson says. Her expanding list of brand partnerships includes Wrangler, American Greetings, Stanley, Tractor Supply and Coors — and she even appeared on the fifth and most recent season of Yellowstone in late 2022. (Wilson doesn’t know what her future on the show holds, but she would like to return if her schedule allows.) This summer, Wilson will open a three-story bar, Bell Bottoms Up, in Nashville’s entertainment district in partnership with TC Restaurant Group.
“She won’t say no, so we have to for her,” Loba says. “Since we signed her, she has not left a moment unscheduled. Every time I see her, the only question I [usually] have is ‘How are you?’ We both come from farm families. We’re not taught how to rest in farm families. From management to agency to label to publicist, I think we’re getting better at creating that space for her.”
“Last year was a hard year,” Wilson says. “It was the best year, and I don’t know if we’ll ever have a year like that again. But everybody was tired by the end of it — not just me, but my whole crew. Everything we’ve said we would do, we did it. And then bigger opportunities would come, and you can’t pass them up either.”
Roberto Cavalli shirt, pants and shoes, Charlie 1 Horse hat, Double D Ranch necklace.
Joelle Grace Taylor
And at a time when she could understandably be focused on her own material, she wants to leave space to work with other artists. With her appearance on “Wilted Rose” off The Black Crowes’ new Happiness Bastards, she became the first act to ever feature with the storied blues-rockers. The group’s Rich Robinson tells Billboard he and brother Chris reached out to Wilson because “her voice is so powerful. You can tell that she really feels what she is singing.”
Wilson says she would “love to collaborate with Victoria Monét,” especially after seeing her perform at Clive Davis’ pre-Grammy party in February. “She just turned it on,” Wilson continues. “At the Grammys, her [victory] speeches were from the heart. I was like, ‘I want to be her friend.’ ” And she hopes to work with new pal Lana Del Rey, though she hasn’t written for Del Rey’s country album that’s due later this year.
As the demands on her time increase, Wilson is leaning into time-honored practices to help her cope. In Australia, she started waking up an hour early to pray, journal and meditate. “I do sound a little hippie-dippy, but it works for me,” she says. “Just kind of starting my day with an attitude of gratitude.”
She vows to do the same when her WME-booked Country’s Cool Again tour starts May 31 in Nashville. “I have no choice because it has made me feel so good and grounded,” she says. When following that routine, “the shows have gone better. I feel more levelheaded. I got to treat myself like an athlete.”
Over the last two years, one word seems to keep coming up around Wilson.
“Whether I’m running into somebody and they’re saying, ‘Man, your life has been a whirlwind,’ or whether the word’s coming out of my mouth, or I open a book and see the word ‘whirlwind,’ it just seems to be surrounding me,” she says. “Whirlwinds cause turbulence that cause chaos. But at the end of the day, you figure out how to come back to the center.” Which is why it’s also the title of her third full-length Broken Bow album, out Aug. 23.
She describes Whirlwind as “the Western sister of Bell Bottom Country,” and lyrically more “introspective” than previous efforts: “I feel like it’s got a little bit more character [and] cinematic storytelling.” Wilson teamed again with producer Jay Joyce (who produced Bell Bottom Country and its predecessor, 2021’s Sayin’ What I’m Thinkin’), but in a sign of her increasing clout, her road band plays on Whirlwind instead of the cast of studio musicians who typically appear on country albums. “We’ve played close to 400 shows in the past two-and-a-half years. I knew they could do it,” Wilson explains. “I felt like that’s where the magic was going to come from this time.”
Dolce & Gabbana top, Norma Kamali pants, Charlie 1 Horse hat, Modern Myth hat band, Double D Ranch boots, Alexis Bittar bracelets, We Dream in Colour earrings, Minnie Lane, Modern Myth Jewelry, Boochier Jewelry and Established Jewlery rings.
Joelle Grace Taylor
Wilson co-wrote all the songs on the album. While her sound still leans traditional and her voice has an old-fashioned twang, her lyrics usually avoid country’s common nostalgic bent and have separated her music from some of her contemporaries’. Longing for the imaginary good old days — whether in life or her music — isn’t her focus.
“It’s important for me to be proud of where I come from and the way that I was raised, but not dwell on it too much — because who really cares? Let’s take that and move forward with it,” she says. “That’s just how I like to view life. You just got to keep trucking along.”
While she has nothing against a light-hearted ditty — and has written a few herself, including “Hold My Halo” and “Straight Up Sideways”— as a songwriter, Wilson prioritizes depth. “I think about the songs that made me fall in love with country music and made a difference in my life,” she says, citing Brooks’ “The Thunder Rolls,” Keith Whitley’s “When You Say Nothing at All,” Reba McEntire’s “Fancy” and Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss’ “Whiskey Lullaby.” “I just think, ‘I’ve got to do that.’ Of course, there’s nothing wrong with a beer-drinking song, but even with that, I think you can dive a little deeper and get people to think a little bit.”
Listeners relate to the authenticity of Wilson’s writing, says her musical hero, Dolly Parton. “Even though Lainey is breathtakingly beautiful to look at, her true beauty comes from deep down where songs are born and written,” Parton tells Billboard. “People feel her heart and soul in what she writes because she knows what they know, feels what they feel and has the gift to present it in words. God bless her. He has and he will.”
The night after her Grammy win in February, Wilson was enjoying a celebratory dinner in Los Angeles with her manager, Red Light’s Mandelyn Monchick; Loba; and Broken Bow executive vp JoJamie Hahr when Loba mentioned his 6-year-old nephew was being picked on at school.
“Lainey goes, ‘I hate bullies. I’m going to go to his school and do show and tell and sing some songs and say what an amazing little guy he is… I can make a difference,’ ” Loba recalls. “She has just won [best country album], and the night after, she’s sitting there concerned about my nephew.”
Wilson is a people-pleaser by nature. Say something she agrees with and she looks straight at you, nods and says emphatically, “100%.” The effect is powerful — and that natural empathy has helped her connect with both fans and fellow artists. “Lainey is someone you can get in the foxhole with and get raw and real,” Jelly Roll says. “She is also a very grounded person, so if I’m ever overwhelmed, I know I can call her.”
Georges Chakra suit, Sam Edelman shoes, House of Emmanuele earrings, Minnie Lane rings.
Joelle Grace Taylor
Wilson attributes that down-to-earth sensibility to her upbringing, though she admits she has had to work to maintain it as her star has risen: “I have fought tooth and nail to make sure that I am doing the things that make me feel like me, [like] calling my family at home, checking to see how the farm’s going and see if Daddy has planted his crops, [checking in] on my nephews, hanging out with my boyfriend on the porch and those kinds of things.”
She went public with her relationship with former pro football player Devlin “Duck” Hodges at the 2023 ACM Awards, but otherwise vociferously protects the privacy of herself and those around her. In her personal life, too, Wilson has looked to Parton — who has spoken about the importance of keeping some things to yourself when you’re sharing so much else with the world — as a guide.
“I think that was probably [about] her husband,” Wilson says. “When it comes to mine and Duck’s relationship, there’s going to be some things that we can’t escape and people are going to say and do whatever, but me and him are on the same page about the less we put out there, the less that we’re going to have to deal with people making anything up and saying anything. We want to keep that as sacred as we possibly can between me and him, and so far, it has worked for us.”
Wilson, whose first Broken Bow album features a song called “WWDD” (short for “What Would Dolly Do”), got to spend some time with — and glean some useful advice from — her inspiration last year at Dollywood. “She dove right in,” Wilson says of Parton. “She was like, ‘You got a good manager?’ And I was like, ‘Yep.’ She said, ‘Well, is he an a–hole?’ ” Wilson pointed to Monchick and said, “ ‘She’s a big a–hole.’ And [Dolly] said, ‘That’s all I needed to hear. That’s what you need.’ ”
Kelsey Randall shirt and pants, Double D Ranch boots, Brit West necklace and cuff, Minnie Lane earrings and Tenee Estelle Trading Co & Modern Myth Jewelry rings.
Joelle Grace Taylor
Parton has faith in Wilson’s ability to navigate fame’s tricky waters. “In this business, as in any other, you have to sacrifice and compromise to get things done,” she says. “But I believe Lainey, like myself, will never sacrifice her principles and values for a dollar bill.”
Another icon, Brooks, has also encouraged Wilson. After winning CMA entertainer of the year, she anticipated naysayers who believed her ascent had happened too quickly and that even her own doubts would creep in, but Brooks helped silence that inner critic. “He said, ‘I feel like you’ve got the keys to country music and you’re going to be driving it for a while.’ And I was like, ‘Oh, Lord. I hope I don’t wreck this thing,’ ” she jokes. “But when somebody like him says that to you, it does make you feel like, ‘OK, yeah, that imposter syndrome can just go kick rocks.’ ”
With that mindset, it’s easy to believe Wilson can do anything — and to understand why, at the end of the day, she sees herself as a cowgirl: rough and ready, and hanging on to the rollicking ride she’s on. “Being a cowgirl is digging in. Getting up, dusting your jeans off and not being scared to get your hands dirty,” she says. “I’m from a long line of cowgirls.”
This story will appear in the May 11, 2024, issue of Billboard.
When Lainey Wilson played Australia for the first time in March, she made sure to meet the country’s animal ambassadors: She held a koala; she pet a kangaroo. But it wasn’t all furry fun. “I got crapped on by a bird twice,” Wilson says in her thick Louisiana drawl, shaking her head in bemused disbelief. […]
In retrospect, the signs were there. The vintage arcade games on proud display in his 2008 episode of MTV Cribs; the 2011 album inspired by steampunk aesthetics; the impulsive commission of a $400,000 meme in the form of a chain that said “BIG ASS CHAIN” (which is currently on loan to the American Museum of Natural History for a forthcoming exhibit on hip-hop jewelry). But it isn’t until I step into the basement of T-Pain’s suburban Atlanta home — a neon-lit bunker with both a theater-size main gaming station and a separate arcade room with soundproof doors (“for screaming and sh-t”) and distinct areas for Atari, PlayStation, Tekken, Sega and SNES — that it fully sinks in. The man whose voice defined late-2000s party music is an unapologetic, card-carrying nerd.
“I’ve been trying to tell people for a decade!” the 39-year-old singer says with a booming laugh, pacing the game room in sweatpants and slippers. “Nobody wanted to listen.” Ten years ago, few would have known that the artist who seemed to write hits in his sleep was regularly hopping on Twitch to play Skyrim with like-minded gamers, or that he’d tricked out his Hit Factory studio in Miami with a full stage for nightly Guitar Hero sessions. (“Any time an artist would come by the studio, I don’t give a f–k what you’re talking about — grab this guitar and meet me in the booth,” he says, pantomiming Pantera-esque riffs.)
Back then, flying his geek flag in plain sight wasn’t compatible with being the voice behind the buoyant, world-conquering records that have soundtracked nearly two decades of bottle service nightclubs, pro sports broadcasts and White House correspondents’ dinners — at least not according to the powers that be. “I never got to show that side of myself because management deemed it uncool. So instead of playing video games, we’d go to the Dolphins game,” T-Pain remembers, his perennially jolly voice tinged with only a hint of regret. “But I thought that the sh-t I wanted to do was the coolest sh-t in the world.”
Andrew Hetherington
For listeners of a certain age, T-Pain’s music triggers Proustian memories of school dances, fake IDs and first sips of Boone’s Farm, the soundtrack to the nights that Facebook photo albums were made of. Back then, the Florida teen born Faheem Najm to a family of Bahamian Muslims had a stage name short for “Tallahassee Pain” and ambitions as a rapper that shifted when he heard the uncanny vocal effect applied to a remix of Jennifer Lopez’s “If You Had My Love.” In 2004, the 19-year-old inked a deal with Akon’s Konvict Muzik label, having caught the singer’s ear with a cover of his song “Locked Up” edited to be about having a busted car.
Tooling around on boosted equipment, he used vocal processing software to make himself sound like a choir of horny angels on his first hit, “I’m Sprung,” or an android on a bender on his next smash single, “I’m N Luv (Wit a Stripper),” both of which he wrote and produced as well as sang — and which both cracked the top 10 of the Billboard Hot 100 in 2005. Before long, his digitally uplifted melodies, sweet and slightly melancholy, had become the de facto sound of the charts. Between 2007 and 2008, T-Pain landed 13 top 10 Hot 100 hits, including three No. 1s (Flo Rida’s “Low,” Chris Brown’s “Kiss Kiss” and his own “Buy U a Drank”); for two weeks in 2007, he appeared on four top 10 singles at once. A dozen platinum and gold plaques hang throughout his basement, alongside an errant Grammy Award (best rap song for “Good Life” with Kanye West), a few plush toys designed in his likeness and a couple of White Claw empties.
But by the 2010s, the humanoid effect he’d pioneered had grown ubiquitous, oversaturating pop music to the point that its originator became a punchline. (“Y’all n—s singing too much, get back to rap, you T-Paining too much!” Jay-Z famously crowed on 2009’s “D.O.A. [Death of Autotune].”) Meanwhile, T-Pain’s own voice faded into the background. His fourth album, 2011’s Revolver, hardly moved the needle; its follow-up, 2017’s Oblivion, traded his signature melodies for middle-of-the-road trap he attributed to the demands of his then-label, RCA Records. He’s frank about the profound depression that colored the years in between; in the 2021 Netflix docuseries This Is Pop, he says it began on a flight to the 2013 BET Awards, when Usher called him over to accuse him of ruining music for “real singers.” (“We’ve spoken since and we’re good,” Usher told Billboard in 2021.)
The comment hit close to home. T-Pain had been struggling with alcoholism, mismanaged finances and an overall loss of creative confidence. “I didn’t want to do ‘Freeze,’ I didn’t want to do ‘Buy U a Drank,’ I didn’t want to do most of the songs that are my biggest hits. Because, you know, I’m an artiste,” he confesses in the basement with a chuckle and a deep sigh. “Back then, when I got done with a song, I was always thinking, ‘People are going to like this,’ and not, ‘I like this.’”
Over the past decade, Pain (as he’s known by his family and friends) has seemed hellbent on proving his artistic worth once and for all. In 2014, he arrived at his NPR Tiny Desk concert unaware of the brief, then sang gorgeous unplugged renditions of past hits on a video that now has 27 million views. He removed his furry monster suit to reveal himself to a stunned judges’ panel when he won Fox’s The Masked Singer in 2019, having anonymously out-sung Donny Osmond and Gladys Knight. And last year, he released a project he’d been piecing together since 2017, a covers album (On Top of the Covers) with source material ranging from Frank Sinatra to Black Sabbath, delivered with a full band and his soulful voice, au naturel. “I think it’s weird to even ask if I can sing anymore, or to even associate me with Auto-Tune in 2024,” he says matter-of-factly. “All the proof is there, and it has been there for a long time.”
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T-Pain says he’d dreamed of recording a curveball like On Top of the Covers while his label and management team compelled him to chase the sound of artists half his age. (After 2017’s Oblivion, his last record for RCA, he signed to Cinematic Music Group, a subsidiary of Universal Music Group whose catalog was sold last year to Interscope Geffen A&M for an undisclosed amount, Billboard reported at the time.) After years of butting up against industry bureaucracy, he decided to go it alone, assembling a tiny team alongside his former project manager Nicolette Carothers to establish Nappy Boy Entertainment as an independent label in January 2020 (Carothers is currently the label’s head of operations). Besides T-Pain himself, it’s home to a small roster of rappers including Young Ca$h, with whom he released a joint eponymous album as The Bluez Brothaz, in March (and with whom he recently threw the Miss Biggest Booty Pageant in Atlanta, which is exactly what it sounds like). That umbrella has since expanded to reflect T-Pain’s truest passions, including Nappy Boy Automotive and Nappy Boy Gaming, both of which sell merchandise and host in-real-life and virtual events — from massive drift-racing competitions to a monthlong music competition on Twitch, which led to the signing of rapper NandoSTL.
Now, the hobbies he was once told to hide to maintain a veneer of cool are branches of his job, which means he’s basically always working. But for the first time in 20 years, he’s doing it his way — which generally means at home in sweatpants with a gaming console in hand. He gave up trying to come off as cool and has never felt cooler. Lit by the glow of five huge gaming monitors, he says with a shrug: “If you stop trying to impress everybody and make everybody think you’re perfect, what can they hate on?”
The day before we meet in early April, T-Pain posts a clip from a recent stream on Twitch, where he regularly broadcasts to a virtual crowd of gamers, fans, haters and random stragglers as he works on new music, plays video games or shoots the sh-t in occasional marathon sessions. (In recent weeks, they’ve ranged from five minutes long to 12 hours.) Previewing a new song, he noticed a string of comments from the same persistent heckler: “straight garbage,” “autotune to mask lack of skill” and so on. “My wife is one of my [moderators], and usually when people start talking sh-t, they get banned immediately,” T-Pain explains. “Then I started seeing the ban appeals: ‘I’m sorry, man. I was going through something that night, I was drinking heavy…’” He decided that rather than block out the hate, he’d figure out where it was coming from.
“I like all my sh-t, but I do know it’s ass to somebody,” T-Pain explained to the commenter on the stream in his usual jovial tone. “You think classically trained violinists are listening to ‘Buy U a Drank’? I don’t think so! But the thing we need to figure out is to stop trying to make everybody else have our opinion.” He went on to correct a few misconceptions (“People don’t realize, Auto-Tune or not, you still got to write a good song!”), analyze his own typecasting as “the Auto-Tune guy” and shrewdly break down club music’s escapist appeal. Before long, the random commenter apologized for his harsh words. “You ain’t got to apologize, bro,” Pain good-naturedly replied. “You just had an uninformed opinion.”
T-Pain has spent nearly two decades attempting to apply logic to comments like these. “They don’t want their narrative to change, especially if it fits in with everybody else’s: ‘Yeah, we all hate T-Pain. He’s bad at music,’” he says with a wry laugh. “If you’re a metal guy or a country guy, then of course all you’re going to know is the Auto-Tune, the narrative that has been pushed on you. But I’m here to talk through it with you, not to say, ‘F–k you, keep that opinion over there.’ Criticism is always good — but you’re not going to make me dislike my sh-t!” His level-headed breakdown is interrupted by a dramatic entrance from Stewie, the family’s Persian cat, who looks like a haughty, fluffy cloud and proceeds to cough up a series of noisy hairballs (and who is, yes, named for the Family Guy character).
Andrew Hetherington
When it comes to metal and country fans, T-Pain speaks from experience. Though the version of “War Pigs” that closes On Top of the Covers received Ozzy Osbourne’s stamp of approval (“Best cover of ‘War Pigs’ ever”), metalheads loudly disagreed. As for Pain’s soulful take on the country standard “Tennessee Whiskey” popularized by Chris Stapleton: “A country music page on Instagram posted my version, and there was only one comment: ‘Nope,’” he says, cracking up. It was harder to laugh at the reception of his previous attempts at country crossover. He recalls a red-carpet interview shortly after his “Good Life” Grammy win in 2008. “They asked me who I wanted to work with, and I said Carrie Underwood,” he says. “The country fans were like, ‘She don’t work with j—oos. She has too much class for somebody like you. Why would she ever…’ And I was giving her props!”
The topic will ring true for anyone who has listened to Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter, but for T-Pain, the conversation isn’t new. “I actually lived in Nashville for a while, ghostwriting for country artists from 2014 to ’16. Everybody kept trying to figure out why Luke Bryan was saying ‘T-Pain’ in all his songs for a second,” he says with a laugh. Elsewhere among his clients: “Rhett Akins, Dallas Davidson… What’s the super racist one? Most of them?” he says with a cackle. “Toby Keith, I was writing stuff for him. Georgia Florida? Florida Georgia? Whichever way that goes.”
But after seeing his share of hateful feedback from gate-keeping country fans, he opted to keep his work private. “Beyoncé is strong enough to keep it going. It’s easier for her to stay in it than me,” he admits. “I’m not up at that level, so I can’t punch through that kind of stuff. So I kept doing it, but I just stopped taking credit.” Maybe those tides are finally turning: Running into Jelly Roll at the iHeartRadio Music Awards in April, the singer fawned over Pain’s “Tennessee Whiskey” cover, declaring, “Country music’s in love with you right now!” (And on April 26, the two released a cover of Keith’s “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” and performed it at Stagecoach together.)
T-Pain tends to refer to his work with a modesty that borders on self-deprecation, brushing off his biggest hits as inside jokes (he wrote “I’m N Luv [Wit a Stripper]” to make fun of a friend’s first strip club experience) or painful memories (the “Good Life” studio sessions dragged on for weeks). His fame still seems to puzzle him. “People will come up to me in the mall and I’m like, ‘My dude, we’re in Hot Topic right now,’” he says with a laugh. “I’m getting ear gauges just like you are, from the same case — actually, can you move? I can’t f–king see my earring.” Being a musician is nowhere near as cool as people make it out to be, he stresses: “Tons of people do way cooler sh-t than I do, and I know that because I look up to them.”
Andrew Hetherington
For the most part, the people T-Pain looks up to have nothing to do with the music industry. It was on a 2016 trip to Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, that Pain discovered drifting, a style of precision driving seen in the Fast and the Furious franchise, which he describes as “being in control of an out-of-control car.” He was already an auto fanatic, at one point owning 46 vehicles (in part because his former managers knew that buying him a new one was the surest way to convince him to record a song). His former managers deterred his obsession with drifting, unsure how it could be profitable. Nevertheless, he began attending local Atlanta events, quietly ingratiating himself in the scene.
Hertrech “Hert” Eugene Jr. has been co-owner and president of Pain’s auto company, Nappy Boy Automotive, since it launched last year. The Orlando, Fla., native, who Road & Track magazine named the car world’s most important influencer in 2022, remembers his first impression of the singer as remarkably down-to-earth. “Pain wanted to check out what we call the burn yard, where we drift cars around and do burnouts,” he says, referring to a spin move that creates smoke and noise. “It was definitely weird to meet T-Pain, someone who I dressed as for Halloween in 2009 — fast-forward 10 years and he knows who I am.” Showing me a video from the first Nappy Boy-hosted drift event at Atlanta’s Caffeine & Octane raceway, Pain fans out over the various drivers, then points to himself behind the wheel of a souped-up pink race car as it drifts beside its competitors in a kind of chaotic ballet.
His entry into the gaming world was similarly unassuming. Though his former management had warned him not to publicize it, Pain had been active on Twitch since 2014, playing on- and off-stream with friends he’d made on the platform who were mostly chill about the fact that he was, well, T-Pain. One such friend was Mike Brew, who, after years of gaming together, began offering Pain advice about building out his channel into a professional organization; in 2021, that became Nappy Boy Gaming, with Brew as co-founder and president.
“Outside of music and music videos, my exposure to him was all on Twitch,” Brew says. “There was never a moment, seeing him on stream, where I was like, ‘Oh, God. This guy’s so full of himself.’ There are tons of artists that have come to Twitch since that are just terrible to watch because they’re so full of themselves. Meanwhile, Pain’s cracking jokes about himself, making relevant jokes about the streaming industry — he knows what he’s doing, and he’s shockingly humble about it.”
Pain and Brew had no connections to the gaming industry or to developers, so establishing the company felt like a scrappy startup, building custom servers and throwing DIY events, gradually earning the respect of the streaming community. “He’s recognized as an actual streamer,” Brew notes. “Not just as a musician trying to find a new revenue stream.” Even so, Matt Galle, one of Pain’s representatives at CAA, believes the singer’s side ventures have bolstered his tours. “When people were stuck inside during COVID, T-Pain was livestreaming daily,” he says. “People got to know him really well as a personality and human being and realized this is someone they believe in.”
Pain’s wisecracking charisma is part of his success on Twitch, but there’s also a decided “nerd recognize nerd” factor. These days he fields regular calls from rapper friends asking him how to get started on the platform. “Nope, I’m not telling you,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not trying to gate-keep, but I know you’re trying to get on there because you think I’m making a ton of money. I am! But still, it’s not like that. You should’ve got on that b-tch a decade ago then.” For all the rappers he names who use Twitch organically (Post Malone, Lupe Fiasco, Tee Grizzley), there are far more who see it as a come-up, though he stresses that the real nerds can sniff out the bullsh-t. “People have all these different ideas of how to make it cool, but it’s not about being cool,” he says. “It’s about gathering with like-minded people, being yourself and not having to conform to anything. The cool sh-t is, you don’t have to be cool.”
At the peak of his late-2000s hit-making, Pain believed that being his nerdy self would constitute career suicide. He still remembers reading blog posts in 2007 about Plies (who’d blown up the same year with the T-Pain duet “Shawty”) that mocked the rapper for having gone to college. “‘Nah, he ain’t no gangster, he went to college,’” Pain says, imitating the comments. “What’s that have to do with anything? You can be a killer and also know social studies.” The incident, he says, compelled him to dumb down the way he spoke; he began to drink more heavily and to spend money on the things that other rappers flaunted, desperate to fit the mold of late-2000s hip-hop stardom. He cackles remembering how the way he dressed would make onlookers think he was robbing his wife, Amber, who he married in 2003. Then he grows serious. “Eventually I found out that in doing that — being somebody that I wasn’t — anybody outside of the rap community just straight up thought I was stupid,” he admits. “It felt bad as sh-t. I didn’t want to be the stupid rapper that everybody thought I was going to be. I wanted to be better for my wife. I wanted to articulate myself. I had to change: to be who I really was and not who everybody wanted me to be.”
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Pain’s nerdier passions have now found their way into his songs: For his latest solo single, the anthemic (and un-Auto-Tuned) “Dreaming,” he spent a month learning the 3D graphics software Blender in his spare time to animate the video, complete with exploding volcanoes, a Grand Theft Auto-style street scene and an impressively faithful rendering of himself. The breakneck recording pace of his hit-making prime has significantly slowed since going independent — but that’s because he prefers it that way. “You know the saying, ‘Find something you love and get paid for it’? I think whoever said that didn’t tell everybody, ‘Also, make sure you’re the boss,’” he says, clearly elated at his newfound ability to say no, or to simply do it his way. “That person also left out the part ‘Make sure it’s not your only income.’ Because if it is, you’re going to hate that thing that you loved in the end.”
These days, he uses his “entertainer side” to fund his hobbies, taking a few hours of work (a concert, a club appearance) and turning it into two weeks of fun. He still feels some residual burnout from two grueling decades in the industry, and to those who attribute his latest side projects to having fallen off musically, he has an unbothered reply: “Why stress myself out about doing all these red carpets,” he wonders, “when I could be playing video games in my drawers at home?”
It’s a cloudless 90-degree April day in the Coachella Valley, and T-Pain is dancing like no one is watching. In fact, a few hundred influencers are.
Dressed in their finest Y2K-flavored mesh and leather, the crowd is gathered to witness the singer twirl like a ballerina, hip-thrust like a Magic Mike extra and pop-lock like he has been taking notes from an old Darrin’s Dance Grooves DVD. Pain’s the sole headliner of the invite-only Celsius Cosmic Desert party, next door to the festival grounds on the first Friday of Coachella weekend, where Megan Fox, Halle Bailey and Barry Keoghan pose for pictures clutching dewy energy drink cans. Though the crowd for his 45-minute set skews more Gen Z than millennial, they appear to know every word to anthems like 2007’s “Bartender” or the 2008 Lil Wayne collaboration “Got Money.”
His double strand of Nappy Boy logo chains looks heavy, and his sneakers, it turns out, are one size too small. Still, the performance — his first of three he’ll do in the next 36 hours, both in and outside of the festival proper — is something of a milestone for an artist precisely 14 years older than the average attendee. “This is my first time even around Coachella,” he declares to the crowd, mopping his brow with a towel between songs. “I don’t know if that’s cool as f–k or sad as a motherf–ker!”
Andrew Hetherington
I’d been disabused of any expectations of backstage bacchanalia on the hourlong ride from Pain’s Palm Springs hotel to the windblown festival grounds, during which the singer sat quietly beside Amber, drinking Nesquik, relaxing to the sounds of smooth jazz and extolling the virtues of the new Call of Duty: Warzone mobile game with his bodyguard. It’s Amber’s birthday at midnight; later he’ll take her out for sushi along with the rest of the team, and tomorrow they’ll make a pit stop to grab ice cream before his set at the Revolve Festival in Palm Springs, which he’s headlining alongside Ludacris and a few more 2000s throwbacks (Sean Paul, Ying Yang Twins, Nina Sky). These days, that’s about as wild as it gets for Pain.
As the weekend’s prevailing Y2K aesthetic underlines, it’s a good time to be an icon of the 2000s charts. The period between 2007 and 2008 is generally considered the height of T-Pain’s career, the era when his voice was inescapable. But when he thinks about that time, “I remember forcing happiness,” he told me earlier in his basement. “I remember being drunk a lot. I remember going out to clubs in order to be happy because it wasn’t the studio, it wasn’t work.” He zeroes in on the moment when he found out that his second album, 2007’s Epiphany, had gone platinum. He was on tour at the time, making beats on the bus when someone brought the plaque in. “It was my first platinum album,” he recalls. “And I was like, ‘Let me finish this beat real quick.’ I didn’t really celebrate anything. Everybody else went out to celebrate for me.”
Pain’s current stage show — his Mansion in Wiscansin summer tour begins in May, after which he’ll join Pitbull’s Party After Dark tour in the fall — isn’t built around his latest release, On Top of the Covers, because the songs require at least a week of vocal rest between performances. But just before last Christmas, he partnered with YouTube to premiere an hourlong set of covers — some from the record, some unreleased — filmed live with a full band. Draped in a zebra-print bathrobe, Pain delivers what might be the best performance of his two-decade career, nailing heartfelt renditions of Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy,” Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” and Frank Sinatra’s “That’s Life,” the song that ignited his interest in recording the covers album in the first place. Listen closely to the lyrics and you can probably imagine why: “I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king/I’ve been up and down and over and out, and I know one thing/Each time I find myself flat on my face/I pick myself up and get back in the race.”
He directed the show top to bottom, from the arrangements to the lighting cues to the instructions for the band and backup singers. Pain banters a bit between songs, countering his bombshell performance with his usual self-effacing wisecracks. (“Tequila hit me a little harder than I thought it was going to. Should’ve ate and took a sh-t before this,” he quips after crushing “War Pigs.”) Eventually, he gets sincere.
“When you get into the music industry, you have this vision of arenas, big f–king crowds,” he tells the audience. “But over the years I’ve realized that we don’t get to connect with people, like, ever. We don’t really get to see in that mass crowd. The real connection is being able to see people. To me, this is superstardom.” He goes on to describe what drew him to musicianship as a kid. “One: When I started rapping in school, I started acquiring friends. People wanted to be around me for some reason. I wasn’t good, so I don’t know where the f–k that came from,” he jokes. “Two: The first song I learned to play on keyboard was ‘Lift Every Voice and Sing.’ That was my dad’s favorite song. I learned it in secret, and when I played it for him, his eyes lit up. I was like, ‘I want to do this all the time now.’”
The performance felt like the capstone to the past 10 years spent demonstrating his worth to an audience who’d largely dismissed him as a joke. Back in his underground sanctuary in Atlanta, he says he finally knows he has proved enough. “Looking back, I realized I didn’t have to prove anything,” he says, reclining in a gaming chair after an hour of restless pacing. “But I was so hungry for validation. I was so thirsty for people to like me.”
He’d been searching for that feeling of acceptance all his life, since his days as a self-described “smelly kid” who longed to sit with the cool kids when they were banging on the tables and rapping. “I just wanted people to like me. And I felt like, if you guys just knew how much I know music — if you looked past the Auto-Tune and you just heard me sing — I bet you’d like me.” But he doesn’t feel that way anymore. “It’s five people in this house that I need to like me: my wife, my kids, myself. That’s all I need. That’s all I ever needed. So, you know, suck a butt.”
Myke Towers was just a child when he saw the future. On his way to school in Río Piedras, Puerto Rico, he had his first real-life glimpse of Tego Calderón, the Black rapper who at the time was one of the island’s — and Latin music’s — biggest stars.
“I was a little kid with a backpack, and he was in a huge Cadillac,” Towers recalls. “When you see that in real life, you don’t forget. Tego saw just another kid. But for me — on my way to school — that was a Kodak moment. You get it? It was, ‘Wow, if Tego did it, how can I do it my way?’ ”
That chance encounter set in motion the way Towers saw himself: as a Puerto Rican act whose core is rap but who also sings reggaetón; who collaborates prolifically but releases mostly solo albums; who is notoriously private but identifies strongly as a Black artist. And now, following the huge success of his 2023 hit “Lala,” and with the backing of Warner Music, as a Latin urban artist who is willing to experiment to gain global success.
Trending on Billboard
On April 25, Towers released “Adivino,” the focus track from his upcoming album, La Pantera Negra, due out likely at the end of May. Featuring Bad Bunny, “Adivino” is dance banger with a subtle reggaetón beat built over padded synths; it’s ear candy with pop leanings, as “Lala” was, but it’s also romantic and wistful and unexpected in its downtempo breaks.
It’s an auspicious kickoff for La Pantera Negra (The Black Panther) — an album Towers says goes back “to what I like to do musically, and to what people liked about my essence from the beginning, when they got to know me and said, ‘This kid has the goods.’ ”
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Its single notwithstanding, La Pantera Negra is mostly a solo effort, and “a priority for the entire company,” says Warner Music Latin America president Alejandro Duque, who has plans to support the album beyond traditional Latin music markets and into places like Europe, where Towers is touring this summer.
“Latin music’s influence and global impact are undeniable. But Myke’s versatile flow and magnetic presence go beyond the confines of any single language or culture,” adds Max Lousada, CEO of recorded music for Warner Music Group, who was heavily involved in signing Towers to a global distribution deal with Warner Music Latina and Warner Records in 2021. “He effortlessly experiments with new sounds and pushes the boundaries of artistic expression. We’re proud to support Myke’s journey as he continues to make his mark with original music that is exciting fans around the world.”
La Pantera Negra is the follow-up to 2023’s La Vida Es Una, which in turn spawned global hit “Lala,” a chill, downtempo dance track with a reggaetón beat that was a departure from Towers’ more urban fare. Given the extraordinary success of “Lala” — it hit No. 1 on the Billboard Global Excl. U.S. chart — Towers’ 1.8 billion on demand streams in the United States alone, according to Luminate, and his more than 44 million Spotify listeners (making him No. 61 on the platform), expectations are high for the set.
But Towers is looking straight ahead.
“Obviously, I know there’s [a lot going on], but I try to make it just another day at the office,” he says. “Because that’s how I did these songs. Another day at the office. I’m not looking for the hit, nor losing my focus. I always try to stay on the same wavelength.”
Myke Towers photographed April 11, 2024 at House Of Hits Recording Studio in Miami.
Natalia Aguilera
Towers is chatting and playing new music inside a black SUV that’s driving slowly through Miami’s Design District on a Thursday night. It’s 10 p.m., shops are shuttered, and there are few people out. But Towers, notoriously private, wanted a private space, and this is it. Still, there’s a cluster of people inside: his driver and trainer in the front seat, his publicist and security in the back, and Towers and myself in the middle.
Like so many Puerto Rican urban artists, Towers — who tonight is dressed in a light blue track suit — likes traveling in packs. But unlike many, he can truly compartmentalize and command those around him. Later, he will tell me that when he’s working in the studio, “Everyone has to behave like we’re on a spaceship; focused on the project at hand, no distractions.”
Which explains why tonight it’s quiet inside the SUV as he pulls out a good bottle of Caymus Cabernet (“I heard you like wine,” he says) from his backpack, pours it into small plastic wine glasses he shares with his publicist and I before playing a few tracks from La Pantera Negra.
Aside from Towers’ collaboration with Bunny, their first since “Puesto Pa’ Guerrial” in 2020, there’s a collab with Peso Pluma, “who I really like how he understands reggaetón,” Towers says. “Obviously it’s a Mexican representation, but reggaetón style, which he does well.”
Other new names in the mix include Benny Blanco, who produced one of the strongest tracks on the set, a remix of a classic 1990s American pop/folk track that speaks to Towers’ respect for the past; every one of his albums includes a look back.
But overwhelmingly, La Pantera Negra is a return to Towers’ origins, literally, musically and figuratively.
“There was a legendary person in my neighborhood [Quintana, in Río Piedras] who had several panthers as pets. One escaped and it was a mess. So I said, ‘I’m from here. I’m the black panther of Quintana,’ ” Towers recalls.
But it’s also impossible to ignore the symbolism of the “Black Panther” moniker and all it conveys, which is why Towers waited to use the name at a time when he truly embodied it.
“It’s something I’ve been called before, but I had to believe it. When you’re the protagonist of something, you don’t really see what’s going on until others do. That happened to me.”
La Pantera Negra, the album, kicks off with the eponymous track that describes where Towers is now and how he feels: powerful. “I feel we’re in a good moment, we have staying power. I can give people something they’re not used to, but it also helps me because when I go back to my essence, you feel the contrast.”
And after “Lala,” which was a musical departure for Towers, “La Pantera Negra goes back to my essence.”
Myke Towers photographed April 11, 2024 at House Of Hits Recording Studio in Miami.
Natalia Aguilera
But what exactly is Towers’ essence? Musically, it’s clear. He navigates between reggaetón and rap — although he clearly prefers the latter — with clear influences from Puerto Rican hip-hop pioneers like Daddy Yankee and Calderón as well as commercially successful rappers like Jay-Z and Drake, with his albums alternately focusing more on one style than the other.
From a personal standpoint, Towers is more enigmatic. Tall and lanky — his muscles defined thanks to a yearlong new workout regime — he comes across as reserved and polite, using a self-effacing brilliant smile as a shield, but still conveying the assuredness of someone who has done a lot of self-reflection.
Unlike many of his counterparts — who post constantly on Instagram and TikTok about their personal lives, prowess and riches (the plane, the watch, the car) — Towers is famously private. His Instagram account, where he has 12.1 million followers, is devoid of personal content, save for the occasional workout photo, and he rarely and reluctantly speaks about childhood sweetheart Ashley Gonzalez, the mother of his son, Shawn Lucas. Now 4 years old, Shawn (named after Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter), who Towers holds as a baby on the cover of his 2020 album, Easy Money Baby, made a rare appearance onstage at his father’s show at Miami’s Kaseya Center last fall. Beyond that, questions in that area are politely deflected.
“Just say he’s growing quickly,” Towers finally musters, looking away with that smile. “That’s separate from what I do,” he adds. “That’s my life. I have my social media because it’s a tool. But otherwise, I want people to listen to my music and just imagine what I’m like.”
Michael Anthony Torres Monge is now 30 years old, no longer the baby-faced rapper who dazzled in 2018 and 2019 with a seemingly never-ending string of hits featuring a rotating cast of collaborators that was a who’s who of reggaetón.
It was all a prelude to his second album, Easy Money Baby — which included only solo tracks save for a single collaboration with Farruko. Released on Puerto Rican indie Whiteworld Music, it debuted at No. 1 on Billboard’s Top Latin Albums chart in February 2020 and established a blueprint for Towers’ future output: His singles would be collabs from all sides of the music spectrum — they’ve ranged from Becky G and Sebastián Yatra to Jay Wheeler and Quevedo — but his albums would largely be solo efforts.
Exactly a year later, Towers and Whiteworld signed their global distribution deal with Warner Records and Warner Latina that was brokered between Warner’s Latin department along with Lousada and Warner Records co-chairmen Aaron Bay-Schuck and Tom Corson, with the latter calling it at the time “one of our most important signings of the past year.”
Today, the Warner pact, a distribution deal with full services, has been extended, but Towers’ masters still belong to him and his original co-managers, Orlando “Jova” Cepeda and José “Tito” Reyes, co-owners of Whiteworld. The two signed Towers in 2018, buying his contract from another independent label.
“He was like an ugly duckling, vastly underestimated; quiet, humble, the opposite of the genre. But we saw the originality in him. His voice was different from anybody else’s,” Cepeda told Billboard at the time. He adds today: “I told him he was a star.”
Myke Towers photographed April 11, 2024 at Soho Beach House in Miami.
Natalia Aguilera
Towers, born in Río Piedras, the cradle of reggaetón, fell in love with making music thanks to his grandmother, who owned a karaoke machine and was constantly practicing in her little home studio.
“I think that’s where I learned to write songs,” says Towers, who to this day writes most of his songs in notebooks that he never tosses out.
“The notebook is always with me, in my backpack. I also write on my phone, but anytime I want to develop something, I pick up my notebook. I have 10 years’ worth of notebooks in bags around the house. One of these days, I want people to study them and see what I did in real time and say, ‘Damn, that’s how he wrote this song.’”
The weight of history has always mattered to Towers, and although he doesn’t constantly reference his Black experience in his songs, he speaks of it often and is aware of the responsibility.
“People know I’m Black. Everyone says, “‘El negro llegó y rompió’ [“The Black kid came and hit it”],” he says. “We represent both the culture and the world at the same time. It’s not a division, but I have to represent my own.”
Disciplined in the recording studio and in public, Towers is prolific, consistent and a meticulous songwriter, all traits that have allowed him to stand out and remain relevant in the very crowded field of Puerto Rican urban acts that rose to prominence in the mid-2010s.
“The way this guy puts a song together is so next level,” says Blanco, who first met and worked with Towers this year. “You blink an eye, and he already has the full song written and recorded. It’s truly spectacular to watch.”
The connection with Blanco was made by Brandon Silverstein (who previously managed Anitta), who came in to co-manage Towers with Cepeda last year, specifically to help in the Anglo space.
Soon after Silverstein came in, “Lala” exploded.
By then, Towers had numerous hits on the Billboard charts; he has 51 career entries on Hot Latin Songs, with 10 top 10s, and 11 No. 1s on Latin Airplay, for example. With La Vida Es Una, he captured his third straight top 10 on the Top Latin Albums chart when the set debuted at No. 9 in April 2023. Then, unexpectedly, “Lala,” track No. 22 out of 23 on the album, began to rise.
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“‘Lala’ is that stroke of luck you don’t expect. I knew many artists have that moment in their careers, but it hadn’t come for me,” Towers says. In fact, “Lala” wasn’t even going to appear on the album. The track, which Towers originally began working on two years prior, had been made in bits and pieces, and at one point, wasn’t even slotted to be on the album.
“Finally, they convinced me to include it. I can’t say I realized how big it was. Many times, you get carried by your instinct, but in this case, my instinct didn’t speak to me.”
But everything else did.
While “Lala” was not the album’s focus track, almost immediately, “It began to trend,” Duque says, particularly on TikTok. “With a hit, reaction can vary, but with ‘Lala,’ every little thing we did got huge jumps. So, we went full throttle,” he says.
“Lala” climbed steadily, and by July, it hit No. 1 on the Billboard Global Excl. U.S. chart and No. 3 on the Billboard Global 200, both milestones for Towers.
Cepeda firmly believes that releasing “lots of music” is essential to Towers’ success: “Artists lose steam because they don’t release new music [for their fans],” he says, then quips, “If you don’t take care of your wife at home, someone else will.”
And so, before the year was out, Towers released a second studio album, LVEU: Vive la tuya…No La Mía, a sort of part two to La Vida Es Una that included another mega-hit, “La Falda,” which topped the Latin Airplay chart.
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Then, Towers reset. After playing his last concert of the year, he disconnected completely from his music and spent over a month between Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic with his family and his “friends who are like family to me, who are next to me even if I’m not doing music, who don’t even want to take photos with me because I’m one of them,” he says. “That’s what keeps me grounded. And I’ve also learned to be alone, too, to connect with oneself and with your essence, and then come back. I have my breaks where I plant, and my breaks where I harvest.”
These are the periods Towers describes as “out of the music scene. When I take off my superhero cape.”
Now, he’s coming back as a superhero, almost literally.
“I even studied how panthers attack,” Towers says. “I had been toying with the panther concept for a while, but now we started the year like this and everything we do will be under that roof.”
Towers will be playing the festival circuit this summer in Europe but will start with his first sold-out date at Madrid’s Wiznik Center on May 21. By then, La Pantera Negra will be in full swing after the release of “Adivino.”
“We’ll be working every single separately, of course, but with the storyline of the album and black panther,” Duque says, noting that Towers is enormously popular in Spain, Italy and Portugal. “It’s a very broad album. Myke is not only an urban artist, and our goal is to grow his audience to the max.”
Steve Aoki is obsessed with numbers. It’s why the Grammy Award-nominated producer and mega-DJ has a seven-page rider specifying the exact weight and dimensions of the sheet cakes he hurls into the delirious crowds of fans who flock to his shows holding signs that say, “CAKE ME!” It’s why, despite an “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” tattoo on the back of his neck, he knows per one epigenetic measure that he has slowed his aging process down to 0.8 out of 1 thanks to a rigorous biohacking regimen that includes tracking how much REM sleep he’s getting on his WHOOP watch. And it’s why, when asked why he wants to live so long in the first place, he equates life to winning the lottery and quotes the statistical probability of simply being alive on this earth as 1 in 400 trillion.
But there is one number Aoki prefers not to know: the amount he’s getting paid per show. He worries that knowledge might subconsciously affect the energy he brings from one massive outdoor stage to another, that it might cloud the sacred union he feels between himself, the lucky lottery winner, and his fans, who tend to embody the rollicking frenzy of a punk show that Aoki has injected into electronic dance music (EDM).
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It’s a high that he says he has grown addicted to, which explains why he DJ’d 209 shows last year and holds the 2012 Guinness World Record for most traveled musician in one year, and (though they’ve since been broken) the 2014 records for longest crowd cheer and most glow sticks lit simultaneously. It’s fitting, then, that on this Wednesday evening in April, Aoki is Zooming with me from a lounge at the San Francisco International Airport as he prepares for a flight to Australia, where he’ll DJ five shows in 48 hours before headlining the Siam Songkran Music Festival in Bangkok. At 46 years old — or 36.8, if you take into account his 0.8 aging rate according to TruDiagnostic, an epigenetic testing company — Aoki has little interest in slowing down.
“I still have the thirst,” he says. “I still have the enthusiasm, and with music, there’s no greater energy force. There’s no greater high than playing your records at your show in front of a crowd that knows your music and everyone’s just f–king lit up. Like, there’s nothing greater than that.”
Whatever you might make of his persona as a fist-pumping, hair-shaking, Takis-munching, EDM-spinning, sheet cake-throwing party bro who seems to have perpetually lost his shirt, it’s hard to dispute that over the last two decades, Aoki has firmly established himself as a pioneering figure in the world of dance music. That he has done so globally and exuberantly — despite the reserved Asian American stereotypes he grew up absorbing — is a testament to his unabashed confidence, unrelenting work ethic and entrepreneurial instincts, which extend far beyond music.
For starters, there’s the all-electric race boat team he recently purchased to compete in the UIM E1 World Championship against competing owners Tom Brady and Rafael Nadal; the Hiroquest graphic novel he published in April with comic book legend Jim Krueger, about a genetically augmented meta-human who journeys into the multiverse 400 years into the future; and his various forays into science and tech, from investing in brain research through his Aoki Foundation to ventures in cryptocurrency, esports, non-fungible tokens and cryogenics. In 2022, Japanese billionaire Yusaku Maezawa selected Aoki as one of eight civilians to join his SpaceX moon trip, with a yet-to-be-determined launch date.
“There’s always a new thing every year, and the whole team kind of shrugs their shoulders like, ‘OK, let’s go learn how to do this,’ ” says Matt Colon, Aoki’s business manager of 20 years and the global president of music at talent management agency YMU.
“He embodies that spirit of innovation and entrepreneurship that is so inspiring,” says Paris Hilton, a friend of Aoki’s since she was 16 who released her first-ever collaboration with him late last year. “Every venture he takes on, he does it with a sense of style and purpose. He has turned his artistic vision into an empire, and that’s something that I deeply respect and connect with in my own business endeavors.”
Balenciaga hoodie and jacket.
Jessica Chou
Colon sees it as his job to foster his client’s excitement — even if he admits that roughly half of Aoki’s business ideas “get dismissed kind of out of hand because once you get into the details, they don’t really make sense.” Still, Colon notes that it was that out-of-the-box thinking that allowed Aoki to break into the industry in the first place, by way of Dim Mak Records, the Los Angeles-based label he founded in 1996.
In the early ’00s, Dim Mak became a tastemaker by signing acts like The Kills, Bloc Party and Gossip. But perhaps more significantly, Aoki became godfather of the scene that coalesced around Dim Mak Tuesdays, the indie sleaze Hollywood party he threw from 2003 to 2014 to promote the label. With then-rising acts like M.I.A., Lady Gaga, Kesha and Justice clamoring to perform and buzzy guests like the Olsen twins all enshrined by the famed nightlife blog The Cobrasnake, the party took on a life of its own.
Aoki only started DJ’ing to fill the time before performances at Dim Mak Tuesdays, and in the beginning, “he admittedly was not a great DJ,” Colon says. But Aoki attributes his success today to his willingness then to keep trying, to fail in public, sweat bullets and then ask for help. “I don’t have any kids, but if and when I do, that’s one of the most important things I want to share: You need to have that shamelessness,” he says. “It’s such an important rule of thumb.”
“He’s an early adopter,” Colon adds. “It’s in his blood, and it’s often because he doesn’t have the shame of being afraid to ask. Most people just wait until it’s offered to them. Steve will always ask.”
Despite his far-reaching business interests, Colon says DJ’ing remains Aoki’s primary revenue stream, both internationally and in Las Vegas, where he lives and maintains residencies at three venues. As a producer, he has proved agile at working deftly across genres, collaborating with everyone from Linkin Park and Hayley Kiyoko to Lil Jon and Diplo.
“When you’re on the road that much, you come across new people, new trends and new sounds,” Lil Jon says. “He’s just really easy to work with. He’s not overly pushy in the studio — he lets me do my thing but still has input. Neither of us half-ass anything.”
Versace shirt.
Jessica Chou
Aoki’s reach also spans continents, having worked with South Korea’s BTS, Mexico’s Danna Paola, Japan’s Kyary Pamyu Pamyu and Colombia’s Maluma. This hodgepodge has bolstered Aoki’s international appeal; he says his global fan base is particularly receptive in Central and South America.
He plans to release his ninth album this summer, featuring collaborations with Big Freedia, a rework of Lil Jon’s “Get Low” (called “Get Lower”) and a lead single with Ne-Yo called “Heavenly Hell” — a phrase he’s quick to point out inspired the title of a chapter he’s working on in the sequel to Hiroquest, which also happens to be the name of his last two albums that also spawned a line of trading cards meant to bolster his graphic novel’s intellectual property (IP) across platforms.
This is the way Aoki’s mind works — seemingly at its best when it has at least seven tabs open, all the better to connect the various dots that compose the Aokiverse. It’s an impulse he attributes to his father, Rocky Aoki, the wrestler turned powerboat racer turned founder of Japanese restaurant chain Benihana, who died in 2008 but remains Aoki’s North Star, a larger-than-life figure who seemingly did it all.
“He would just fly in like Superman, coming in to pick me up and take me on an adventure, and then drop me off [at] the humble abode of my mom’s house,” says Aoki, who was raised by his mother, Chizuru, whom he calls “my rock,” in Newport Beach, Calif. “So when I was with him, I just experienced all these things that he was doing. Like ‘Oh, my God. This life is crazy over there.’ ”
I was in college while you were coming up in the early aughts, and it felt kind of shocking to see someone who was Japanese American, like I am, take up so much space so aggressively in alternative culture. Were you thinking about ideas of representation back then?
I’m not going to go down memory lane too deep, but I remember when I first got into music in high school, the first thing I did was sing. You just didn’t see Asian singers. You just didn’t see Asian people in music, period, and if you did, they were really quiet, like the singer of Hoobastank, whom I looked up to. Actually, I am reworking [the Hoobastank song] “The Reason.” I guess we can announce it here: There’s a Steve Aoki-Hoobastank record coming soon. But it was cool to actually work with that guy [singer Doug Robb] because I remember looking up to him when I was in high school.
The other main artist I looked up to big time was Chad Hugo from The Neptunes. This is when I first got into production, around 2003. I was in L.A., and I remember hiring someone on Craigslist to teach me how to use Pro Tools because I just started dabbling on the computer. And I was like, “Chad Hugo, that’s my hero because he’s Asian, but he’s also quiet.” I’m always like, “Where are the loud ones?” I wanted to see someone Asian that’s just loud and in charge and commanding audiences.
Balenciaga hoodie, robe, jeans and shoes.
Jessica Chou
Did you become that character because you wanted to see it, or did that exuberance onstage come naturally to you?
One of the really important things that music gave me was a voice because I really, truly felt invisible. Growing up in Newport Beach, the statistic was 96% of the population is white — this is in the ’80s and ’90s. So I’m already kind of out there, I’m already different, and Asians, generally speaking, don’t rock the boat. Japanese people are quiet. My mom’s quiet.
Your dad wasn’t quiet.
No, he wasn’t, but I was raised by my mom. I mean, I’m sure I was inspired by my dad going, “Holy sh-t, my dad’s doing his thing and is successful, and it’s not bothering him that he’s Japanese, he’s just connecting with the world.” That is what I loved — the idea that it shouldn’t bother you.
But when I was a kid, I was bothered, and that’s where music gave me the voice. You could just belt your sh-t out. A lot of it was just understanding who I was, finding my identity through the music and allowing me to be unabashed about it. I grew up in the punk hardcore scene, and they thrive off that. It’s thriving off these underrepresented voices. That’s how the culture grows. So I was in the right place to foster this kind of attitude to be heard.
As someone who’s known for being a prolific collaborator, how do you connect with other artists? Do you still reach out to people?
It goes both ways for sure. In some cases, if we meet in person, the energy of that meetup ends up becoming something. When I met up with BTS in 2016 at a house in L.A., we just hit it off really well, and in 2017, I ended up remixing “MIC Drop,” which later led to [the BTS collaborations] “Waste It on Me” and “The Truth Untold.” But sometimes I just do cold DMs. I’ve always been very unabashed about that. Whoever I want to work with I just send a DM, and if it hits, it hits.
What’s your success rate?
I would say my success rate is pretty low. You know, of all the collabs I’ve done that are out, I’ve reached out to far greater [than have reached out to me], like 80%.
How does that make you feel?
It’s like a game of baseball. That’s how I see it. I don’t have a problem as long as I hit the ball and I get the home runs, you know? Like the best baseball player in the world hits the ball three out of 10 times. So if you hit the ball two out of 10 times, you’re actually above average. If you hit the ball once, you’ve made the cut. If I can make a record that’s meaningful to culture, meaningful to my fans, meaningful to what I’m doing, what my purpose is, then it’s worth it and I’m excited. I never lose my excitement on this stuff. I think that question would provoke a different answer if I was tired. If I was jaded. If I wasn’t really into what I do. When you love what you do, you still fight for it. You still have the hunger.
Balenciaga hoodie, jacket, pants and shoes.
Jessica Chou
What do you like about collaborating with such a wide range of artists? I think some producers would find that really challenging.
It is. It’s extremely challenging. It’s challenging on many different levels, too. It’s not just challenging on the creative side, but it’s challenging to your fans. Like whenever I started collaborating in a different space, I would get a lot of hate; I get a lot of criticism.
What’s an example?
When I started working with hip-hop artists in the early 2010s, there was a lot of negative criticism, even when I did Kolony, which was an entirely hip-hop album that I produced in 2017. You know, I’m a sensitive guy. I don’t like seeing negative sh-t just pile up.
Do record sales matter to you?
Honestly, no. In the beginning, it does matter, when you have your first hit, when you have something that’s just catching steam. But then, going back to your question about collaborating across different genres, I can’t think too much about what the world thinks. Of course, it’s incredible if I have a song that breaks 100 million streams on Spotify. That’s pretty f–king cool. But I can’t put my emotional place there. That would probably make me jaded. That would probably hinder my creative spirit, 100%. It’s more about, “How does it penetrate the culture? Do the fans at the festivals and the shows sing along? Are they connected to it?”
It sounds like the measurement for your success is more experiential than data-driven. How else do you gauge that?
Yeah, it is something that grows over time. You could sort of gauge it on some level of metrics, but then there’s a lot of other layers. You can’t just type in “What’s Steve Aoki’s biggest song on the festival circuit?” If you type that in, you might not get the correct answers. [Artificial intelligence] cannot generate that. For example, “No Beef” is an old song of mine that I made with Afrojack in 2011. That was before streaming was actually a big deal, but everyone knows the vocals to that at my shows.
As an artist, what are your thoughts on AI?
I’m still a novice in the usage or utility of AI, but I use it mainly for lyric generation. It has actually helped me quite a lot. If I have an idea of what lyrics I want to put down on a record, I’ll work that out with AI, and if I have a songwriting team in my house and we get stumped, we can always use AI. As far as sampling, I’ve used AI to get a particular female sound using certain words, and that has been fantastic.
What about the fear of it replacing producers and DJs entirely?
See, of course that’s the conversation topic because the possibilities are endless. But when that happens, I’m assuming, just like everything that we do with technology, we’re building safeguards. And you can’t stop AI. It’s not like, “Oh, f–k. AI is going to take away our jobs. F–k technology, it’s going to take away jobs.” You can’t. You just have to ride the wave with it and just start building safeguards as we go. We’ve been doing this the whole time with the internet.
Versace top, shirt, jeans, and shoes.
Jessica Chou
Let’s pivot to another serious topic: How does it feel to throw a sheet cake into someone’s face?
OK, there’s a lot of points here. One, I think it really goes along with this idea that people are singing your songs at your show and your music is their music. So we’re all part of the same culture. You’re partially responsible because you created that music and that experience. That’s what the cake is. I’ve been able to share an experience that was such a silly idea, and now it’s a thing. As a culture, people want to get caked, and it’s a very Steve Aoki thing.
How many years have you been doing it now?
Thirteen.
Wow. That’s a lot of cake.
Yeah, over 20,000 cake faces. It’s pretty epic.
How consciously are you aware of yourself, Steve Aoki, as a brand?
It’s interesting because when I see “Steve Aoki” on things or I see the logo, I look at it as a company. And I’m just part of that company.
You’re just another worker?
(Laughs.) I mean, really. It’s like, “Oh, my God. There’s a person with a Steve logo or a tattoo on his arm.” It does excite me. I’m like, “Wow, that’s so incredible.” But that’s the music, you know? It’s not me personally. So I finally started separating myself from that because I’m the same kind of fan. I have a band [tattooed] on my back that inspired me when I was in high school called Gorilla Biscuits. It’s not someone’s name, but Steve Aoki is like a band to someone. So I understand the way music moves people and why you do that. It’s a community. That’s how I see the brand.
I think a lot of this is not just about the music, too; it’s the experience, you know? And the experience itself is something that can last a lifetime. That’s why the live show is so important. It’s not just about being a producer in the studio and getting the music out there and having people connect with the music in their homes. A lot of my IP is based on the actual experience [of a live show], and unfortunately, I can’t clone myself because as an entrepreneur, you would think, “How do you scale that?”
Is that why you play so many shows?
Yeah. It’s like you get this momentum going when things are happening, and I’ve seen a lot of friends, a lot of artists, taking their brick and just disappearing. And they didn’t have the same momentum to come back as strong as they were.
Are you scared of that happening to you?
I am. I think I am. I mean, I don’t want to say that, but I think it does have this effect on me because the thing is, I love what I do. Like, to be able to be onstage and the high that you get after a show, it’s just incredible.
What’s the secret to keeping this so fun after doing it for so long?
I’m glad you asked this question. I just was in South Africa and I did two shows out there, and during my extra time, I worked on music with two South African artists. I actually connected with more African artists from different regions as well and their beats, like Afrobeats and amapiano, have definitely been coming up inside my beats. The sounds, the rhythms, the percussions, I have a strong affinity to this music. That was so much fun. That’s what keeps things going.
I think being a global artist, being able to travel all the time, my natural way to connect with different cultures is to musically connect and collaborate with different people of that culture. And fortunately, they’ve allowed me to work with them in different capacities that have brought out some of these incredible global records that connect my sound to their sound. And the more and more I do it, the more exciting it is and the more it’s connecting with a whole different world of people, with a different culture. You see it at the shows. It just becomes more exciting to do more outside of what you normally do. It’s a challenge, too, and I love the challenge.
This story will appear in the April 27, 2024, issue of Billboard.
In addition to our Steve Aoki cover story, check out this Q&A with Jessica Chou, who photographed Aoki for Billboard‘s AAPI issue.Tell us a little about your own background.
I’m from the San Gabriel Valley – a suburb in Los Angeles. Interesting fact: the city I grew up in was the first city in the U.S. to reach a majority-Asian population according to the 1990 U.S. Census. I feel like growing up in a suburb with a majority-minority population has informed my views and experience on American life.
I’ve been working as a freelance photographer for 13 years, focusing on portraiture, photographing everyday people and high-profile public figures alike. I come from a photojournalism/documentary background and I think those observational qualities of storytelling have definitely informed how I approach my portraiture.
You’ve worked with Billboard for a long time – you shot Steve for us 10 years ago, spending 36 hours with him, playing on your background in reportage. What are your standout memories from that shoot?
Gosh, 10 years. Yikes! It was such a whirlwind experience. I remember flying into Vegas and from the second I got to Steve, it was non-stop action for the next 36 hours, going from his residency in Vegas to his headlining performance at Tomorrowland in Bethel Woods, New York. I don’t think I had ever seen this kind of mix of business and play on such a high level at that point. There was such a huge intensity/euphoria that came from his fans both in Vegas and at Tomorrowland – I mean, people were begging to get caked in the face – and then there was the other side of being an artist with producing music and creating business collaborations. And Steve seemed to have this limitless amount of energy – I remember at some point thinking, “Omigosh, can we just like not do something for just a little bit? I can’t keep up.” [Laughs] But it was exhilarating. It’s still an experience I carry with me as a photographer.
What was your impression of Steve before the shoot? And what stood out to you most about him once you met?
I had some impressions of Steve before the shoot, mostly from the Cobrasnake era of the early 2000s, and him being a staple of the parties of those days. When I photographed Steve in 2014, it was at the height of EDM music in the U.S. and his show antics were such a part of that time. I just remember Steve being a very high-sensation seeker and he had a way of provoking and creating that experience. I think it’s what sets him apart as an artist and an individual. And so much of house and techno music is about freeing your mind for new experiences, but there are only so many personalities that can follow through on that mantra while still being put together.
How did that experience influence how you came up with the creative for this new cover and feature with Steve? Can you talk a little about that concept?
I think Steve’s level of energy with this laid-back attitude has always been an interesting hook for me and I was wondering what would be a good way to show this. This one afternoon, when I was driving out of another photoshoot in Los Angeles, I saw the billboard for the new Guy Ritchie series on Netflix (The Gentlemen) and thought, “Oh, that’s the right amount of polish and intensity” — but I needed that to feel less English and a little more Californian flair. This then led me to think of The Dude of The Big Lebowski. So it turned into The Dude meets Guy Ritchie’s energy with Steve Aoki’s signature. Something about this mixture just felt like the right balance for Steve’s style of fun, irreverence and action.
Last year, Billboard also had its first-ever K-pop issue, for which you shot Chairman Bang of HYBE for the cover. Tell us a little what he was like a subject and what the shoot was like.
Chairman Bang was probably the opposite of Steve Aoki – in the sense that Chairman Bang is a very behind-the-scenes guy. Creative yet controlled. And he was a more than gracious sitter – I remember that he wasn’t feeling very well that day, yet he still showed up and was game to try anything.
This is Billboard‘s first AAPI issue – what does it mean to you to be part of it?
I couldn’t be more honored to be a part of this and to be a part of highlighting contributions of AAPI community to the culture at large. I grew up not feeling very seen, represented or proud of what was represented in the mainstream media. Being able to find and see paths of “what could be for you” is an important part of self-actualization. When I got older, I started learning more about the contributions of the Asian community to culture at large – particularly in the arts and entertainment. I started realizing how much has been done before me and how those stories were readily available. Culture and celebration is informed by the stories we tell. I’m proud to be part of an issue that is blazing this path in one of the world’s most important music magazines.
On a hulking gray building on a wide boulevard once bisected by the Berlin Wall, a silver call button grants access to an expansive, shadowy, unfurnished foyer. Ascend a winding set of stairs and open the door at the top, and you’ll find the office of the CEO: South Korea-born Peggy Gou, who has swiftly become the world’s most in-demand female DJ-producer working in dance music today.
Inside Gou HQ, the bright overhead lights contrast with the early-April rain outside. The sprawling room — which has a vibe that’s more “friend’s apartment” than sterile corporate sanctum — is outfitted with a wooden meeting table, full bookshelves and a plush green velvet couch from which Tasos Filippou, Gou’s touring manager, arises to serve Gou and me black coffee in little terra cotta mugs on peace sign-shaped coasters. Gou wears baggy jeans, a black sweater that covers her many tattoos and sunglasses with silver reflective lenses that offer only occasional glimpses of her eyes. Her hair is piled in a loose bun, her skin is flawless, and even in casual mode, she’s giving cool-girl glamour. She offers a quick handshake, closes the window to make sure the room is quiet, then sits down to attend to business.
In the last 12 days, her slick brand of house has taken her to Miami, Mexico City and Buenos Aires. Of course, it’s not unusual for DJs to party hop across continents — what’s less typical for a DJ is having an office. But Gou’s story is defined by a business acumen that could be characterized as corporate hustle if it didn’t also happen inside dark techno clubs.
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A Korean woman in a scene dominated by white men, Gou, 32, has orchestrated her own dizzying rise, immersing herself in Berlin’s electronic scene upon moving here 10 years ago, then ascending to white-hot producer/fashion tastemaker thanks to last summer’s viral single, and her first Billboard chart hit, “It Goes Like (Nanana).” This new ubiquity — ever-higher billing at the world’s major music festivals, a German Vogue cover, a 2024 BRIT Award nomination for international song of the year — has neatly teed up Gou’s debut album, I Hear You, coming June 7 through eminent indie label XL Recordings.
The rare self-managed marquee artist, Gou has achieved much of her success on her own, and the room we’re sitting in functions as an extension of the command center in her mind.
“I remember meeting managers who told me, ‘I can make your life easier,’ ” Gou recalls. “I was like, ‘How? Tell me.’ Even if you take care of all these emails, you still have to come back to me because no one can make decisions for me. Every decision has to come from me.”
Peggy Gou photographed March 26, 2024 at Maison Celeste in Mexico City. Sentimiento tracksuit, Tercer Mundo vest, Cruda shoes, AYANEGUI earrings and necklace.
Aaron Sinclair
These decisions have produced an expansive business that includes heavy touring; A-list brand deals; her label, Gudu Records; and a merchandise line, Peggy Goods. With strong fan bases across continents, Gou will next be raising her profile even more in the United States ahead of and beyond I Hear You’s release.
“Because Peggy has such an incredible touring footprint globally,” XL Recordings head of U.S. campaigns Laura Lyons says, “in the U.S., we’re in a position where, because we haven’t historically had her in the market as much, we need to build on the moments when she’s here in person and also translate the excitement of an international, globe-trotting DJ to the local market.”
One week and 6,000 miles later, the odds will look clearly in Gou’s favor.
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The first time Gou played Coachella, in 2018, the line to get into her show wrapped around the at-capacity Yuma Tent where she was performing at three in the afternoon. “Even one person not being able to see my set, that upsets me,” she says. “So I was like, ‘Maybe next time, I play a bigger stage.’ ”
On the first night of the 2024 festival, that “maybe” has become a firm “for sure.” Gou presides over the Sahara Tent — Coachella’s biggest and most established dance music mecca — from atop a towering stage as an emoji version of herself smiles at the audience from massive LED screens. With the newly expanded Sahara Tent stretching 320 feet, not including spillover — almost a football field long — it’s likely Gou’s crowd is the largest ever assembled to see a female producer in Coachella history. (After the set, she shares Instagram Stories of herself backstage hanging with J Balvin, getting chummy with Will Smith and then getting a burger from an In-N-Out somewhere in the Coachella Valley.)
In March, Gou made her debut at Miami’s Ultra Music Festival, and in May, she’ll play dance mega-festival EDC Las Vegas for the first time. These shows, “from a perception point of view,” Lyons says, “are going to broaden [her] audience from this more underground electronic fan to a more mainstream kind of electronic base.”
Cueva top and skirt, Ket Void jacket, Cruda shoes. Floral Art Installation by Flores Cosmos.
Aaron Sinclair
That might be anathema to some purists, particularly those steeped in the techno-as-religion culture of Berlin. But Gou has been able to maintain her underground cred even while blowing up. The early-April screening of the music video for I Hear You’s third single, “1+1=11,” happened at a smoky Berlin club where the techno went until 3 a.m. on a Wednesday, and her friend group includes revered producers like Four Tet and Floating Points, whom she was recently hanging with in Mexico City. “I love those guys,” she says. “So nerdy. Like, ‘Guys, stop talking about how fat your drum is.’ ”
I suggest to Gou that her underground pedigree, paired with a forthcoming debut album that’s refreshingly accessible, might make her uniquely well-suited for the United States, where the so-called “underground” styles of house and techno have become the scene’s prevailing commercial forces in the live space. For her, that idea is beside the point. “Some people are like, ‘She’s really underground,’ or ‘She’s commercial,’ ” Gou says. “I don’t care. I’m just going to keep doing my thing and you can say what you want.”
Growing up in South Korea’s third-most populous city, Incheon — where she was born Kim Min-ji — Gou listened to “sh-t,” “good music” and “everything.” She lived in the shadow of her older brother, who’s “like super genius, one of the crazy Mensa IQ people.” Meanwhile, “Study wasn’t my thing. I was kind of rebel. So if you tell me to stay here, I will not stay there. If you tell me to go, I will stay. I didn’t like people telling me what to do even from when I was a kid.”
Her parents, recognizing that their 14-year-old was not “doing well” in South Korea, asked if she wanted to study English in London; she did. In the United Kingdom, Gou lived with guardians but snuck out to parties, fostering a clubbing habit that matriculated with her into the London College of Fashion. She began DJ’ing, booked her own residency at a club in Shoreditch, finished school, moved to Berlin and worked at a record store by day while she was indoctrinated into techno by night. “After one month, I’m like, ‘OK,’ ” she says flatly of her first trips to the city’s notoriously exclusive techno institution, Berghain. “Three months later” — her voice grows louder and more forceful — “ ‘OK.’ Five months later, I was like, ‘I finally get it.’ ”
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By 2016, she was making her own music, and by 2018, revered dance label Ninja Tune was releasing it. She started her own Gudu Records in 2019; that same year, she released the groovy house track “Starry Night,” which featured her singing in Korean and became a dance world hit.
All the while, she was touring. As her own manager, “I was the only person who was pushing me,” she says. “I didn’t need to be there. I didn’t have to do that. I think I got hyped. I got too excited about the shows and getting many shows.” In 2019, she played in 25 countries, including some, like Lebanon, Egypt and Saudi Arabia, that are far from the well-trod dance world circuit.
“Imagine a bullet train,” Gou says, speaking rapidly. “This was me in 2019. When it stopped, it didn’t stop slowly; it had to stop super fast.”
When the pandemic started, she returned to South Korea and spent three months at home — the longest amount of time she had been with her family since she was 14. She recharged even as life in South Korea — which introduced what many considered one of the world’s best COVID-19 control programs — continued without large-scale lockdowns. (“Asian culture is different because when you have a flu, you wear a mask,” she says, “so it was not that difficult for Asian people to keep the rules.”)
In Incheon, Gou had the time and head space to focus on music. She echoes a pandemic-related refrain prevalent among DJs who tour heavily: “It was a hard time for a lot of people, but for me, it was one of the best things that happened to me.”
Peggy Gou photographed March 26, 2024 at Maison Celeste in Mexico City. Sentimiento top, Tiempos pants, Tercer Mundo belt, Frank Zapata shoes, AYANEGUI necklace. Batán Chairs by Taller Batán.
Aaron Sinclair
She kept working upon her return to Berlin in mid-2020, finding that the ’90s dance music she was listening to during the pandemic had “changed my taste.” While she had been making her debut album for a while, she decided to make ’90s dance the center of the project, evident in the interplay of the bass and chimes on a track like “Lobster Telephone,” which sounds like it’s sprinkled with powdered sugar. The “It Goes Like (Nanana)” bassline is pure Jock Jams — the 1995 compilation that introduced a generation of suburban adolescents to dance music — and has helped the song aggregate 72.2 million on-demand official U.S. streams and 565.3 million on-demand official global streams to date, according to Luminate. Altogether, the album, on which she sings in both Korean and English, is dance music distilled down to its most polished essentials — and you don’t have to be a hardcore fan of the genre to get into it.
The sonic opposite of EDM maximalism, I Hear You may very well represent the future of main-stage electronic music. “In my career, I never once thought, ‘I’m on the next level now,’ ” she says. “Only when ‘Nanana’ happened did I realize that people were recognizing my song before my face. That’s when I really realized, ‘F–k, this is different.’ ”
Gou’s North American agent, Stephanie LaFera of WME (which represents her worldwide), says the song’s success has created “significant growth in her U.S. audience” that’s “only increasing the demand for her.” LaFera is focused on opportunities that serve Gou’s “super-engaged fan base that cuts across a lot of different spheres” while also introducing her to new listeners.
“For [“It Goes Like”] to become this global song of the summer and be Peggy’s first song to hit No. 1 on the U.S. dance radio charts was just such a fantastic tone-setter for this album,” Lyons adds, “and for what we believe she’s capable of achieving in the U.S.”
If you’re Peggy Gou, it’s entirely possible that the person seated across from you at Thanksgiving dinner may turn out to be Lenny Kravitz — which was exactly the case when, in 2022, she went to a friend’s house in Miami for the holiday.
“He had absolutely no idea who I was,” Gou recalls. “The only thing I could mention was that I did [two songs] for [his daughter] Zoë’s movie [The Batman].” It was a solid in. The pair talked over turkey, and her friend told Kravitz to check out Gou’s music. Not long after, Kravitz asked if she wanted to collaborate.
She sent Kravitz a track — a song that she had struggled to find a singer for after artists including The Weeknd and Giveon turned it down — and heard nothing back. “So I decided to go to the Bahamas,” where Kravitz lives, she says. “My friend was like, ‘You want to have Lenny Kravitz on your album? F–king book your flight, go there and get it.’ ” There was, Gou says, some “opinion clash” during the recording process, as “I’m a perfectionist and he’s perfectionist.” She adds with a smile, however, that Kravitz did ultimately tell her she was right about a part of the song they had disagreed on. Their slinky “I Believe in Love Again,” the second I Hear You single, arrived in November.
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Gou’s single-minded professional chess moves manifested her deal with XL in the first place, years after she reached out to the label about an internship back when she was a student in London. XL didn’t respond then, but it got in touch after the success of her 2018 single “It Makes You Forget (Itgehane).” “I did make a joke,” she says of her first meeting with XL, “like, ‘Check your inbox.’ ”
Gou acknowledges that working with her can be “very difficult because I push the team always harder… If you have so many opinions and you’re a woman, people call you a b–ch, but [XL] doesn’t see it that way. They think it’s a pleasure to work with someone who has a clear vision.”
XL also most likely enjoys working with a talent who’s changing the face of electronic music simply by being one of the most popular artists making it. “As incredible as it is to see a Korean woman occupy this space in dance music culture,” says Lyons, who herself is Asian American, “it’s not the reason why I’m excited by her.”
While a new level of streaming and chart success would be a nice outcome for I Hear You, to Gou, they’re “very 1D hopes.” She’ll consider the album a success if people listen to it and — she puts a hand over her heart — “get a feeling.”
Bottega Veneta coat, AYANEGUI earrings.
Aaron Sinclair
The feelings are clearly being felt at Coachella, where people in the crowd — many of them, like Gou, also wearing sunglasses though the sun set long ago — are flailing around, arms in the air and dreamy smiles on their faces. A crew of six dancers pop and lock, vogue and gyrate onstage. Gou will take this show on the road this summer for a run that includes European festivals like Primavera Sound, Glastonbury and Creamfields. In August, she’s hosting and headlining her own one-day mini-fest at London’s Gunnersbury Park; the show’s 8,000 tickets sold out within days of going on sale.
Unlike her early years of touring alone, Gou now travels with her tour manager and a road assistant or two. She “doesn’t always fly private,” but says the primary appeal of a private jet is a preference for efficiency that she says is part of her heritage: “I’m someone who [doesn’t] like wasting my time. I’m very efficient. I think that’s from Korean culture. Efficiencies are very important in Korea.”
A private jet “saves a lot of time,” she continues, “and you can sleep half an hour or even one hour more. Also, you don’t need to worry about the baggage weight.” Perhaps most crucially, though, flying private lets her move through the world while maintaining maximum control. “Hotel lobbies and the airport,” she says, “give me so much anxiety.”
These days, Gou’s team also includes a security detail, as she has experienced stalkers and people “waiting at the hotel or waiting at the airport for 10 hours.” She “can’t go to Italy alone” and brings two security guards to Argentina where the crowd is “quite wild.” She recalls spending the entirety of a commercial flight to Ibiza facing the window after half the plane recognized her while boarding. “I was like, ‘My neck,’ ” she says with a laugh, feigning pain. “It’s nice, but sometimes it gets a lot for me.”
“She can see 100 meters ahead in the airport. She notices the colors of things, remembers what people are wearing and is just super, super sensitive,” touring manager Filippou says, “especially when there’s a lot of people around.”
But her skin has gotten thicker as her career has grown. “In the beginning, I remember [people saying], ‘You will never be bigger than this person. No one’s going to buy your record. No one knows your name.’ I heard these things so many times.”
The criticisms “used to really affect me,” Gou continues. “I used to want to scream, like, ‘That’s not f–king true.’ ” But as time went on, she realized she was the reason her feelings were getting so hurt. “I was not happy,” she says of her pre-pandemic life. “I was so focused and tunnel-visioned. My relationship with boyfriend wasn’t doing well. Friends, workwise — nothing was happy. I learned a lot about myself during the pandemic.” Learning to listen first and react later has been huge for her. It’s why she’s wearing a mirrored headpiece that reflects her ears on her album cover and why she named the project I Hear You.
Sentimiento tracksuit, Tercer Mundo vest, AYANEGUI earrings and necklace.
Aaron Sinclair
One of the biggest early critiques Gou experienced side-eyed her interest in fashion, which made her fear “that people would never take me seriously.” So during her early years in Berlin, she sported the de facto DJ uniform of black (and sometimes, maybe, white) T-shirts — a fit that never felt authentic. Around this time, a mentor told her to turn her perceived weaknesses into strengths, so she ditched the tees for couture.
Dressing in brightly colored, flowing sets and racing gear helped her catch the attention of top fashion houses like Louis Vuitton, with which she has had two partnerships. She was good friends with late DJ-designer Virgil Abloh; after his 2021 death, she posted on Instagram that “I will forever be grateful that in the infancy of my career, Virgil showed support at a time when not many others would.” Her own Peggy Goods line creates custom merch for each of her shows; at the “1+1=11” music video screening party, more than one person wears a bomber jacket with the song’s title embroidered on the back.
Gou documents the fabulousness of it all on her Instagram, which has 4.1 million followers and which — yes — she runs herself. To her, the account is a natural evolution of her old Tumblr, where she would post photos of her outfits, meals and outings. She uses the same approach now on Instagram — except the outfits are by Ferragamo, the meals are on a beach in Ibiza and the outings are playing for tens of thousands of people screaming her name. Her glamorous aesthetic, and the size of her audience, has yielded deals with brands including Don Julio, Coca-Cola and Maybelline.
Now other DJs ask her how they can expand their own brands into the fashion world. It’s speculative, but the most obvious answer seems to be to work as hard as she has. “People see that I’m riding in a Rolls-Royce now, but I used to take a f–king bus,” she says. “I did an interview in Korea recently, and the first [comment] was, ‘I smell old money.’ No. My dad was poor. My mom was average. I’m not from a rich family. I worked hard to have a glamorous life.”
Like most anyone who has achieved major success and its attendant visibility, people still give Gou sh-t. But in a true boss move, she has come to enjoy it.
“Now when I hear criticism, it means I’m doing super well,” she says. “So go ahead: Say my name.”
This story will appear in the April 27, 2024, issue of Billboard.
In addition to our Peggy Gou cover story, check out this Q&A with Aaron Sinclair, who photographed Gou for Billboard‘s AAPI issue.Tell us a little about your own background.
I was born and raised in L.A. and spent most of my life growing up in downtown. I spent a lot of time with my Korean grandmother who moved around a lot, so I got to experience different parts of the city. When I became a teenager, I really dove into music making, photography and filmmaking. This led me to pursue photography at Art Center, where I continued to explore my interests and also took film classes.
During those years, I was really into the local music scene, going to shows almost every other night to watch my friends’ bands. These experiences heavily influenced my creative interests. Now, at 30, I’m still deeply engaged in these pursuits, always striving to improve.
What did you know of Peggy Gou before the shoot?
I actually DJ as well, and I think I was looking for new songs to add to my set when I came across her song “Starry Night.” I found the music video right after, and I was immediately blown away. The shots, the colors, and the way it worked so well with the song, it made me wish I had made it. The Korean element struck a chord with me too.
What was the vibe like on set?
The vibe on set was cool. I think Peggy and I are both pretty particular when it comes to our work, so doing the shoot together was a great match.
Peggy mentioned how happy she was to see “so many of my Asian brothers and sisters here” on set. What did that feel like for you? Is it rare to have that kind of representation on a shoot?
It’s not something you see often, but when it happens, it’s noticeable. I’ve only experienced it one other time, and each time, it’s a reminder of the importance of diversity in our industry.
This is Billboard‘s first AAPI issue. What does it mean to you to be part of it?
Being part of Billboard‘s first AAPI issue means a lot to me. It’s an opportunity to showcase the diversity and talent within the AAPI community on a prominent platform. It’s not just about representation; it’s about celebrating our stories and contributions in the music industry and beyond. I feel honored to be part of this historic moment and hope it paves the way for more recognition and visibility for AAPI artists and creators.