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Watch Latin American Music Awards Joe LaPorta understands the fast-paced nature of rap music. “[When I left New York University], the industry was completely different,” says the 44-year-old mastering engineer who has worked with everyone from Imagine Dragons to Miley Cyrus to, most recently, Future and Metro Boomin. “It was still a physical medium. There […]
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Even before the release of Beyoncé’s Billboard 200-topping album Cowboy Carter, Ryan Beatty was having a banner 2024. His name is in the liner notes to Bleachers’ self-titled fourth album as a co-writer, and he’ll open for Noah Kahan this summer and Maggie Rogers in the fall — all in support of his own acclaimed 2023 third album, Calico, which earned praise from Elton John, who hosted Beatty on his Apple Music Radio show Rocket Hour last year, saying his songwriting is “beautiful, intense and meaningful.”
But his contributions to Cowboy Carter have been quietly in the works throughout his wins, extending across the past four years. Beatty, a California native and teen pop prodigy turned tender singer-songwriter, is credited with co-writing four songs on the blockbuster, including standouts “Bodyguard” and “II Hands II Heaven.” A closely guarded secret he has kept since 2020 (Beatty, 28, says he “worked on this pretty much from beginning to end”), his collaboration proved to be an inspirational boost. “It gave me this silent confidence for years,” he says. “I think when you’re patient through the process, you almost feel ready for all the things that happen.”
Below, he explains how he scored such major co-writes and what’s up next for his solo career.
Ryan Beatty
Ashlan Grey
Even though Calico came out a year ago, do the past couple months feel like a milestone for you?
I think when you’re patient through the process, you feel ready for all the things that happen. I don’t mean to sound jaded, because it’s unreal all of the things that I’ve done and am getting to do. When I put my record out, I knew what I made and I knew how special it was to me. I’d hoped that it’d feel just as special to the people listening to it. I also know what I was willing to do and not willing to do. And I’m very adamant about staying authentic in every single decision I make when it comes to my music. And I think because I’ve been so protective of it, it’s been such a nice slow burn that the discovery of the record has been happening so naturally and effortlessly.
I didn’t realize how much this record affected people until I started touring it. Seeing people really show up and really be there with me was really special. It’s nice to know that staying true to yourself pays off, because it’s so easy for you to bite the apple and try things that don’t feel right for you and you think, “Oh, this worked for somebody else so maybe it will work for me.” But I think every artist has that feeling in their gut when they know something is right for them or not, you just have to listen closely.
You were working on Cowboy Carter and Calico simultaneously. What was it like deciding which ideas and lyrics should be for which albums?
There was never a moment where I thought, “Should this go here or there?” Anytime I went in to work on music, it was very intentional to focus on where things existed. At the end of the day, my writing is going to be my writing. But it never blended too much; it was always “I’m making this song for Calico,” or “I’m making this song for Cowboy Carter.” I felt really propelled in my artistry and could feel myself growing as an artist, so working on something of such magnitude at that time also helped hone in on my album. I always call Calico a small record because it’s so close to the chest, and it’s really interesting being in both those worlds. Knowing that [Cowboy Carter] will be heard by every person on Earth, whereas on my record I’m whispering into the mic, I kind of enjoyed that.
How did you keep Cowboy Carter a secret for so long?
It was hard, but I also sort of enjoyed it. There were people in my life who didn’t know until the day it came out. I got phone calls and texts all day, like, “What are you talking about?” The entire time I wanted to honor what was being made, and I really believe in letting the work speak for itself. Not having expectations is the best move.
Your work is usually autobiographical. How does that affect your writing for other artists?
I put my own perspective into these songs. Even on a song like “Just for Fun,” [Beyoncé] sings about Clovis, which is the town I grew up in [in California]. So if you really look into the details of it, you can hear my perspective in there, I think.
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How easy was it deciding whether or not to reflect your own queerness in your work?
It was instant for me. What excites me about making music is talking about my own life. So it wasn’t about should I or shouldn’t I. It was like, this is what excites me, let me be very forward about it.
What did you learn from working with Beyoncé and her team?
She makes things with so much intention, and I’ve always tried to do the same thing. Just seeing the work that goes into it definitely reminded me, “Oh, this is how you make greatness.” That was incredible to be around, and I felt highly respected through the entire process.
What can you share about “BODYGUARD,” which seems to be a fan favorite?
The line “Sometimes I hold you closer just to know you’re real” is one of my favorite lines I wrote for the whole record. Melody and lyric together can make something feel so much more beautiful. I think that melody, the way she sings it, and the line itself feels cute and intimate. I love that part of the song.
What can you reveal about collaborating on the Bleachers album? You are credited as a co-writer on “Call Me After Midnight.”
For that record, it’s one we started working on in 2017. It’s a song I wrote a long time ago. Jack [Antonoff, Bleachers frontman] was working on Kevin Abstract’s record, and I think they pulled that one up to revisit and Jack loved it and asked us if he could rework it and we were like, “Yeah, go for it.” To my surprise, it was on the latest Bleachers record and I’m really happy it went on there. It’s such a fun, beautiful record and I’ve been a fan of Jack’s for a really long time since way before I knew him, so that was a full circle moment at the same time, too.
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It was just announced that you’ll be opening up for Maggie Rogers on her upcoming tour. Do you ever spitball ideas with her?
Maggie is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. She’s just fun to talk to and she wears her heart on her sleeve. I think that I do the same, so I enjoy our conversations.
Are your recent experiences influencing how you’ll write your next album?
Probably, but I wouldn’t know yet. I’d say, I’m grateful to know that the best way for me to write a record is for me to just live life. That sounds really simple, but I try not to go in “record-making mode” and to be honest, I don’t even know what that means. Calico was made over a time where I was like, “Okay, ‘I’m ready to write” and then I’d stop for six weeks. Then I’d go back and work on it a little more. I just want to live a beautiful life, make beautiful things and what comes of it, comes from it. That sounds really simple, but I think if you grip it too hard it ends up being over thought. There has to be ease and intention at the same time.
This story will appear in the April 27, 2024, issue of Billboard.
“I had my own vision for what I wanted to hear in K-pop,” says Paul Thompson, an Italian American who 11 years ago moved to South Korea from California to teach English, but has since become better known as chart-topping K-pop producer MCMZ and founder of MCMZ Inc., an entertainment group based in Seoul. “I knew no other company was 100% going to let me do the vision I had. It was time for me to try to evolve K-pop.”
Enter VVS, Thompson’s newly formed group eyeing October for its official debut, and with four albums already mapped out. Embodying his love for The Neptunes, Timbaland co-producer Danja and singer-songwriter-producer Ryan Leslie, Thompson created a streamlined sound for the new act, which is named after the diamond category of the same name. “I would say we’re mashing up Ariana [Grande’s] ‘POV’ and Nicki Minaj,” says Thompson, who calls the members of VVS “the right five to push K-pop forward.”
With one Japanese and four Korean members, VVS comprises Brittney (20, the group’s leader and English speaker), Ilee (19, a rapper inspired by Blackpink’s Jennie), Rana (18, the main dancer who is musically influenced by Lauryn Hill), Jiu (15, the main vocalist who looks up to K-pop powerhouse Taeyeon) and Liwon (15, a vocalist who admires fellow teen singer Kiana).
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For now, the quintet has daily rehearsals, vocal and rap lessons, and group workouts. As their debut looms closer, the members will move into a shared living space and add media training and language lessons as part of K-pop’s famous trainee system. But unlike other trainees, the members of VVS will have had what Brittney and the girls call “culture classes” to dig into the roots of R&B and hip-hop.
“From the cultural beginnings to today where female rappers are able to perform onstage with such confidence, the fact that we are able to learn about the history of the OGs is really meaningful,” Ilee says through a translator. “We learned about female rappers at the start of the hip-hop industry, like Lil’ Kim, who influences me because she’s very confident.”
Brittney
Scott Joonhyuk Jung
Ilee
Scott Joonhyuk Jung
Meanwhile, Brittney — who nearly abandoned her K-pop dreams after time training in two different agencies before joining MCMZ — pulls inspiration from an act closer to home. “BTS came from a small company,” she says. “We come from a small company, too, so I think there’s a lot that we can learn from them. They’re very hard workers, they put all their effort into their job, and when they perform onstage, they’re 100%. I think their teamwork is amazing, so I tell my girls about them, too.”
After initially moving to South Korea to teach English, Thompson spent the following decade becoming the chart-topping K-pop producer MCMZ for arena-filling acts like EXO, NCT and Kang Daniel. Similar to NewJeans mastermind Min Hee Jin and other K-pop creatives who have moved from the liner notes to the C-suite, Thompson transformed his producer moniker into a corporate entity, founding MCMZ Inc. in early 2019 and incorporating as a Korean entity in January 2020 with an all-Korean staff and crop of songwriters that includes K-pop idol Yuju and lyricists in Los Angeles and Nashville.
Thompson’s own body of work — alongside key hires of management, casting and artist development veterans in Korea — quickly earned his new label the trust of the industry. Blackpink’s agency, YG Entertainment, has already invested in the company through a deal with its distribution division, YG Plus, to assist in merchandising and marketing, as well as global distribution.
And despite operating as an Italian American in a predominantly Asian industry, Thompson says, “All the parents know what I’ve done, all the trainees know, and a lot of them audition because of the music. They realize, ‘OK, the company is still Korean, all the contracts are done in Korean, it just happens that the CEO is not.’ ”
Jiu
Scott Joonhyuk Jung
Despite its American influences, MCMZ Inc. plans to target the international K-pop fandom as well as the scene’s core markets like Korea, Japan and English-speaking territories. “It’s going to be harder for us to get across because all the big companies have way more money than us to put toward marketing,” Thompson says. “The best way we can market ourselves is to go through other channels where we don’t have to put a huge budget behind that.”
That’s exactly why he has made yet another unconventional move: welcoming Anderson Cooper to film a CNN documentary about MCMZ Inc. to air at a later date. Thompson believes embracing such an unfiltered approach during a time of creative experimentation points to the type of ambition needed to break through industry hierarchies.
“They’re already going to be questioning if we’re authentically Korean,” Thompson says. “A lot of the Korean companies’ first target demographic is going to be Korea. For us, it’s still Korea, but we know we have a barrier there to entry anyway, so let’s see how we can market ourselves more accurately [beyond that].”
Liwon
Scott Joonhyuk Jung
Rana
Scott Joonhyuk Jung
This story will appear in the April 27, 2024, issue of Billboard.
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.
As a student at the University of California, San Diego, Ollie Zhang oversaw the campus’ annual music festival and dozens of concerts throughout the year. Post-graduation, he co-founded the dance music brand Space Yacht in 2015. But he aspired to have a bigger, different kind of impact on the music business. “This idea of finding a place within the music industry for Asian artists to thrive always felt like a faraway concept to me,” he says. “A lot of the folks that I worked with and came up with in the music industry were Asian Americans. We all had this far-off dream that this is something that could be possible one day.”
So when Zhang (now 33) met Sean Miyashiro (now 42) in 2015, he says it was “serendipity” because Miyashiro was developing the very idea Zhang had imagined: carving out space for Asian and Asian American artistry to flourish. At the time, Miyashiro was helping VICE launch its dance music site, THUMP, but he soon realized, “If we created something to celebrate [our creative community], it would be better than anything else that exists.”
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Together, he and Zhang grew their shared vision into the company that became 88rising, the first and only hub for Asian artists in the music industry. 88rising launched with a small roster of clients Miyashiro was independently managing at the time, including choreographer-singer Brian Puspos, rappers Keith Ape and Dumbfoundead and dance artist josh pan. Zhang was at first, he believes, creative manager, then became chief of staff and is now head of artist development. (He also manages two of 88rising’s key signings, singer-songwriter NIKI and elusive indie-alternative star Joji.) And while the company initially focused on hip-hop, Miyashiro immediately made clear that it was never intended to be for any one type of creative — or even be any one thing at all.
Today, 88rising is a label, management firm and global brand — with Miyashiro, who alongside Zhang spoke to Billboard during weekend one of Coachella at a private residence in Indio, Calif., teasing that yet another new division is on the way. The company’s wide-ranging label roster includes NIKI, Joji and rappers Rich Brian and Jackson Wang. Meanwhile, the 88rising brand has grown into a behemoth. In 2018, it held its inaugural Head in the Clouds festival at Los Angeles State Historic Park, and the event has since expanded to New York; Jakarta, Indonesia; Manila, the Philippines; and Guangzhou, China. In 2020, 88rising launched North America’s first 24/7 radio channel dedicated to Asian artists, on SiriusXM; in 2021, the company curated the soundtrack to the Marvel blockbuster Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings; in 2022, it became the first label to score its own billing on Coachella’s lineup (returning in 2024); and, last year, it struck a global distribution deal with Sony’s The Orchard.
“Sean creating 88rising from just an idea in his head to what it has become today is incredible,” Wang says. “The thing I immediately knew about Sean is his vibe was so real from day one. He cares about art deeply before anything else, which is so rare in this music game or entertainment industry. I knew I could trust him, and he immediately began guiding me into decisions not only about my music, but how I see myself as an artist and human being.”
But regardless of exactly what 88rising does, Zhang attests that the why has never, and will never, change. “The mission statement remains the same to this day: uplifting Asian youth culture around the world,” he says. “Everything that we’ve done is a manifestation of that same intent. Obviously, the stakes have gotten higher, but where we’re at now is not even what we could have necessarily dreamed of.”
Tell us about operating as a label and as a brand.
Sean Miyashiro: It never was intended to be a label. I didn’t know anything about what it was to distribute a record or whatever. And I probably still don’t, frankly speaking. Like, I still don’t know how royalties break down and all this stuff. The intention of 88rising was to be a celebratory platform, and just by nature of what we were putting out, which was really based on the distinct taste of the people that were working here, that became the brand. That became the beating heartbeat of what 88rising was. And then all these artists started hitting us up, just being like, “We like this energy. Let’s do something.” Being a label was a happy accident… And we have a great opportunity to continually do more, so we have to take responsibility in that opportunity because nobody has really come after us.
Sean Miyashiro photographed on April 17, 2024 in Los Angeles.
Yuri Hasegawa
How does operating as a global brand entice artists, beyond only offering label services?
Ollie Zhang: There’s that little percentage of value that comes with [being] a brand, and I think that’s the intention. We do our best to make it incredibly clear that being here for an artist is advantageous and that you will be supported. Seeing [Japanese girl group] Atarashii Gakko!, for instance, use every single Head in the Clouds festival over the last couple of years, moving them slowly up and up the lineup and introducing them to different markets around the world — that is something that people definitely notice. And especially for an act like [them], the experience of being at that show instantly converts you into a fan. So how do we create as many opportunities for people to experience that as possible? That’s the advantage of being the platform that we are.
Miyashiro: When we’re in Asia, it’s crazy. I went to Indonesia with my family, and I was in one of those things that scale a mountain, and the operator is like, “You’re Sean.” When we go to Japan, when we go to China, it’s the same type of feeling — people know what we’re trying to do. And it’s by way of trying to be as consistent as possible. We have to push ourselves to stay ahead of this. I have anxiety; I never ever feel that we’re sitting pretty. It’s the complete opposite.
Many of 88rising’s wins are industrywide firsts, like the label’s now-annual Coachella billing. Why is the company able to pull off such feats?
Zhang: I think that’s a big credit to Sean and daring to believe that that’s possible. And obviously, a credit to the team that’s here and has been here over the last eight years to help execute that. And we couldn’t have done that as well without earning the trust and belief of artists that we look after, artists within the community, artists across the world. And it has all been iterative, right? It’s not necessarily a straight path, but it has always been moving in that direction.
Miyashiro: I love being able to [work with Japanese group] Number_i and new things because K-pop is already fully [established globally], times a thousand, and that’s amazing. [It’s] incredible what the whole industry there has built. But I want to showcase somebody from Cambodia or Vietnam. We love being first; it’s fun. Who wants to be second?
The 88rising Coachella set always features a variety of talent across countries and genres, including Japanese acts like Number_i this year. Considering that the label launched as a predominately hip-hop platform, what is now drawing a wider range of artists to the company?
Miyashiro: Fundamentally, we’re not business-driven or very good at business. Business is something that we have to learn by nature of, like, being able to make payroll. We’re inherently artist- and creative-driven. That’s what fuels everything. But the thing is, we’re so lucky to have built a relationship and a friendship and a bond with [our roster]. That’s what it really is. And that’s why nobody leaves, to be honest. We say this all the time: It needs to be so painfully obvious to the artist that [being on 88rising] is a benefit to them.
Zhang: It’s [about] aiding the artists on their own journey to find out what they want to communicate to the world or what kind of artists or musicians they want to be. NIKI is a great example of that. In the pandemic, she really started feeling like the kind of artist she wanted to be was going back to the singer-songwriter lane where she was making music in her bedroom in Jakarta. That’s why when she brought that original idea for [her second studio album] Nicole, it was a no-brainer in terms of wanting to embrace that and bring her creative partners that make sense.
88rising artist Jackson Wang, who says of Miyashiro: “The thing I immediately knew about Sean is his vibe was so real from day one.”
Connor Gaskey
NIKI performs at HITC on May 21, 2023 in New York.
Lindsey Blane
What up-and-comers are you putting muscle behind this year?
Zhang: A big part of the 88rising set [at Coachella] was an eye toward great Japanese talent with Number_i, Atarashii Gakko! and Yoasobi. I don’t know if it was intentional, but that’s what we’ve rallied around in this specific moment.
Miyashiro: A lot of people have been like, “Oh, dude, there’s a lot of Japanese artists,” but it wasn’t a planned thing. It’s always by nature of who we might be talking to about something as small as making a song. And then it’s like, “Yo, come on over.” These are invaluable opportunities for artists. Just in culture, [the fact that] Number_i played Coachella is like, “What, where did that come from?” Because it’s like, how else would they get here? We love being able to deliver these things with ease … It’s like, “Yo, Paul [Tollett, president of Coachella promoter Goldenvoice], give us some real estate here. We’ll figure it out.” Literally, I was like, “Just make sure that we’re on the flyer.” I had no idea what we were going to do, but it’s organic. It’s like putting together a block party.
How do you see 88rising’s Coachella billing evolving?
Miyashiro: We’re going to do it again next year. We’re going to start earlier, and I have an idea … We’ve been doing a celebration, [offering] a glimpse of all these artists going back-to-back-to-back. I think that, in the future, we want to do something a bit more orchestrated and seamless with a theme. Kind of like a musical. Tell a light story in 75 minutes. We’re actually starting that process.
What else are you working on?
Miyashiro: Right now, there are so many aspiring artists, young people, deciding to make music. And with all the infrastructure that we built and the know-how, we have the opportunity to help a lot of them. We are going to create something called FAM, Future of Asian Music. It’s a distribution ecosystem for independent Asian artists.
There’s a lot of distribution mechanisms that somebody can use, but we’re going to be [creating] a really nice ecosystem of curation and recommendation through artists of influence. [There will be] a lot of live stuff within this, and it’s all around the ethos of DIY, independent, next-generation Asian music from all over Asia. We’re doing a ton of content around this from live programming, like our version of COLORS [the German music platform known for simple live recordings from up-and-comers around the world]. It’s like [a] from-your-bedroom-to-stardom-type of thing. We want to be a part of that conversation and journey every step of the way. This is a fire starter … and pretty soon, there’s hopefully a thousand artists distributed through us. I think that we will reach that.
Zhang: It’s fully realizing the original intent of 88rising. And more important for an artist nowadays is not the sheer process of getting your music on a platform, it’s how do you create content to put you in context with all the other artists that are uploading music every day? FAM is a vehicle to express that.
Artists who performed at the 88rising Futures showcase at Coachella on April 15. Standing, from left: BIBI, Atarashii Gakko!’s SUZUKA and MIZYU, JP the Wavy, U-Lee, Jackson Wang and Number_i’s Yuta Jinguji, Yuta Kishi and Sho Hirano. Seated: XIN LIU, Tiger JK, Yoonmirae, Atarashii Gakko!’s KANON, Awich, NENE, MaRI and LANA. Kneeling: Atarashii Gakko!’s RIN. Right: Rich Brian.
Lindsey Blane
Rich Brian performs at HITC on May 21, 2023 in New York.
Deanie Chen
What subgenres do you think are shaping the future of Asian music?
Zhang: I think that Isoknock — [comprising dance/electronic artists] ISOxo and Knock2 — are leading the charge on a major resurgence in electronic dance music here and around the world. They are just pure rock stars. And I think that they are actively revitalizing a scene that has been dormant. Both Sean and I come from the dance world, grew up in electronic music — so has a lot of our staff — so that’s something where once we saw how special it was, just from the ground floor, we wanted to jump on it. For them to be two Asian American kids from San Diego and for dance music being a big part of Asian American culture over the last couple of decades, that really means something that they’re at the forefront.
How do you view the impact of 88rising so far?
Miyashiro: It’s funny because when we started, some haters were like, “Oh, dude, you think you’re the only person that can do this?” I hear people in investment meetings saying, “We’re going to be the next 88rising for African music,” and that’s dope. I love hearing that. But in the Asian space, it hasn’t happened yet. I’m sure it will in some way, shape or form. And we love that. That was the point. If we cease to exist tomorrow, we can look back and have some peace and be like, “We really did something here.”
This story will appear in the April 27, 2024, issue of Billboard.
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.
Michael Marcagi came to an agreement of sorts with his manager in late 2023. The folk-pop singer-songwriter had just finished a recording session in Woodstock, N.Y., and emerged with three songs he felt captured the signature sound he’d been crafting, inspired by Bruce Springsteen as well as artists like Jim Croce and John Prine.
Marcagi was eager to release one song as a single before the end of the year, while his manager, Alex Brahl, was hoping he would ramp up his presence on TikTok — and advocated for a regular quota of posts to increase exposure. “Five times a week, that was our ultimate deal,” recalls Brahl. “We were coming from zero, more or less.”
The two studied how other artists used the platform to their advantage, and within weeks, Marcagi released his solo debut single, the simmering, acoustic guitar-led “The Other Side,” and had developed a following on the platform. By January, that fandom helped power his breakout hit and follow-up single, the jangly and more uptempo “Scared To Start.”
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The following month, “Scared To Start” scored the artist his first Billboard Hot 100 entry, reaching a new No. 54 high on this week’s chart. The song — which appears on Marcagi’s debut EP American Romance — also entered the top 10 on Hot Alternative Songs and Hot Rock Songs charts and marked Marcagi’s return to Adult Alternative Airplay, which he previously graced in 2020 and 2021 with his former folk-rock band The Heavy Hours.
“I knew in the back of my head that I wanted to eventually write singer-songwriter music that was narrative-driven and just talk about what I felt, what I wanted to sing about,” says Marcagi, who mentions that The Heavy Hours amicably parted ways a few years ago. However, the role of frontman primed him for his solo career — particularly amid his viral takeoff. “I needed those couple years of playing shows and getting notches in my belt and learning the ropes,” he continues. “The music industry is weird. It’s a hard, kind of a lonely, intimidating place to be sometimes. I needed the time to get used to it.”
Kate Sweeney
Growing up in Cincinnati, Marcagi was drawn to the production of “simple folk songs and acoustic guitars,” while his midwestern upbringing inspired his lyrics. “I write a lot of songs from that feeling of being from a flyover state,” he says. (His brother and day-to-day manager, Andrew Marcagi, adds that their “blue collar roots, without a doubt, have shaped Michael’s lyrics and songwriting style.”)
Marcagi is well aware that folk-pop is enjoying a mainstream resurgence, propelled in part by new labelmate Zach Bryan as well as Noah Kahan, the latter of whom Marcagi is a major fan. “I think it’s so awesome he’s playing for stadiums of people that are screaming about Vermont,” he laughs. “This style of music is working right now and I’m super grateful that people connected with [‘Scared To Start’]. It has been this wild little rocket ship the past couple months.”
Brahl can trace the song’s takeoff all back to one particular TikTok clip in which Marcagi is playing guitar in a field of dead grass over the “Scared To Start” lyric “let’s lay in the dead grass, stare at the stars.” As Brahl recalls, after uploading the teaser on December 19, the team went out to lunch — and when they came back, the clip had 10,000 views. “I remember talking to Michael and being like, ‘What if we wake up tomorrow and it has 50,000?’,” he says. “It had 100,000, and it was this completely organic thing that just kept going and going.”
Kate Sweeney
In the days before the holiday break, Brahl sent the clip around to a handful of labels, and by Christmas Eve, Marcagi and his team selected Warner Records as his label home. He signed his deal the first week of January, and the following week, “Scared To Start” was released as his next single from American Romance, which arrived in early February. “One of the reasons we were so excited about Warner is that over the holidays we were getting on the phone with the digital team and planning. We were moving very, very quickly,” says Brahl. “We had momentum and I’ve seen it too many times where people don’t take advantage of that. We wanted to.”
“We were aggressive out of the gate in attacking the areas we knew would adopt the song with open arms,” says Will Morrow, Warner’s vp of viral marketing and digital development. Plus, as senior vp of digital marketing, Dalia Ganz, adds, the digital teams at Warner were quick to “leverage our deep relationship with TikTok to get increased visibility for the song on the platform,” noting that they are now focused on driving virality for “Scared To Start” across other shortform platforms like Instagram Reels and YouTube Shorts.
With the hit’s success, Warner has another win and developing star on its roster, joining the likes of Teddy Swims and Benson Boone, who have each enjoyed top 5 Hot 100 hits in 2024. “Warner has emerged as a leader in the championing of this new generation of singer-songwriters and the return of guitars in pop music, and we identified Michael as a standout in that space,” says Warner CEO Aaron Bay-Schuck. “He had a collection of songs we loved and felt he really understood how to authentically market and promote himself online.” (Yet, Marcagi is the first to admit “TikTok is a weird, Wild West for me still.”)
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Recently, Marcagi returned to the same Woodstock studio to work on his debut full-length before heading out on tour. He’s currently abroad — with dates in the U.K., Ireland, Germany and elsewhere — and in May will kick off his 23-date U.S. trek in Denver. “It’s been very much like, ‘Quick, go!,’ but still mostly organic,” says Brahl, noting there has yet to be a major TV campaign or concerted radio push, nor any particular challenge TikTok users can opt into.
Even so, Marcagi’s friends send him a photo whenever “Scared To Start” does play on the radio — which he says is perhaps the most surreal part so far. “I remember driving my dad’s car and hearing Mumford and Sons and The Lumineers on the radio when I was in high school,” he recalls. “It’s a weird full circle moment to be like, ‘I can’t believe that out of all of the artists that are putting music out, they’re choosing to play my song.’ It’s really, really wild.”
Kate Sweeney
A version of this story will appear in the April 27, 2024, issue of Billboard.
For the better part of the last decade, Joe Keery has most of his time bouncing between worlds. In the more literal sense, he’s navigated to-and-from the Upside Down as Steve Harrington, the bad boy-turned-fan favorite, on Netflix’s Stranger Things. But outside of the hit series, he has balanced his growing prominence as an actor — recently starring in the dramedy Marmalade with Camila Morrone, and in the latest season of Fargo alongside Jon Hamm as his sheriff character’s son — with Djo, his ever-burgeoning solo music project.
For part of his 20s, Keery attended college and lived in Chicago, also cutting his teeth in the indie scene as part of psych-rock band Post Animal. Though he ultimately departed the band as Stranger Things caused too many constraints with his schedule, Keery continued to create music during his free time, ultimately leading to the birth of Djo. Debut album Twenty Twenty arrived in 2019 as an independent release through AWAL; three years later, he utilized the same route for his follow-up set, Decide.
Funnily enough, Keery, 31, is now returning to Chicago in a way — as his dreamy, synth-pop single “End of Beginning” from Decide has transformed into a viral hit in recent months. Reminiscent of new wave hits from the likes of Crowded House and INXS (Keery has noted influence from Annie Lennox’s “No More ‘I Love You’s’” as well), listeners have gravitated in particular to the lyrics in its chorus: “And when I’m back in Chicago, I feel it/ Another version of me, I was in it/ I wave goodbye to the end of beginning.”
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“Your late 20s are a wild time,” he tells Billboard. “The gist of it is being sad that I wasn’t more appreciative for something in the moment — longing for something that’s over, but also being happy that it happened.”
Since the song has gained new legs in 2024, it has reached a No. 11 high on the Billboard Hot 100 (Djo’s first career entry on the chart), while also hitting No. 1 on Hot Alternative Songs and continuing to gain momentum at alternative radio. It could be just the start of a breakout year for Keery’s musical project, as the multi-hyphenate notes he’s finishing a third album and hopes to go on a proper tour, which he still is yet to do in support of Decide, due to his acting career.
In the meantime, he’s also currently filming the final season of Stranger Things. At the time of our Sunday morning call, he’s enjoying a day off by moseying through a number of yard sales in Atlanta, one of which he says has happily yielded a vintage edition of The Settlers of Catan for just $5. Below, Keery tells Billboard about the makings of “End of Beginning,” compares successes as an actor versus successes as a musician, previews what to expect in the year ahead and more.
How did the song come together? Was the demo you posted on social media the first time that you worked on it?
No, I had had the idea. At the time [in fall 2021], I was living in Los Angeles. I had punched the chords out really quick and had an idea for a melody. That demo that I posted was me arranging and starting to figure out what the other parts might be. Then, I banged it out in the studio, at least the instrumental, pretty much in a day, with [co-producer] Adam Thein and [Slow Pulp drummer] Teddy Mathews. We all tracked the bare bones of it — guitar, bass and drums — and filled it in from there.
It was a swift process for this one. The album [2022’s Decide] is full of extra production in a lot of places, so I was just feeling like, “Let’s just make the simplest thing we could possibly make.” Verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus and be done with it. That was the goal: Try to work fast and not overcomplicate things, and that was what we did. The lyrics came a fair bit later. I really like to take the songs outside and walk around; that’s generally when I’m best at thinking up lyrics.
When did you know the song was a finished product?
You never really get to that point. I feel that, personally. There are always things that I wish we could go back and redo or improve this or improve that. But we gave ourselves until the end of March, and then at that point, we thought, “Okay, let’s just set a date for ourselves and then be done with it.”
“End of Beginning” has plenty of accolades to go around: your first Hot 100 entry, No. 1 on Hot Alternative Songs, RIAA certified gold and many more. Do those sort of accomplishments resonate with you?
It has never even been on my radar, to be honest with you, with the style of music that I’m making. It’s really cool, but I almost feel like I don’t have the perspective to really appreciate what’s going on in a way. I think that in time, it’ll come to me even more. They’re cool milestones to hit, but at the end of the day, the greatest thing is being able to go into the studio and work.
Has the song’s meaning changed for you at all over time, or is still the same as when you created it in 2021?
I guess it does mean the same thing; I feel that I’m in a different place, though. Maybe I’ve slightly come to terms more with what I was feeling. I don’t know, your late 20s are kind of a wild time. I’m not a huge believer in astrology, but I do feel like there is something to the whole Saturn return thing.
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Are there conversations happening right now behind the scenes about pushing listeners back toward the rest of Decide or even debut album, Twenty Twenty, versus trying to strike while the iron is hot with new music?
I’m much more focused on new stuff than old stuff — and finishing the new stuff. But the song has opened up possibilities for some new ears to hear the music, and I’m looking forward to getting the new stuff out, because it has been something that I’ve been working on basically since Decide came out. I’m really trying to embrace the newness that has come along with entering my 30s and now living in a different city as well. I’m excited. I feel like it’s a little bit different. It’ll be fun to see what people think.
Do you find that the location where you’re living and recording impacts the creation of the music itself?
One hundred percent, yes I do. I also think that the process of how you go about recording [impacts the music]. To me, it’s all about process over product and letting that process inform the music you’re making. I spent a lot of the last album starting making music on the computer, and I’m trying to take a different approach this time around.
Last time we talked, you told me how the sessions at The Sound Factory really inspired your affinity for in-studio collaboration. Does that still hold true?
Definitely. I have wanted my whole life to get into the studio. So, now to have a little bit more leeway under my belt, it was really cool to get into a professional environment. When you make music at home, you have all these tools, plug-ins and stuff that try to emulate real gear that exists out in the world. To be able to use some of that gear … I don’t know. Working at home is really cool because you can do it whenever, but to be able to go into a place to work feels really good. I really enjoyed that.
How does the song’s success affect your marketing strategy for this side of your career?
In the same way that we haven’t really been able to tour the music — a lot of that has been up to my schedule for shooting [Stranger Things] being all over the place — the same kind of thing with this marketing stuff. You spend all this time making the music, and you do want to market it properly. Now that the word is out a little bit more on the project, and it’s a little less of a secret between the people who know, a change in the way that the project is marketed could be cool. I’m still figuring it out, really.
You’ve talked ad nauseam about your disguises and making an effort to make Djo something of a separate entity than your acting career. When you’re having a big moment like this, is there any part of you that wants to maximize the audience by making the connection between Joe Keery and Djo abundantly clear for people?
Not sure about that. Maybe, but I’m not trying to shove it down anyone’s throat — it’s pretty easy to tell when things are like that. The fact that this all popped off naturally and happened on its own is best possible scenario for me. I’m really happy that it has happened this way. It’s cool for me because all the rules have seemed to changed a little bit.
How do you mean the rules have changed?
It just feels like the project is in a different place. Before, it was this thing that was sort of my own little secret. And now, I don’t know. It makes me think how I could treat it differently. I always am really interested when people use marketing to their advantage — that’s what I tried to last time with the disguise and the name. Maybe there’s a new way to embrace that, and I guess it’s time for me to figure out what that is.
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Is there a difference in how you feel receiving praise for something you’ve acted in versus something you’ve created as a musician?
Definitely. [Being] a performer as opposed to a writer is really the distinction to be made that I’ve found rewarding. That’s kind of the point of art, in general: To share something that people take in as their own and repurpose it for their own life. To be on the receiving end of that is really cool. Obviously, I’ve had some amazing experiences being on [Stranger Things]. The fan base is incredible. To see people wearing your character as a Halloween costume, that’s unbelievable. But [music] does scratch a different itch, and it’s really rewarding. I just feel super lucky.
Are there are any plans for a tour?
Yeah, I’ve got a fair amount of work ahead of me on the show, but the plan would be to do that sooner rather than later. And hopefully to do it right.
I would imagine it’ll be extremely cool to see all the fans in person that either found Decide immediately or as a result of this more recent wave. Looking at numbers on a page can probably only yield so much of a dopamine rush.
Yeah, it’s funny. You release something, and in this day in age — and in my situation — I kind of just released it, and then it was like, “Okay.” I didn’t really play any shows, it just came out, and that was sort of it. So, for me, it still exists as this tiny little thing. This kind of reaction to this song has been a little bit of a wake up call like, “Oh, people are actually listening to this! This exists in the world.”
To see that physically embodied at the shows would be overwhelming I’m sure, but extremely exciting. Live performance is what got me into being an artist in the first place. Just doing plays and enjoying the energy you get in a live setting. I definitely am itching to get out there. At the end of the day, it’s really about the live experience.
Are there lessons that you’ve learned from creating Decide, Twenty Twenty or anything else in the past few years that are influencing how you’re making music now?
This song has taught me the lesson of specificity being something that is important. Also, becoming less interested in something sounding perfect or polished, and more interested in trying to capture something that is a one-of-a-kind thing, whether it’s a sound or a vocal take or a drum sound. I think those are the things that stand the test of time and make things sound different. I’m chasing that more recently.
A version of this story originally appeared in the March 30, 2024, issue of Billboard.
Since the 1970s, D’Addario has manufactured strings for guitars, orchestral instruments and more with an eye on the future — but back then, no one at the Farmingdale, N.Y.-based company could have expected that future to involve smelting metal strings.
After decades of prioritizing music education for children through its D’Addario Foundation, particularly in underserved communities, the company launched Playback in 2015, which prioritizes sustainability. The program repurposes used guitar and orchestral strings in partnership with recycling company TerraCycle. Metal strings are smelted into new alloys, while nylon strings are recycled for industrial plastic applications — keeping both out of landfills, where over 1.5 million pounds of strings accumulate every year, according to Playback. To participate, individuals can place strings into bins at one of the nearly 1,200 collection locations across the country, including hundreds of Guitar Centers and independent retailers, or mail them on their own, so long as shipments exceed 5 pounds, to minimize waste. (D’Addario provides prepaid UPS shipping labels for such donators.)
To date, almost 13 million strings have been recycled through Playback. Acts such as U2, My Morning Jacket and Young the Giant have drawn attention to the initiative, with the lattermost donating a percentage of every ticket sold from its 2023 summer tour to the D’Addario Foundation. Additionally, the company has partnered with competitors, and its site provides links to international string recycling organizations in France and Slovakia, too. “We want to do what’s good for the whole industry,” says Brian Vance, D’Addario vp of fretted strings and accessories.
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In 2022, D’Addario instituted World String Change Day to heighten interest in the program. The idea encourages consumers to try new strings and other accessories, often through deals. It will return for its third year on June 6. “At that moment you’re taking your strings off, it goes right into the Playback bin,” chief marketing officer Jonathan Turitz says. The D’Addario Foundation has also led drives for those looking to donate used instruments, many of which end up in the hands of in-need students. The practice of repairing used instruments for kids was highlighted in the recent Academy Award-winning documentary The Last Repair Shop. “That film is exactly the story of what we’re doing,” Turitz says, “whether it’s the people in the shop or the kids.”
Playback aims to expand globally in the coming years, though logistical issues and costs stand in the way. “The recycling laws, methodologies and practices in Europe are much different than they are in the U.S.,” Vance says, although later this year, D’Addario hopes to conduct testing on scaling the program abroad. And despite the rising costs that come with the program’s success, D’Addario’s ultimate mission remains at the forefront. “We’re facing an existential crisis,” Turitz says. “It’s vital that we put the planet above profit.”
This story originally appeared in the March 30, 2024, issue of Billboard.
As the 18,000 fans gathered at Mexico City’s Arena Ciudad de México on Feb. 14 screamed at deafening levels, the duo Los Temerarios ran onstage — Adolfo Ángel from the left, Gustavo Ángel from the right — and embraced briefly but fiercely upon meeting in the middle of the vast platform.
Then, Adolfo, 60 — dressed in black pants and shirt and light blue jacket — took his customary place behind an array of keyboards while frontman Gustavo, 55, dressed in a shining black and red embroidered jacket, picked up his microphone.
Without preamble, he sang the first notes of the first song of the brothers’ last tour, Hasta Siempre (Until Forever).
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After more than four decades together, 41 entries on Billboard’s Hot Latin Songs chart and an astounding 46 entries on Top Latin Albums — more than any other Latin act in history — Los Temerarios is calling it quits.
“Tomorrow is the beginning of the end of an era for Temerarios,” Adolfo says over a bottle of wine in Mexico City the night before the tour opens, his eyes welling up with tears, in his first and only interview since the group’s announcement of this finale. “I’m a little sensitive,” he adds with a soft, embarrassed laugh.
Adolfo, the “big” Temerario, is over 6 feet tall and brooding. It’s not unusual to see him get emotional. After all, this is a group whose career has quite literally been built on love songs, all penned and produced by Adolfo since he was a teenager doing music with younger brother Gustavo, the dashing, charismatic singer with the high, expressive tenor.
But during a U.S. tour in August, Los Temerarios made a surprise announcement on social media:
“With the love that has united us since we were kids, the same that we feel for the vocation that we’ve had the privilege of working in for more than 46 years, we want to share that we’ve made the difficult decision of separating, closing one of the most important and gratifying cycles of our lives,” the brothers wrote. “Everything we express from this moment on will be in the form of music and in our next shows where we’ll be giving you the best of us.”
Los Temerarios’ Hasta Siempre tour played CDMX Arena in Mexico City on Feb. 16.
Virtus Music
On the eve of their farewell tour, Adolfo stayed true to his statement, refusing to further explain the group’s split except to say they were ending Los Temerarios at Gustavo’s request and that things were not just amicable, but brotherly.
“My brother and I were clear that [beyond the statement] we were keeping things between him and me, and I want to respect that, and I’m sure he does, too,” Adolfo says. “We will finish this tour, each of us will go our own [professional] way, and I will always wish my brother the very best.”
For now, they’re making good on their promise to fans by bringing their best to the stage. On Feb. 14, backed by their longtime five-piece band, Adolfo and Gustavo performed for well over two hours as the crowd sang along. The brothers sold out five consecutive nights, a record for the venue.
“Having a single artist play five consecutive sold-out [shows] goes beyond anything we’d done before,” says Alejandro Arce, general director of tour promoter Zignia Live, which also owns Arena Ciudad de México. The promoter initially announced nine tour dates across Mexico for Los Temerarios, “and sales were extraordinary,” Arce says. The group hadn’t toured the country in over a decade, and the response has been phenomenal, spurring the addition of three more dates at the Mexico City arena (for a total of over 120,000 tickets sold), as well as three sold-out dates (30,000 tickets) at the Arena Monterrey. Not that any of this was a surprise. Last year, the group grossed $12.3 million and sold 125,000 tickets to 14 shows, according to figures reported to Billboard Boxscore.
All told, in 2024, Los Temerarios will play over 50 arena and stadium dates across Mexico, Central America and the United States — including Madison Square Garden in New York and two nights apiece at Houston’s Toyota Center and Chicago’s Allstate Arena, with more cities expected to be announced. The U.S. leg of the tour is promoted by Zamora Entertainment and, for West Coast dates, in partnership with Frias Entertainment.
“Los Temerarios is a group that has transcended generations,” Arce says. “Very few groups in this genre can fill stadiums. It opens this kind of music, which is completely different and with a completely different message, to new generations.”
The duo won the top Latin albums artist of the year honor at the 2005 Billboard Latin Music Awards.
Rodrigo Varela/WireImage
The duo performs wistful and passionate love songs with arrangements that veer from very traditional Mexican — cumbia, ranchera and the keyboard-heavy sound associated with Mexican romantic groups — to sophisticated pop, a duality the band uniquely achieved in its sphere.
Originally launched along with a cousin in the late 1970s as Grupo la Brisa, the group was always spearheaded by Adolfo, the budding keyboardist-composer who penned songs for his brother. Their romantic grupera musica was beginning to surge in Mexico, with dozens of romantic groups, including Los Bukis and Bronco, gaining traction. Los Temerarios had an additional asset: the entreprenurial Adolfo’s keen business sense.
He eventually changed the duo’s name to Los Temerarios and started releasing music on his own label, AFG Sigma Records, in 1989 while also promoting the band’s shows. That DIY approach served the group well. Save for a brief moment at the very beginning of Los Temerarios’ career, the brothers have always licensed albums as opposed to signing with a label, keeping the rights and control over their masters. As for Adolfo’s publishing catalog of hundreds of songs, it has always been administered by their own publisher, Virtus, the successor to an earlier company, ADF, set up in 1989. This year, the group is signing its first publishing administration deal, with Kobalt.
Twelve years ago, the brothers went completely independent, launching their own label, also named Virtus, and taking over their own promotion and marketing. Their cousin Mayra Alba, who has a master’s in music management from the University of California, Berkeley, has managed them since 1996.
“Their music doesn’t stop evolving,” Alba says. “As artists, they’ve done what they want yet have continued to be authentic, connecting with a multigenerational audience and reaching every possible milestone.”
The results speak for themselves. In addition to its record number of entries on Top Latin Albums, the band has placed 41 tracks on Hot Latin Songs since 1990. Of those, 17 went top 10 and four hit No. 1.
On Latin Airplay, the group has 15 top 10s and four No. 1s, and on Regional Mexican Albums, its 47 entries best those of any group. Los Temerarios is one of only five acts to have achieved eight No. 1s on Top Latin Albums. Only two acts, Marco Antonio Solís and Luis Miguel, have achieved more (12 and nine, respectively).
The steadiness of the group, which has been performing since 1980, made the news of its split even more surprising. And yet, so far, Los Temerarios’ farewell tour has been joyous — and has garnered an overwhelming response.
For these shows, Los Temerarios upgraded the production, adding sophisticated visuals, courtesy of longtime collaborator and video director Carlos Pérez. And aside from Gustavo’s vocals, Adolfo, for the first time, is also singing a short set of songs. It may be a harbinger of what’s to come.
“I’ve never been afraid of experimenting. Then all these energies come in and try to say no to you, but I never listen to that,” Adolfo tells Billboard. “I listen to my heart. I’ve discovered that’s the key: Listen to your heart.”
I would love to hear the story of how you got your first record deal as a teen.
Yes. It was a time of dreams. A time when you saw a lot of artists and groups that inspired and motivated you and you wanted to get to those same stages and take a positive message to the hearts of those who heard you. I went to every single label at the time, and they all said no. I would take our little demos, and they would all say, “This is all very good. Come back in February.”
And then it was March. So, since no one wanted us, we decided to make our own albums, using our gig money. I’d take [our own records] to the radio stations and say I was the radio promoter. I was a teenager. I’d sit there for hours, and sometimes they would see me, sometimes they wouldn’t. I’m not complaining. It’s part of something that now I understand had to happen.
I also took the records to the record store, on consignment. If they sold them, they paid me; if not, I had to pick them up. And when we started to sell 5,000 copies and I had to say, “Hey, send me another thousand,” the people from Sony — CBS then — came over and we signed a contract. Didn’t even look at it. Just said “Órale” [“OK”] and signed. That was around 1983.
You began your career by hustling and doing everything on your own, and now, as a superstar, you’re still independent.
Yes, and that has been important, positive for our career. It made us learn and took us down a road that has been a great gift. Because in the beginning, we knocked on doors and they’d say, “Come back next year.” Until I realized that we had to do it ourselves. And I did it.
Adolfo Ángel of Los Temerarios perform during their Hasta Siempre Tour at CDMX Arena in Mexico City on Feb. 17.
Virtus Music
Did you have a mentor?
No. It was always the desire to make it [that motivated me]. And I would look for the way. I’d pick up the phone and find the label, find the radio station. Then I would get in the pickup truck and drive wherever I had to go. And finally, it would happen. Little by little we became known, at least in our area.
But my dad was a very important example in my life. He still supports me. Without my dad, it would have been much harder, because he loves music. For example, when we had to work the fields and I didn’t want to go, I would pretend I was asleep. And when they were all gone, I’d go look for my music teacher in Fresnillo, Zacatecas, and the next day, my dad wouldn’t say anything. He allowed me those peccadillos. He bought me my first keyboard, a red organ. And then, when I outgrew it, he bought me the new model.
Early in your career you launched your own publishing company, and now you’re signing your first administration deal, with Kobalt. Have you considered selling your catalog?
No. My songs have a very special value. It’s not just the money. If I can take them by the hand the way I think is best — these songs that came from my heart — well, I’d rather do that than give them to someone in exchange for a check. That’s not what I want to do. At least not now.
A decade ago, you were on top of the world with chart success. You last released an album in 2015, then the pandemic interrupted your cycle. What did you do?
We were always doing something. Even though we haven’t released a full album of new songs since 2015, we have a few singles. I’ve always been patient in recording. We usually put out new albums every four, five years. I always thought the quicker you recorded, the quicker your fans got tired. I still think that, even in the era of TikTok. That’s why there’s so much space between albums. And resisting that pressure has given us results, even when people start to say things like, “Hey, I don’t hear your songs.”
The industry has changed, and now the cycle of releases is very fast. Did that worry you?
Some artists release songs every week, every two weeks, but I don’t think those songs transcend. They’re very ephemeral successes. I believe that if you give [the process] respect, if you take the time and make a great production and you feel satisfied with it, very great things can happen. Maybe something works on TikTok with the chorus for a little bit, but I don’t think that’s the path. I like things the old-fashioned way, where you go to the studio, you have a great console, you record a great production with the best engineers and the best musicians and not only with a computer. That’s the music I like to make, that lifts my soul.
Gustavo Ángel of Los Temerarios perform during their Hasta Siempre tour at Arena Monterrey in Monterrey on March 1.
Virtus Music
Your music is romantic by definition. Are you dismayed at how some artists today portray love in their lyrics?
Not dismayed, but I was surprised to hear how music is being used to denigrate women. That had a big impact on me because I do the opposite. I try to say beautiful things about the most beautiful being in the universe; or at least, in my universe. But I respect everyone, and every artist will do their own thing. Me, I’ll continue writing my love songs, and I prefer to make a woman feel like a queen or a princess rather than something else. Maybe I’m being cheesy, but I like that. But I’m not criticizing anyone. Everyone does their own thing.
You wrote a lot during the pandemic, and most of the songs haven’t been released. Now that you’re splitting up, what do you plan to do with them?
I wrote them for us, thinking of my brother, of course. Even when I write on the piano or guitar, I do so in my brother’s tone, which is a higher range than mine. Then, when my brother decided he no longer wanted to be in Temerarios, the songs were put on pause. I don’t know what I’ll do with them. But now, we’re going to finish this tour, everyone will go their own way, and I will always wish my brother the best in life. I think my brother is a very talented man, he has a lot of charisma, people love him a lot, we have had a great career together, and we have the affection of the audience, both of us. He’s going to do very well in whatever he decides to do, and I’ll continue making my songs as long as I can.
Are you working on a solo album?
I am not. I love to sing, but I never used to do so onstage. Because I always felt very comfortable behind my keyboards, with my brother in front. Behind the keyboards I can tell you a story, talk with you; it’s like a protective cape where you feel very comfortable. That’s the way it was, for decades. Then, on this tour, I said, “OK, I have to do it.” And I sing a set of three songs. The only intent is to respond to the audience’s love. And I liked it. A lot. Now I feel very comfortable. But, right now, I’m always writing. I feel most happy and comfortable writing for Temerarios. And if my brother isn’t there anymore, I’ll think about doing it for myself.
What would you like your legacy to be for Mexican music and Latin music overall?
I feel we’re leaving behind a beautiful message for everyone who has ever listened to us, and that’s enough for me.
This story originally appeared in the March 30, 2024, issue of Billboard.
