Photograph by Christopher Leaman
Pitbull,
born Armando Pérez, self-titled Mr. Worldwide, and often known simply
as Pit, slides into his seat at a hotel restaurant about 25 minutes
inland from South Beach. The place is well outside the Miami party scene
and its paparazzi, and is either purposefully retro—deco chairs, white
tablecloths, a waitress who must be 80 wearing bright coral lipstick—or
hasn’t been updated in 50 years. It’s empty save for one of the biggest
pop stars in the world and a group of his associates, all wearing suits,
and clustered at two tables. Pitbull taps his water glass, and the
waitress hurries over to fill it. His lawyer, Leslie Zigel, hands him an
agenda, which offers topics like “Endorsement Deal Matters,”
“Investments,” and, in capital letters, “DISRUPTION.”
“I still want to know, what exactly is Bitcoin?” Pitbull says. “How real is it? Is it going to be adopted and be disruptive?”
“The people who are going to adopt it are young,” Zigel replies. “If it’s something they decide they want to do, it’s going to be a force to be reckoned with.”
“What makes this real money?”
Zigel, looking unsure, glances quickly at the articles Pitbull has shoved back toward him. “It’s very speculative right now,” he says. “There’s nothing that’s holding it together.”
Pitbull is dubious. “No gold, no nothing?”
“No banks behind it, no.”
“Are they having problems with the streets?”
Zigel’s eyebrows rise. Pitbull may be referring to the financial markets, or he may be referring to streets of a grittier variety. Pitbull, 33, spent much of his life navigating them, as he’s quick to mention. He’s a first-generation American whose parents came to Miami from Cuba, his mother in the 1960s as part of Operation Pedro Pan—Miami’s effort to get children out of the communist country—and his father in 1980. Armando Sr. was a low-level criminal and drug dealer; he met Pitbull’s mother while she was what Pitbull calls a “burlesque dancer.” By the time Pitbull was a teenager and trying to make it as a musician, he’d dropped out of school and was dealing drugs. In 2001 he hooked up with successful rapper Lil Jon and producer Luther Campbell, the frontman for 2 Live Crew, and in 2004 released his first album, M.I.A.M.I. It featured the single Culo, which peaked at No. 32 on the Billboard Hot 100. Culo, which translates, roughly, to “ass,” is what’s referred to as reggaeton—an upbeat sound that combines hip-hop, Jamaican dancehall, and more traditional Latino music such as salsa. In it, Pitbull raps in English and Spanish, and his style is hypnotizingly monotone, making it an ideal counterpart for a great hook.
In the decade since, Pitbull has become ubiquitous and is moving into the territory of empire builder, along the lines of 50 Cent or Jay Z. His publicist, Tom Muzquiz, a peppy man with spiky hair who’s lingering at the next table, promised to figure out the perfect day for us to spend together to help me understand his boss’s reach and ambition. And it didn’t involve a yacht or a crazy night out in South Beach or anything to do with his outsize lifestyle. Exciting for Pitbull, now, is thinking about things other than partying, studio time, and ladies. (He has six children with an undisclosed number of women.)
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