Pitbull: A look at a bling-less rapper that heeded mama’s words and forged an “old money” image

Pitbull in 2005, performing at Annette Strauss Artist Square in Dallas.

I remember it well. It was eight years ago, nighttime, and I sat inside an empty banquet hall at the Radisson Hotel in Dallas. Rapper Pitbull sat in front of me. The room was dimly lit. A couple of things about him immediately struck me. His only piece of jewelry was a watch. A nice watch, but hardly anything fancy or shiny. I would learn during our conversation that his mother advised him to look like “old money,” meaning no gaudy bling blinding you from the sparkling glare. She told him that if he decked himself out in expensive clothes and ostentatious jewelry he would look like “new money,” and the sycophants would want to bleed him dry of cash.

Pitbull still heeds mama’s words. Today he has international fame and total assimilation into the Anglo world of hip-hop, which he’s parlayed into product endorsements, TV and film appearances and recorded featured spots on singles by Jennifer Lopez, Enrique Iglesias and Taio Cruz, among others. Pitbull’s image, however, remains all about simple yet elegantly tailored suits, sunglasses and that’s it. Still no obnoxious bling.

So in anticipation for his concert Sunday night at Gexa Energy Pavilion, a co-headlining bill with trashy-pop singer Ke$ha, I reread my piece on Pitbull from 2005. It offers a look at a guy on the cusp of fame with some very unconventional ideas and plenty of refreshing honesty.

In a hip-hop music world where image tells the whole story, Cuban-American rapper Pitbull strives to debunk the look.

Sitting for a recent interview at Dallas’ Radisson Hotel, the hard-charging rhymer is all but nondescript in a striped polo shirt, jeans, sneakers, buzz cut and thin beard. Tattoos on his forearms and wrists are about the only immediate sign of street credibility.

At 24, he’s fresh-faced, lacking the sparkling jewelry that characterizes the hip-hop style. His debut album, M.I.A.M.I, which stands for Money Is a Major Issue, sounds straightforward even as he embraces the Southern rap, crunk, reggaeton and Latin hip-hop movements.

He’s no-nonsense in a genre he calls “a lie.”

Pibull in 2010. Dig the stylish shirt and tie.

“I feel hip-hop is a facade,” he says. “A lot of these rappers…no, cause they got guns…no, because they sell drugs, this and that. My whole point of rapping was not to sell drugs, not to be on the streets doing this, not to live with a leash, not to live an illegal lifestyle. That’s the way out.”

Pitbull, born Armando Perez in Miami, is the son of Cuban parents. He says he grew up on the streets moving from one urban neighborhood to another, from Wynwood to Little Havana, Hialeah to the Southwest area affectionately called “La Sauwecera” by local Cubans. He turned to basketball to keep himself out of trouble, but
he was still witnessing the street hustler’s lifestyle.

“Basketball still kept me in the streets to find out who was doing who and what was doing what,” he says. “I understood the street already. I already knew how to make money.”

He started rapping at 16, recording his own mix-tapes and circulating them locally. Later, he worked with rapper and record label mogul Luther “Luke” Campbell, who formed successful rap outfit 2 Live Crew and his own independent imprint, Luke Skyywalker Records.

When he decided to take the national plunge, he signed with another independent label, TVT Records, and made an album that embraced his Cuban heritage, the Anglo hip-hop world and his naturally bilingual rapping style. M.I.A.M.I. has produced three radio staples, “Culo,” “Toma,” which features crunk king Lil Jon, and “Dammit Man.” The CD, released last August, has sold a healthy 402,000 copies, according to Nielsen SoundScan, 14,000 of that total in Dallas-Fort Worth.

He’s enjoyed further exposure by appearing as a guest on the remix version of Daddy Yankee’s reggaeton hit, “Gasolina.” Plus, he’s on Cuban rappers Orishas’ new disc, El Kilo, and rapper Baby Bash’s latest, Super Saucy.

But the disc barely taps into Pitbull’s political thoughts or even his sordid stories of street life. He’s fiercely anti-Fidel Castro and Che Guevara. He’s written an essay published by The New York Post condemning the iconic status of Mr. Guevara. He does, however, manage to slip in a few tracks with more than just dancing and drinking in mind. Namely, there is “Hustler’s Withdrawal,” a diatribe against the drug dealing and illegal shenanigans by many inner-city kids.

He says he understood the need to record club-friendly, radio-ready tracks like “Culo” and “Dammit Man.” They represent a side of him but hardly the whole picture.

“You have to cater in order to be catered to,” says the unmarried father of two children. “The next album will be a different step where I can maybe touch more political views, maybe touch more things in depth and at the same time throwing records out to the public. Because at the end of the day, I gotta get played on the radio in order to sell records and feed my family.”

Pitbull today, the image is all about elegant tailored suits and little to no bling.