“I want to know something before I keep going with my show,” said Bad Bunny in English three songs into a swaggering, shape-shifting two-hour headliner set at Coachella late on Friday night. “What do you prefer: me talking in English or hablando español?” The biggest artist in the world – the most streamed for three years running, with the top album (Un Verano Sin Ti) and highest grossing tour in 2022 – is not known for speaking English. His voraciously genre-absorbing music remains in rapid-fire Puerto Rican Spanish; his refusal to cater to English-only audiences in mainstream crossover is a longstanding political point. And so it was not a hard question for the sprawling crowd at Coachella, many of whom knew every one of lyrics: an emphatic “ESPAÑOL!”
The dazzling statement show Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, better known as the Puerto Rican superstar Bad Bunny, put on into early Saturday morning was, for his fans, a triumphant victory lap; for those who don’t speak Spanish or aren’t familiar with the ascendant world of Latin music, an education; for everyone, a bumping dance party from start to finish. The lane-switching, or braiding, was seamless, even when it wasn’t – fitting for an artist who sounds relaxed even when he’s tearing through a line or doing calisthenics on stage. In person, his baritone sounds even more vaguely underwater, magnetic and rich.
Following an introduction in Spanish contextualizing his historic set – the 29-year-old is the first Latino and Spanish-language headliner in the festival’s history – Bad Bunny first appeared atop a neon-lit gas station, a nod to a recent surprise concert in Puerto Rico (later turned into his music video for La Jumpa) and a clever way to elevate above a massive crowd jostling for a glimpse beyond the (almost uniformly excellent) camerawork keeping him on the big screen at almost all times. (Sorry to his back-up dancers, who were barely in view unless you were close to the stage.) Other visuals, all entrancing, spanned millennial nostalgia (a Windows desktop screen), a city on fire, and what I can only describe as galaxy beach.
Dressed as one should for a windy night in the desert – a patchwork parka twinkling with stacks of bling and no shirt and, later, a bleached all-denim outfit swaddled in a quilt – Bad Bunny partied, in full command of the stage strut and neon-yellow mic, through 25 songs. There were the sun-dappled staples of Un Verano Sin Ti (dembow opener Tití Me Preguntó, the yearning Moscow Mule), reggaeton and trap-leaning tracks from 2020’s YHLQMDLG (La Difícil, crowdpleaser Yo Perreo Sola, reggaeton tour de force Safaera with guests Jowell y Randy and Ñengo Flow) and older remixes (2018’s Te Boté).
As demanded, Bad Bunny spoke only in Spanish, in occasional yet flowing, heartfelt speeches. The only English was, fittingly, two interludes surveying the history of Caribbean musical styles and the development, and surging dominance, of reggaeton. Both served as a litmus test; the crowd was an easily discernible mix of white people standing still-ish and filming on their phones, and people who got the references dancing up a dust storm. There were those who understood the defiance of El Apagón (The Blackout), a protest banger about rolling blackouts since the privatization of Puerto Rico’s energy grid, and those along for the ride. (“Benito could do as it was but harry could never do el apagon”, read a tweet blaring on the big screen of Bad Bunny’s stage, referring to last year’s Friday headliner Harry Styles, lol.)
Ever the gracious host, Benito made sure to get as many people as possible involved, or at least high off proximity. Deep in the set, he entered the crowd and soon appeared, to my surprise, yards away from me on a small stage next to (another surprise!) Post Malone and a faux campfire. The two were supposed to play two acoustic songs, but technical issues marred Malone’s guitar. The two troubleshooted off-mic to no avail, but no one seemed fazed – not Bad Bunny, who led an a cappella singalong to La Canción and Yonaguni. Not the audience, who chilled on the glitches though scrambled for a glimpse of him (my calves cramped from straining to see through currents of people gaming his movements). And not Post Malone, who smoked a cigarette and danced as Bad Bunny took to the outer stage, playing to those deep in the crowd, for three songs with guest Jhayco, formerly Jhay Cortez.
The ambition – all the guests, the Latin music 101 interludes, the spotlight on dancers and the forefathers of reggaeton – was held together, ultimately, by staggering charisma. Bad Bunny beckons, commands, opens his heart, and the people listen, whether they understand Spanish or not. I haven’t seen a superstar finale with as few phones in the air as in his final number, Después de la Playa, a sexy come-on with a driving mambo beat. Some people filmed; everyone else danced. Bad Bunny exited the stage and the band kept playing, the dancers still flexing, people still mambo-ing, the party still going even as it was ending.
