Earlier this month, a wave of tourists from the continental US began visiting Puerto Rico for the chance to see Bad Bunny. This would not be that remarkable – plenty of people go overseas for concerts, as tickets often go for much less than in the US (any dedicated Swiftie will tell you it was much cheaper to see her in Mexico City than, say, LA) – if not for the fact that Bad Bunny, born Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, planned ahead for an influx of outsiders to the island. The first nine dates of his landmark 30-show residency at San Juan’s Coliseo de Puerto Rico were reserved exclusively for island residents, who had to present proof of residency at one of nine locations, primarily agricultural markets. Only afterward could anyone from the outside attend the Puerto Rican superstar’s show, No Me Quiero Ir de Aquí (I Don’t Want to Leave Here), a three-hour magnum opus of Boricua pride in support of his new album Debí Tirar Más Fotos (I Should Have Taken More Pictures).
In the nearly 10 years since Bad Bunny broke containment on Soundcloud, he has made defiance of norms and expectations a personal rule. From donning drag in the Yo Perreo Sola video, to seamlessly blending genres old and new, to his refusal to sing or conduct press in English – even his appearances on Saturday Night Live, one of several forays into English media, kept Spanish as the default – Martínez has thrillingly redefined what it looks like to be a global superstar. His residency in San Juan, the triumphant opening salvo of a world tour that will entirely skip the mainland US, is not just the latest bucked model but, I’d argue, the best use of megastardom in recent memory, an application of generational celebrity that unites potent symbolism with actual material change.
With a capacity crowd of about 18,000 fans each night, the 21 dates of No Me Quiero Ir de Aquí open to non-residents are expected to bring 400,000 people to San Juan, two-thirds of them from overseas. The whole residency will inject about $200m into the long-suffering local economy – enough to bump up Puerto Rico’s GDP by 0.15%. The boon would feel at odds with Martínez’s mocking of thoughtless visitors in songs like Turista, if he did not also take steps to redirect the usual flow of American dollars on an island the US keeps in perpetual and extractive colonial purgatory. Tickets outside Puerto Rico are given premium price – at the moment, they cost $600 or more, on par with decent seats for Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter or Taylor Swift’s The Eras Tour – and come bundled with rooms in locally owned hotels during the off-season. The deal is intended to dissuade visitors from booking one of the Airbnbs transforming the island into a second-property investment haven pricing out local residents, particularly in the wake of Hurricane Maria, which devastated the island in 2017.
Bad Bunny’s No Me Quiero Ir De Aquí residency. Photograph: Edgardo Medina/NurPhoto/Shutterstock
Maria profoundly affected Martínez, who grew up an hour outside San Juan in Vega Baja, and has spent his career atop the global streaming charts redirecting the spotlight toward the archipelago’s issues, from chronic blackouts to tax breaks for outsiders, as well as celebrating its rich history and fluid diaspora. The new show opens with a slew of national facts broadcast in Spanish, from the serious to the cheeky – “San Juan is one of the oldest cities in the Americas. It was founded in 1521” as well as “Sancocho cures anything, according to our grandmothers.” It features lavish sets – built by 1,000 local workers – evoking the lush hills and beaches of the island, as well as a whole traditional casita. The show has, unsurprisingly, provoked an outpouring of catharsis and celebration from the thousands within the Puerto Rican diaspora who have attended, and confirmed a core principle of the whole residency: this is for Puerto Rico, specifically and broadly. People like me – non-Hispanic English speakers who found Bad Bunny’s music far away from his homeland, who groove without fully understanding the lyrics – can participate, but they will not be the center.
All of this is, ultimately, one of the most interesting and thoughtful flexes of celebrity power, particularly at the time when the economics of live music feel so precarious. While smaller artists scrabble to make the money work, and venues struggle to keep their bottom line, the biggest artists compete to put on increasingly elaborate shows, for increasingly exorbitant prices. Tickets to Bad Bunny’s residency for US residents still run easily into the thousands of dollars, but at least with a political point. This is an artist who has routinely eschewed US centrism, who posted a video to his Instagram referring to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (Ice) agents as “sons of bitches” who can’t leave “people alone and working”. In an interview with Variety, he deemed touring the mainland US at this time “unnecessary”, as fans there have had ample opportunity to see him in the past six years. (For instance, 32 American stops for 2022’s World’s Hottest tour, including two sold-out nights at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.)
He’s right, and even from afar – the tickets are, unfortunately, out of my price range, though I would pay good money to see one of our most electrifying and charismatic performers on stage again – it is thrilling to witness. “Before the residency, my fantasy for the longest time was to do a massive free show in Puerto Rico that could be locals only,” Martínez told Variety. “And if it were up to me, all of the shows for the locals would be free, but what we’ve got planned now is next level.” The dream is ultimately improbable, for an artist of his stature and for it to be safe. But he’s gotten as close as a superstar can get.