![]() When Martínez was growing up, traveling to the capital of San Juan from his hometown, almost 30 miles east, was a special occasion. “God is everywhere,” he told me, “so why do I need to go to church?” He landed his first record deal. His origin story carries a hint of the divine, though Martínez doesn’t attend Mass anymore. What happened next is legend: While enrolled at the University of Puerto Rico at Arecibo, where he studied communications and bagged groceries at Econo on the side, one of his songs-“Diles” (“Tell Them”), a braggadocious track about his sexual prowess with a reverent nod to female pleasure-caught fire. He anointed himself Bad Bunny after an infamous-among-his-family Easter photo. Influenced by his mother’s penchant for pop, his father’s traditional taste for salsa and merengue, and his personal pull to Latin trap, in 2016, he began uploading his own songs to SoundCloud. “He was always a very smart kid, too-super funny and outspoken.” “Benito was the class clown,” says Jomar Dávila, his personal photographer and friend since age 11. Those neon briefs and bedazzled belts laid the groundwork for Bad Bunny’s eventual ascent of the Met Gala steps in a Burberry boiler dress, or in backless Jacquemus, his white rosette cape scraping the carpet. “I liked everything-the creativity, the characters, the fact that each wrestler has his own entrance song, like a soundtrack that identifies you,” Martínez explains. Lucha libre captivated all three boys, perhaps explaining why, even now, Martínez does not consider himself too prestigious to moonlight as a WWE star, appearing to slam a guitar into Mike “The Miz” Mizanin at Wrestlemania. “I am a person who always liked to live in my own world,” he says. The son of Ocasio, a teacher, and Tito Martínez, a truck driver, Benito Antonio eschewed sports, preferring to play-wrestle with action figures his little brothers, Bernie and Bysael, hatched storylines for each toy. “God is everywhere, so why do I need to go to church?” His trademark septum piercing is conspicuously missing-he wanted to change it up, he said, to be more relaxed. The only stealth hints at his global superstardom-other than the fact that my cab driver just declared his fealty-are a few diamonds here and there, including on the face of what looks like a women’s Chanel watch on his wrist. He has piano fingers, a cropped circle beard, and pristine teeth. ![]() His thicket of curls is topped with a backward snapback. He’s been wearing the same outfit every day for days-a striped polo, moisture-wicking shorts, and squishy slides, all in buttery shades of beige. ![]() “I’ve eaten about 70 croquetas,” he tells me in Spanish as still more plates arrive. On this tropically humid Monday in July, however, it is still his so-called year of relaxation. “Now more than ever,” he says, “I feel more confident in talking about what I think, what I feel, and how I am living through my music.” Bad Bunny’s fifth studio release has the potential to be his most personal.
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