Pitbull’s recent concert at Hyde Park in London was record-breaking in two ways: First, for the highest recorded attendance at a British Summer Time show, with nearly 70,000 fans. And second, for the largest gathering of people wearing bald caps: 22,141. “Who would have ever thought a first-generation Cuban would ever be in London, record-breaking and record-making for the Guinness Book of World Records,” Pitbull said when receiving the award.
Though Guinness records can seem gimmicky, it didn’t feel that way on the ground. Hours after the official count, and despite the heat and the clingy discomfort of the hair net and latex, the bald caps were still on. And they looked terrible.
For most fans, the bald cap didn’t match their skin tone, it wrinkled in the front and at the sides, and it didn’t fully cover their hair, giving many a bizarre, low-hanging mullet. As everyone sweat, their drawn-on goatees smudged, their aviators slipped off their faces, and every piece of clothing — some version of a white button-up with a black tie, and black shorts or jorts or skirts or pants — became soaked.
Unlike other music festivals, no one looked particularly sexy, but everyone was somehow in on the joke. Most of the crowd was women, and multiple were dressed as brides (“Future Ms. Worldwide,” one’s sign said). “Congratulations,” nearly every passerby shouted.
In an era of thousand-dollar Coachella stylists and try-hard Temu knockoffs, this atmosphere felt different. People were constantly recording on their phones, of course, but it seemed more like videos you’d upload to a private Facebook album than Content designed and filtered to ride the algorithms. Though it’s heartbreaking that we now need to say this explicitly about a concert, it’s no less true: First and foremost, people came to this concert to have fun. They came to be cringey.
When the crowd was told to wave their hands from the left to the right, everyone did just that. When Pitbull played one of his greatest hits, he cut the backing track to hear the roar from the crowd: “Hotel, motel, Holiday Inn.” When the DJ played “Gasolina,” not a Pitbull song but a banger nonetheless, people threw ass freely, joyously, with varying degrees of rhythm. It was silly and a bit unhinged. It was the best party you went to in college.
Earlier that day, Lil’ Jon and Kesha also performed, and both returned to the stage to accompany Mr. 305 on their collaborations (“Damn, I Love Miami,” and “Timber,” respectively). They were high energy and well received, but the headliner was undoubtedly Mr. Worldwide.
At one point, during a slower part of one of Pit’s songs, a group of about a dozen fans knelt down like a huddle of high school football players. More fans joined them: two dozen, then three. Strangers held hands. Someone gave a short pep talk. When the beat finally dropped, everyone jumped in the air as fireworks launched from all sides.
Afterward, at least one fan described the concert in religious terms. “I cried,” she says. “I’ve never felt so held. I’m out in my fucking underwear, and I’ve never felt so safe.”
Was the Pitbull concert so fun because of the bald caps, or does the prospect of wearing a bald cap — and potentially being record-breaking and record-making in the process — naturally attract fun people? Who knows, who cares. At the end of the day, few things are as enjoyable as being cringey.
