I know that he comes from Miami, but really hails directly from the internet. I don’t know any more about Lil Pump than you do. The house DJ keeps interrupting Migos songs to remind those of us in attendance that the “Lil Pump album coming soon!” as if every single person who can hear him isn’t working for Lil Pump right now. The dancers themselves, apparently paid well in advance, take turns sweeping the cash into a neat pile in the corner of the club, which they then leave unattended-a nice Marxist twist on the whole thing. At one point he frantically pushes a pile of money off his lap, fishing around for a plastic cup. No one buys a lap dance, instead preferring to photograph Pump as he receives them. People mostly crowd around to watch the stage show, while a couple of publicists sit on an overstuffed leather couch like chaperones, passing out one dollar bills like arcade tokens.
Beside me, a Warner executive, who in context looks like Al Bundy, gushes about how Pump is “a rockstar,” then abruptly stands and says to the table, “Well, I’m out of here-can’t have fun when the boss is around.”įrom there we move to the actual club area, which those of us attending can’t fully populate.
He blows out the candle and cuts the cake. (This is unlike the green Xanax cake that Pump used to mark his reaching one million Instagram followers.) All the adults in the room think this is very funny, but there are very few teenagers around to laugh. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t eat.Ī few minutes or maybe an hour later-time dilates a bit when everyone at the table is trying to Instagram one diner-that same wait staff brings out a white cake with a single candle on top, and the room breaks into “Happy Birthday.” By the time the cake is set down in front of Pump, it’s clear that it’s meant to look like a Xanax. His dreads keep falling into his line of sight. Various handlers march Pump around the room for handshakes and muttered hellos. He comes with a modest entourage (including the excellent Los Angeles rapper Desto Dubb, who likely has at least a decade on the guest of honor), wearing a blue cardigan with tiger faces all over it, open wide enough to show the Gucci logo tattooed on his sternum. It’s empty for now.Ī wait staff materializes and works quickly, doling out lemon-pepper wings and mashed potatoes and prime rib. In the middle of that second table is a throne, upholstered in white embossed leather and with gold framing. A slightly taller, much more regal table is placed perpendicularly at our table’s head. A giant, wooden banquet table has been hauled into the bar area seated around the table are publicists, marketing partners, and a pair of kids who look as if they’ve won a fan contest.
Because he’s still a minor, Pump’s record label, Tha Lights Global (with planning help from his major label distributor Warner Bros.), has rented out Ace of Diamonds the way you might rent out a bowling alley or a McDonald’s PlayPlace.
The occasion is Lil Pump’s 17th birthday. In the dimly lit bar area of Ace of Diamonds, a strip club in West Hollywood-not to be confused with the considerably more famous King of Diamonds, the strip club in Miami that gave us Blac Chyna-a bartender, nearly naked from the waist down, mutters a mantra to herself, preparing.
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