Villano Antillano's transgressive rap appears at a secret Primavera Sound show.

"Excuse me? A West Indian villain? What's this? Did you know?"

The surprise of a couple who, shortly after 7 p.m., entered Primavera Sound. They bought a ticket for this Friday's session from the festival's official ticket resale point. They are from Barcelona, ​​a minority at the venue.

And no, the other half of the couple didn't know that Villano Antillano was performing at Primavera Sound either.

It's one of the secret shows the organizers are surprising attendees with this Friday. A true musical (and political) bombshell since, in 2022, she recorded with Bizarrap and became the first trans artist to climb into Spotify's global Top 50. And to fifth place on Billboard's Hispanic charts.

The crowd is Amazonian at this hour, dozens of people per second. Many don't notice the Secret Show that Primavera Sound has prepared, next to the entrance, in a container that Adidas describes as The Sound of the Originals.

Perhaps 200 or 300 people remain behind the metal box, arriving and leaving, while others linger. The lure from the depths of the festival is too powerful; everyone is in a hurry to get in. A few meters ahead, the folk music of the Alabama band Waxahatchee is perfectly audible outside the sound of Villano. But many stay, many recognize the Puerto Rican rap star, now singing on the somewhat unsteady lid of the open metal container.

Their rhymes are catchy and easy. The cover, the badge.

Thirty minutes and a dozen songs, all proclamations, all messages, all LGBTI struggle. It's one of the festival's mottos, with several offices ensuring the rights of anyone who feels like they belong.

Antillean Villain is an easy rhyme, it links the spider, the strange, the cunning. The robotic, psychotic, eccentric, diabolical girl. Celine Dion, champion, Papa Jones. I go little by little, and you threw yourself like a madman. Cunning, blonde, foul-mouthed.

Between songs, his verbosity also rhymes: "There have always been faggots who do really badass things." He also asks for more volume, but the outdoor space is that volatile. A warning on the soundboard: the sound will not exceed 98 decibels. The evening air blows them away.

Villano Antillano sings, or raps, in Spanish and English, for 30 minutes straight. Here, punctuality is Calvinist, purist, and futurist.

Finally, she steps out of the container and joins the audience. The fans mill around her, happily taking selfies. One of them reaches for a pen. Only La Vanguardia has one (probably within miles). That Pilot finds its way into Villano's hand (and it's not a rhyme), the fan opens her shirt, pulls back her bra, and the villain, solicitously, writes a dedication on her breast. The fan isn't up for selfies, but fifteen cell phones focus on her: "Don't even think about uploading it, eh!" She doesn't say anything about telling anyone. She hands the Pilot back.