The King of Perreo Challenges the Cold in CDMX
There it was, the Autódromo de los Hermanos Rodríguez, converted into a gigantic open-air freezer, until the first bass drum of Dale Don Dale worked as the universal switch of the perreo. Thus, without anesthesia or sufficient shelter, Don Omar decided that his final performance of the year would be shock therapy against hypothermia. The result? The cold, scared, retreated with its tail between its legs. Mexico City was activated, demonstrating once again that rhythm is a much more efficient body heating system than any heater.
“Mexico City, a noise!” roared the artist, in an obvious attempt to measure decibels that, without a doubt, altered the sleep of someone in Puebla. It was a special evening, or at least that’s what they told us: “This is my last show of the year and I want to thank you for what Mexico has done for me,” he declared. A phrase that, by the way, makes you wonder if Mexico gave him a private island or simply bought him all his records. The crowd, moved by such a magnanimous gesture, responded with the programmed chorus: “Another, another, another night another.” Originality was not the strong point of the moment, but the energy, yes, was through the roof.
“My Mexican brothers,” he continued, preparing the ground for Cuéntale as if he were going to reveal state secrets. Then came the order: “Mexico, sing it with me!”, just before Pobre Diabla turned the venue into the largest and most uninhibited karaoke on the planet. One wonders if at some point someone from production passed him a note that said, “Remember they’re cold, make them move.”
The Setlist: A Review of the Museum of Immortal Successes
Then they paraded Mayor Que Yo and The Sun Came Out, two songs that, according to perreo scientists, have the thermodynamic property of raising the ambient temperature several degrees. The icy wind that swept the Autodromo went from being a threat to a simple annoying breeze. Thousands of souls danced, sang and hugged each other, in a spectacle of human unity that would probably make a robot cry.
Then, the parade of immortals arrived: Ojitos Chiquititos, Virtual Diva, Sexy Robotica, Her and Me, Conteo and Taboo. A succession of classics that gave no respite or option to go to the bathroom. Each song had the same hypnotic effect: hands up, as if they were doing a back exercise; phones lighting up, to prove that they were really there; and moving waists that defied the laws of physics. He was living proof of why this gentleman is still called the King of Kings. There wasn’t a single corner, not even next to the expensive beer stall, where people didn’t know the words inside out. Do they perhaps study in reggaeton academies?
The cherry on the cake came with Hasta Que Salga el Sol, a song that, ironically, played on the coldest night. Just before the climax, good old Don Omar, in a fit of time travel, announced: “Happy new year 2026.” Between laughter and excitement, he transported us to the future to release Kuduro Dance. In that sacred moment, even those who were already walking towards their cars, gauging the traffic, stopped in their tracks or danced forward. It is physically impossible to ignore that hymn, it is like trying not to sneeze; It simply has to go out.
The Public: A Sea of Faithful in a State of Grace
Seen from the drone, from the stage or from the last row (where it is heard with an echo), the postcard was identical: an ocean of waving upper limbs, cell phone lights flickering in unison and a human mass moving as a single organism. An epic closing for a festival that, apparently, had been pure adrenaline since the sun rose… the real thing, not the song.
For the final encore, the choice could not be any other: Bandolero. The artist, in an act of pure diva laziness, did not even bother to sing the first verse. He let Mexico do it for him. And the result was, to say the least, overwhelming. The entire Autódromo sang like a heavenly choir of perreo. The giant screens, the reflectors and even the security guards, those normally impassive beings, were hypnotized by the volume of the collective scream. One almost expected them to start dancing too, breaking their oath of solemnity.
“Mexico, good night!” he shouted as a culmination, while the last guitar chords faded into the night. The audience responded with applause, screams and the unwavering certainty of having witnessed a closing for the history books. Or, at least, for the social networks of the week.
The Flow Fest officially concluded… but the perreo, that living and indomitable being, persisted in the hallways, in the exits and even in the street, because apparently, the order to “disperse” does not apply when you have the rhythm in your veins.
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