We Saw Lil Boosie Perform at King of Diamonds

Photos by Fernando Vargas

Ever since Baton Rouge, LA living legend Lil Boosie enjoyed his first taste of sweet freedom, business has been booming. His comeback single “Show da World,” featuring Webbie and Kiara, reached 17 on the US Rap Charts, he was the hottest thing on 2 Chainz’s Freebase EP, and he claimed his rightful throne as king of all things ratchet by hopping on a DJ Mustard beat. Perhaps Boosie’s most prescient post-jail achievement, however, was hopping on the monster remix to T-Pain’s “Up Down,” rapping, “Finger in the bootyhole / Watch how that thing go up and down / Ain’t even know if it was real / But it clapped at K.O.D., wait / Just got out, I stay hard / So I could do this all day!”

Such is the mystique of both Boosie and King of Diamonds: that T-Pain would recruit one for the remix of his biggest hit in years off the strength of his post-jail shine, and that he would use that platform to rap about sticking his finger in a girl’s bootyhole at the biggest, most insane strip club in the known universe. King of Diamonds is almost the stuff of Urban Legend. But it's not, you can really grasp a titty and touch the leathery skin of a stripper. Its fresh digs have been newly remodeled by "Disco" Rick and rapper Akinyele for the purpose of making it the biggest strip club in the world. To that end, Memorial Day Weekend (or “Urban Beach Week,” as it’s called) in Miami has become its Super Bowl. This year was no different. Celebrities—from Boosie to Birdman to Floyd Mayweather—donated 3.2 million dollars to the club in just a weekend. It’s only right that Boosie would perform one of his first post-jail concerts over Memorial Day Weekend at King of Diamonds. The two are bigger than hip-hop; they’re cultural institutions.

The air was thick with anticipation as thousands of partiers from all around the state—nay, nation—flooded the surrounding blocks of mega strip club, primed to see Boosie’s first Miami show since his incarceration. The place was so packed, and patrons had to park so far from the club, that dudes drove golf carts around the area asking for money to taxi people to the club. If you wanted to park at the club, you had to wait in an hour line only to learn, at the end of the line, that the price would be one hundred dollars. Patrons parked on highway embankments a mile out at 45-degree angles to avoid such charges.

A series of intense negotiations, more than a little bullshit, and $150 later, my photographer Fernando and I were finally in the club. If you’ve never been, King of Diamonds is basically the Costco of strip clubs. You can find whatever you want there. Strippers of every race and complexion, midget strippers, big-assed (both natural and, erm, augmented) strippers, strippers with big tits, tiny tits, medium-sized tits, strippers with tattoos, whatever. The point is that it is a gargantuan warehouse space, lit with purple neon lights and a heavy blue glow, and there are a lot of strippers there.

Boosie would not arrive until 3 AM. Until then, we hung back by the club photo booth. Guests would come to this white sheet to take photos documenting their presence at the club that night, paying $30 for a picture with a blank white background. At least two hundred guests used this service, many of them women who showed their asses to the camera, some of them dudes who took at piles of cash and threw them in the air or spread them out on the ground for their photo-op.

Another benefit, besides the people-watching aspect, of the photo booth area was it was right by the back entrance to the club, where we were told Boosie and other guests would be entering. There was also a staging area, heavily guarded by security, where the V-est of the VIPs could play basketball and sit down and shit before coming into the club. At one point, I spied Trick Daddy balling with five other people. He walked into the club from the staging area, his face was weathered and his eyes sleepy. Clearly, this was not his first trip to King of Diamonds.

The strip club DJ was hyping the shit out of the place. Each time a new stripper would enter one of the stages and mount a pole, he would announce her name, and yell “EVERYBODY IN THE BUILDING PAY ATTENTION! WE GOT VANITY [or whoever] IN THE HOUSE!” These were extremely gifted performers—at one point, one strapped her legs around the top of the pole, twisting her whole body upside-down. At one point, the DJ shouted, “LET’S PLAY A GAME OF SPIN THE PUSSY!” and the stripper rotated down the whole way. [Note: There would be pictures of these talented sirens, but the club security was furiously intense about stripper photography. “Clothes only,” they said! Or they threatened to take our camera and delete the pictures.]

Suddenly Boosie, like a hip-hop Alex Mack, appeared on the club balcony. We had no idea how he entered. He stood over the railing, steel-gazed, and looking stoically upon the masses before him. His dominion. He stared for a good hour, without saying a word. The DJ hyped, “BOOSIE’S IN THE BUILDING! WELCOME HOME BOOSIE! WELCOME HOME TO THE STREETS, NIGGA!” The fire-hazard packed place went crazy.

Despite supposedly having access to his balcony area and having hung out there earlier in the night, we attempted but could not get into Boosie’s section. We tried, but the bouncer asked us for an exorbitant bribe. We then bounced to the main stage area of the strip club, where there was a couch with balloons tied to it set up for the Boosie to lounge on in the near future. The place was also littered with angry snowmen from Jeezy’s residency the night before. The security for the main stage asked for $50 to stay. We said “fuck it” and paid up.

I asked a few strippers onstage how they felt about Boosie’s first Miami show. “It’s very exciting,” one deadpanned. “He brings a lot of energy.” They weren’t the friendliest bunch. One came up behind me, grabbed my mild Jewfro, and asked me, “Are you Jewish, honey?” in her bid for a lapdance.

Finally, Boosie was making his move to the stage. He was nestled in about ten security men. Like a 1950’s reporter, I shoved myself into his closest security guard, and yelled questions at him, “HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE FREE, BOOSIE?!” “HOW ARE YOUR KIDS?!” Other people had the same idea, making this a completely untenable situation. Boosie kept his head down, and wasn’t dealing with any of this nonsense, however. He took his place on the center couch. Everyone rushed the stage. Even the strippers were jumping over railings and pushing through people to get into the small circular area in the center. The security wasn’t having it. “IF YOU AIN’T GONNA GET NEKKID, GET YO ASS OFF THE STAGE!”

Boosie took his spot and sat, perched like a Roman Emperor primed to witness a fine session of gladiating. He looked anxious, but joyful and free, as if he didn’t want to disappoint the packed audience but knew he was still getting his sea legs under him in the free world. The newly sober king was handed a bottle of Fiji water, and he humbly drank from it. A club employee handed Boosie some cash, and a stripper entertained him as he periodically threw singles at her. He sat there disinterestedly throwing money as the DJ hyped. He couldn’t give a shit less about the distraction of the strippers and the club and the cameras and the posse. He was waiting. Biding his time until the clock struck 4 AM and he could perform. He bounced up and grabbed a microphone, yelled, “I’M PRETTY CRAZY ‘BOUT ALL YOU MUTHAFUCKAS COMING TO SEE ME TONIGHT” and launched right into a song. The whole club vibrated with cheers and bass. You could barely hear him over the thousands of makeshift rappers that night. “WHERE MY BAD BITCHES AT?!” “THERE BE SOME GOOD PUSSY HERE! IF YOU GOT GOOD PUSSY PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! IF YOUR PUSSY LIKE THIS [makes indiscernible gesture for pussy with his hands] THEN MMMM MMMM,” right before going into “Calling Me.” Piles of cash intermittently drizzled from the ceiling during the show. (It appeared to be a faux pas for any of the guests to pick it up, as it remained on the floor.)

Boosie went on for about eight songs and 45 minutes of pure vicious, energetic performing. It’s clear he’d been chomping at the bit to get out of jail and give the people what they want. He played myriad classics, including “Loose as a Goose,” “Set It Off,” “Show da World,” and “Wipe Me Down.” He announced the July 15th released date of his latest album, and said that all his real motherfucking fans better buy it. “Yeah, I love my niggas, and my niggas love me, till eternity,” he crooned sincerely from “My Nigga.” He seemed relieved to be on stage, where he is always in a position to succeed. Like a Pokemon, Boosie referenced himself in the third person plenty. From repping his own name, one letter at a time, to talking about his pussy eating and people-shooting skills. It might be a bit odd to watch a man who just beat multiple murder charges come out and rap about cold-blooded murder, but chalk it up to the complicated nature of art, I suppose. At one point, Trick Daddy went on stage with Boosie and beckoned, “Someone get this nigga some pussy tonight! He just got out of jail!”

When Boosie’s set suddenly ended, he dropped the mic and ran off stage with his security into the strippers’ dressing room. Lights flashed, and strippers flooded out to distract the crowd. It was an exit as mysterious as his entrance, and the confused crowd lingered until they reached the collective realization that he was gone.

Boosie strikes like lightning. No one location, no matter how much money is spent nor how many strippers are present, can contain him. Earthly desires are nothing to Lil Boosie. I saw him neither take no selfies, nor whisper sweet nothings into any stripper's ear. Everything other than his performance—the pomp and clusterfuckery of the club, the raining cash, the strippers—was nothing more than a distraction to him. Throwing cash at strippers seemed more a contractual obligation than his idea of a good time. He is myth made flesh made commodity. His true passion is clearly music, but he understands that in order to live his passion he still has to get this money, and sometimes, getting this money means going to the world’s most gigantic strip club and pretending you give a shit.

As patrons filtered out, strip club busboys swept the money that littered the floor of the club with brooms into big blue trash bags. Destination unknown.

Jonathan Peltz is Noisey's reluctant Miami nightlife correspondent. Follow his nascent Twitter - @thecrazypman

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Want more? Read our tales of going to a strip club in Queens to see Chinx, as well as the story of us making Jonathan go to Cam'ron's very, very sad birthday party.