Does a drag queen age? Not her mortal counterpart, applying mascara open-mouthed in the vanity mirror, but the woman who appears in that incandescent reflection, fully formed? Does this persona age, wrinkle under the super troupers? Does she have a childhood, an adolescence? What would she look like—a drag queen who is true to her roots, proud of her past? 

She might look a bit like Pabllo Vittar, the fearless, fun-loving alter ego of 31-year-old Brazilian artist and activist Phabullo Rodrigues da Silva. As arguably the most visible drag queen in the world—or at least the most followed one on Instagram—Vittar stands as both an emblem and ambassador for one of the globe’s queerest populations. Estimated around 15%, Brazil’s LGBT+ community consistently ranks among the densest in the world. 

Yet, these roots are slightly knotted. In 2024, the country accounted for roughly 30% of all murders against trans people worldwide: a lion’s share. Brazil has topped this unfortunate ranking for the past 17 years. Looking at Vittar’s meteoric rise, from her 2017 Portuguese-language version of Major Lazer’s “Lean On” to her collaborations with artists like Charli xcx, Lady Gaga, and Rina Sawayama, one wonders how so much boldness and joy can coexist with a vitriolic political climate. 

On a Monday in late June at the start of a dreary winter in São Paulo, Vittar accepts the identity split required to engage with drag, though she questions any sort of cultural split. “They’re two different types of people. Pabllo Vittar is the femme fatale, you know? Diva girl. Phabullo Rodrigues is more shy…enjoys staying alone, playing video games, very ‘geek.’” 

Sporting a dark buzzcut and a black muscle tee, and speaking in slow, lilting phrases, I assume I am speaking with the latter, but I wouldn’t call her long, sharp nails or the graphic design on her shirt—“MY GOVERNMENT IS KILLING ME”—particularly nerdy. 

“When I stay in drag, I feel more powerful,” Vittar explains, grasping gently at the air with four elegant fingers, as a jellyfish might motion on its departure. “Stronger. I feel like another personality, another person—better than me. So this is fantasy for me.”

Drag as an art form is necessarily entwined with the trans community, but Vittar, who identifies as gender-fluid and uses any pronouns, is more prepared to navigate these intricacies than most. “Drag helped me to understand my body—my sexuality. In the beginning, I was confused about it and thought that maybe I was transgender, but, when I started to do drag, I realized that I’m a gay man.”

She pauses the fantasy for a moment in between Washington, DC and Mexico City, on break from touring her most recent remix release Batidão Tropical Vol. 2 (2024). Combining covers and originals, 2021’s Batidão Tropical pays homage to the regional sounds of Northern and Northeast Brazil, where Vittar grew up.  

“I always remember when I was in the simple life,” she says, “It was a very humble childhood, but very happy and full of love.” Born in Maranhão, Vittar quickly moved with her mother and two sisters to Pará. The move came during a period during which extreme inequity was plunging on average, but poverty among female-headed households was still prevalent.

The region is also home to—and well-known for—some of Brazil’s most distinct subgenres of music. The prevalence of aparelhagens—mobile sound systems used for urban, open-air dancing—has contributed to a legacy of musical digitization. Tecnobrega and forró, two of the genres most prevalent in Batidão Tropical, emerged from the region’s combination of historical pride and community-oriented technological innovation. (When asked for three songs to introduce readers to regional Brazilian music, Vittar takes some time to think on it, scrolling through playlists with an interrogative eye. She lands on Banda Calypso’s “Pra Te esquecer,” Forró do Muído’s “Volta Vai,” and Banda Ravelly’s “Meteoro.”)

Heard on songs like “Ultra Som” and “Apaixonada,” tecnobrega builds off of the sentimentality and easy listening of late 20^th century brega music. In contrast with the more esteemed pop style Música Popular Brasileira or MPB, brega—which loosely translates to “tacky”—was and is often considered an understimulating genre for underprivileged people. This hierarchy stems partly from the romantic content of these songs—love, lust, etc.—and partly from the makeshift listening culture around brega music in Northeast Brazil, including the public presence of aparelhagens. As international house and techno scenes gained prominence in the 1980s, brega musicians seized the opportunity to democratize production by digitizing it, relying on keyboards and electronic drums. As musician and researcher Eduardo “Bijoux” Barbosa put it, tecnobrega was a “market solution.”

Forró has its origins in Sertão, the “backcountry” of Brazil. It merges the social criticism of repentista-style folk poetry with syncopated baião rhythms. Beginning in the early 2000s, forró music and dance emerged as a Northeast alternative to Rio’s samba, eventually evolving into forró. 

Lyrically, the region’s famed blend of storytelling, earnestness, and danceability carries through Vittar’s work. “I love bringing painful lyrics to a rhythm that makes you dance. Some balance, you know? You think about the people you love, but at the same time, you dance and not necessarily think.” She explains, “It’s very normal in Brazil. You cry…not literally, but you think about people when you go to the club or go to a concert—feel a little sentimental. In my concerts, I always bring that energy. I always punch you where the songs have more happiness.”

An inherited sense of community and progress is clear as well, even within the country’s uncertain social landscape. “In Brazil, it is very hard. It’s very political at the same time because they kill people here every single day,” Vittar describes. When I ask about her relationship with fear as a queer person, she is unphased. “I don’t know too much about it because, for me, it’s very natural. I never feared being myself. I don’t feel fear.” 

Much of this fearlessness, she says, can be attributed to her mother Verônica, who has always supported her identity. “I’ve always been like this, and my mom was always proud of me. But I think pride is more than a feeling; it is a statement. It’s a lifestyle.”

Statements are sort of Vittar’s forté. In the case of Batidão Tropical, her outpouring of regional pride came at a time of rising nationalism in Brazil. For many young queer people, the far-right Jair Bolsonaro administration represented an enormous step back socially. In addition to his range of highly conservative domestic policy, Bolsonaro also proudly and publicly self-identifies as a homophobe. In 2022, while performing at Lollapalooza Brazil, Vittar chanted against Bolsonaro, putting her support behind leftist political figure Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva (AKA Lula). In response, a federal judge ordered the festival to ban political demonstrations among performers. 

Three years later, Lula is president, and Vittar is much happier for it, maybe even calmer. She speaks with a somber serenity, doubling down on gratefulness in stereotypical diva fashion—though, somehow, when Vittar circles back to friends and community again and again, it doesn’t seem contrived at all. Just sweet. “Even living in a country that has a lot of prejudice, we were able to grow up together, like family,” she reflects. “I think it’s beautiful.” 

Thus, Vittar’s view of the future is a rosy one, full of love, joy, and exploration. Her next album, PV7, will introduce international languages with global collaborations. “The past few years, I have been traveling around the world and singing to so many new faces and in many new places. I want to make a record inspired by these moments,” she says. But she is also working on a second project, an entirely new genre for both Vittar and, she hopes, Brazil at large: the genre of Christmas. “It’s gonna be the first time that I know of in Brazil. Nobody does this,” Vittar says of her upcoming Christmas album release. “Here in Brazil, it’s hot like hell, so we don’t think about things like this. Christmas here is more about love, about partying, about vibing. But I’m gonna bring the unique Christmas—you know...Mariah Carey, Ariana Grande.”

Despite the seasonal opposition of the hemispheres, Vittar grew up listening to the kitschy, English-language radio hits of noël. “I said to myself, ‘When I do pop songs, I need to release some Christmas songs. That’s so gay and so girl.’”

Outside of the studio, Vittar is taking some time out of her glamorous, busy schedule to grow. Her 2020 hit “Amor de Que” describes the love of a quenga—roughly translated to “hussy.” A quenga gives her love away somewhat freely, but she also frees herself from commitment. “I love to meet new people,” says Vittar, “Have a good conversation with the people who I… love.” She stretches the final word, putting “love” in air quotes. I ask why. 

“Because…I think I don’t take my relationships so far, so love. I take a long time, you know?  But I’m working on this. I need to feel more of my feelings, not hide behind my work. I don’t want to hide anymore.”

Pabllo Vittar isn’t hiding, and she’s certainly putting her feelings to work. When Vittar mentions her boyfriend, she becomes a bit sing-songy. (“My Boy Friend,” she announces, lowering the pitch with each syllable as if to transpose “Hot Cross Buns.”) During this dreary winter in São Paulo, Vittar is embracing her inner child, the profound love of a recovering quenga, and plenty of yuletide gay. 

Photographed by Martin Gatti

Styled by Vitor Moreira Ferreira

Written by Sarina Benezra Bell

Hair: Thereza Brown using Got2be, Shiseido, Taiff, Kryolan, Mac, Sheglam, And D&G 

Laces: Sydney Salles 

Flaunt Film: Mynxii White

Set Design: Colin Phelan

Management: Mtdrs

Artist Producer: Pamella Renha

Photo Assistants: Germano Assuncao, John Vetromile, Rufus Barkley

Set Assistants: Joe Arai, Erick Benavidas

Styling Assistant (Brazil): Katriel Luan Leno 

Styling Assistant (US): Mia Hurley

Location: Pier 59 Studios, New York

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