It’s a Tuesday afternoon like any other, except that Pablo Skywalkin is throwing a pizza party. At the Lower East Side location of Cuts & Slices, a pizzeria that got famous for toppings that are as funky and absurd as Pablo’s eccentric spin on Detroit street rap, he’s cheffing up the restaurant’s signature oxtail pie. (Slice review: Flavorful, but the blasphemous mix of cheese and oxtail gravy had me slumped after a few bites.) Wearing a hairnet over his freshly done braids, Pablo’s cameraman shoots the lesson, while the rapper talks through the steps with his fast-talking charisma and herky-jerky Eddie Murphy chuckles. As that’s going down, stylists from the popular streetwear brand Denim Tears rush in and out every few minutes to change the outfit of the 6’5″ stringbean like he’s on the runway and not in a hot, busy kitchen. Life as a viral rapper is pretty random.

Last year, after more than a decade of ups and downs in the nonstop Detroit rap scene, Pablo Skywalkin was reborn on the internet. All of a sudden, my TikTok and Instagram feeds were flooded with clips—filmed in aisles of bookstores and department stores—of Pablo standing like a third grader presenting his book report as he dropped nuggets of wisdom (“Niggas wit’ no future got the most hoes”) and Hallmark game (“You are so pretty, just like the sunset”), dressed like a designer Urkel or a fly missionary in The Book of Mormon. Sometimes it felt like these videos tried too hard to be or start memes.

“Is it strange for you that there are fans out there more interested in your social media presence than your music?” I ask him in the pizza spot.

He looks me dead in my eyes, places his hand on my shoulder like a pee-wee football coach, and responds, “No. Because it’s still me. All these rappers burnt out; all these rappers the big bad wolf; I’m authentic no matter what.”

He used the attention from his viral clips to push goofball track snippets. The music, much of which landed on his April mixtape, Trapper Flow, merged the wisecracking punchline rap that had been his go-to style since he was a teenager with based flows and Milwaukee lowend-inspired twerk beats.

I might have considered Pablo’s adoption of the lowend sound waveriding if the upbeat party music didn’t fit him better than the too-small suits he likes to wear. The switch-up unleashed his knack for madcap storytelling and silly shit-talk. “In Detroit, we just shit-talkers; that’s how we bond with you,” he told me earlier in the day, outside of the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building, the main branch of the New York Public Library system. “Growing up, crackin’ hella jokes is how we say I love you; we talk shit then give a hug.”

Outside of the library, Pablo rocked snow boots, skintight camo pants, and a collared shirt poking out from underneath his sweatshirt. I couldn’t decide if he looked like a rockstar or a dude on a lunch break from his IT job. All smiles, he was such a tall lightning beam of energy that tourists shifted their attention from Patience and Fortitude, the century-old marble lion statues in front of the opulent library, to him. This is nothing new; he’s always been a character—check the dance moves in decade-old music videos such as “No Hook” and “Can’t Pay Attention,” where stacks of money are basically Gorilla-glued to his hands—and one of the funniest rappers in Detroit, a city where everyone’s got jokes.

And, for a moment there in the mid-2010s, he was red hot, one of the faces of a micro-era of Detroit street rap smashed between the boom of essential cliques Doughboyz Cashout and Team Eastside in the late 2000s early 2010s and the takeoff of Tee Grizzley and Sada Baby later in the decade. Eventually, he lost his momentum, as often happens with regional rap, and life got complicated: He spent some time in the Bay Area, experienced creative fall-offs and comebacks, and survived a drug overdose that almost killed him. Still, he kept dropping music. “Everything happens when it’s supposed to happen,” said Pablo, as we moseyed on over to the spacious outdoor roof of the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library a block away. “I was too young anyway; I would’ve went bankrupt the way I was living.”

It was a long journey to Trapper Flow—the title references Certified Trapper, whose off-the-cuff nature seems like a direct influence—and his November follow-up, Pablo for President, but it was what helped him find his niche. Sketches about everyday life (“Fast Car”) and situationships (“Why You Kiss”), song concepts that wouldn’t make a lick of sense if made by anyone else. (“Dress Shoes” is an entire track about how he sports dress shoes because “I be classy the hoes love it.”) He genuinely sounds like he’s making these songs for no other reason than he’s having a good time doing it. “I never focused on music so much in my life,” he said. “When I was younger, I was just rapping to better my situation enough to move out of town. There’s no more motivation after that ’cause my dream came true. I had to learn money ain’t shit.”

Back at the pizzeria, Trapper Flow is blasting. Pablo hits a few of his inflatable tubeman dances with Uptown darling Xaviersobased, who pulled up to chill. Interrupting the moment is Trent Simonian, one of the founders of the street interview channel Sidetalk NYC, who is asking to shoot a video. I assume he’s going to film Pablo grooving along to his music, but, instead, the music is shut off and Pablo is instructed to lean against the glass pizza counter. He scrolls through his phone for a moment and then tells Trent he’s ready. The small crowd is hushed and the camera is pointed at Pablo as he lights up, “Don’t be afraid to shine; the sun don’t give a fuck if it blinds you.” There is silence at first, but, then, after a few seconds, the room turns into awkward oohs and claps. Trent seems like he wanted a sillier video, but Pablo’s done his work. He gets the restaurant to turn the music back on.

What I’m listening to: