To call it a mere strip club means you don’t get it. It’s more like hip-hop’s ultimate proving ground—a legendary hive of hustlers and dreamers. Magic City is a place where fortunes rain from the rafters, where women with impossible bodies call the shots, and where a DJ who spins your track can make you a star. Devin Friedman explores the mixed-up, magical world within America’s most important club
The first dude I really talked to at Magic City was a man who goes by the name City Dollars. He was installed at a table in the back on a Monday night. I bet City Dollars figured that I was in some way a guy who could help him. He said come have a seat with me, man, right here. He was full of good cheer tonight, full of enterprise, full of love for life, a man who sees nothing but avenues and angles and opportunities.
“This is Magic City,” he said. “Magic City is everything.” Then he ordered me a beer.
City Dollars is 38, wears a woolly chin beard, and has eyes that twinkle from deep in his skull. “I’m a hustler,” City Dollars told me. A hustler and a player and a manager of rap artists. He’s also, he said, the proprietor of an auto-detailing business out by Atlanta Hartsfield. Tonight he’d brought one of his artists with him, Yung Stunt. Seated next to us at the table, Yung Stunt looked like he could have been 16 years old. He wore sunglasses, and for all I knew he was asleep. “I want to expose him to this!” City Dollars told me. “I want him to breathe this air. To be around these people. This is what I do for my artists, I give them that rock-star life.” He drank from his beer. “They’re called the Narly Dudes, by the way. YouTube that shit.” Read More on GQ