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For 25 years, Silvana Estrada admits she did not know how to get angry. “That cost me so much energy and dignity,” she reflects. Sadness, on the other hand, was a familiar companion: “She has always been by my side.” At 28 years old, the artist grew up outside Veracruz, a city on the Gulf of Mexico, exposed to multifaceted violence: widespread gender-based killings, drug cartel influence, and ecological destruction on local farms and waterways. As a lonely teenager, she found solace in jazz legends like Billie Holiday. They helped guide the darkness she felt and sparked her interest in improvisational singing.

Born to a family of luthiers, she started making her own music, using a Venezuelan cuatro and drawing from Mexican folk traditions. The title of her acclaimed 2022 debut, Marchita, translates to “withered” and the record offered a spare, devastating, deeply poetic account of first love gone awry.

“I consider her one of the richest artists of our time,” notes fellow musician Natalia Lafourcade. “Her voice embodies liberty, exotic beauty, and Latin American spirit. It reflects a deep connection to love, nature and human relationships.”

Estrada still loves that album, she mentions now, sitting in a New York cafe. It won her a Latin Grammy and widespread acclaim. However, later, she explains, “I really wanted to do something with my humour. After Marchita, I was a little bit trapped in this character that is sad and dark, very eloquent, very solemn. That is also me, but I wanted to show myself in a way that’s even closer to how I really am.” She fondly recalls her younger self with such energy that her earrings dance. Some of Marchita’s songs dated back to when she was 18, she notes: “I view that eloquence and darkness as naive, believing it was the sole way to express love and dreams.”

A New Direction and Darker Themes

She planned a brighter, more pop-oriented follow-up. Yet, personal losses unveiled a deeper, darker aspect. Estrada’s new lyrics are stark with recrimination and brutal despondence: toward former partners who didn’t return her feelings; regarding a friend who abandoned her over career envy. That betrayal led to deep depression. I thought, ‘I cannot believe that I’ve been loving you as my brother all these years and you don’t want to see me because you feel small?’ The shock was profound.”

She channelled her indignation into Good Luck, Good Night, a dramatic, humorous farewell to the pettiness of ghosting. Every line feels as though it should be accompanied by the wayward slosh of a glass of wine. “Life often mirrors a telenovela, full of endless drama,” she remarks, recalling the intense soaps from her childhood. “Which is true, to be alive is to suffer, but being ghosted, the fact that someone who is alive decides to be a ghost for you – it’s so miserable!” Her offense remains palpable. ‘It’s funny because I guess it shows how small we can be.”

The Power of Anger

While composing, she discovered anger’s utility. “Anger drives you to uphold your boundaries and desires. It’s a peculiar, almost grandmotherly nudge toward self-awareness. Ultimately, anger is essential for personal and collective survival.”

But Vendrán Suaves Lluvias (Soft Rains Will Come) doesn’t sound angry; it stands as a breathtakingly beautiful record. Following unsuccessful collaborations with producers, she took creative control. She realised: “‘You’re the only one that knows what you want.’ Trusting others over her instincts felt irresponsible.” She enriched her cuatro with orchestral elements, her powerful voice overflowing with empathy. The radiant Como un Pájaro, a Latin Grammy nominee, is as fresh as a spring morning. She was surprised by the joyful melodies that came out of her. “Aging has taught me to cherish joy amid adversity. This album is like a pendulum between beauty and terror.”

Tragedy and Tribute

Ghosting’s sting faded compared to losing her friend Jorge, who was brutally murdered alongside his brother and uncle in December 2022. “I used to undervalue friendship in my youth,” she says. “I was an odd child. My musical tastes were unconventional. I felt deeply isolated. Even friends treated me poorly. I’m super sensible [sensitive].” Her first real friend, Jorge taught her what friendship was. “Someone that loves you, accepts you, who has the generosity of telling you: ‘Hey, you did this and I didn’t like it,’ or, ‘This is amazing, I love you.’ We were inseparable.”

When Estrada wanted to move to Mexico City, her parents were unsure until they heard that Jorge was going too. “They loved Jorge so much. He was like an older brother to me.” He accompanied her on tours. “I enjoyed so much feeling loved, not so like this super lonely child.”

With Jorge, says Estrada: “I rediscovered childhood joy. My heart felt weightless. Now it carries heaviness. I’m adapting to it.” Grave and sharpened by sudden bursts of strings, Un Rayo de Luz (A Ray of Light) is her tribute to him. Composed at Chavela Vargas’s home, her hero, and interpolates her words: “¿Cómo será de hermosa la muerte que nadie ha vuelto de allá?” “I really want to believe that,” she says.

Activism and Inspiration

The perpetrators were apprehended. “They’re gonna die in jail,” says Estrada, “but justice is merely the baseline. Institutions failed us all. I can’t even believe in jail. I advocate for rehabilitation.”

Estrada has always been vocal about justice: one of the earliest online hits for her is a 2018 video supporting Mexican abortion rights, three years before they were legalised. In 2022, she released the song Si Me Matan (If They Kill Me) after the student Mara Fernández was murdered by a ride-share driver. “I use my platform to empower, particularly young girls,” she says.

Lafourcade was that example for Estrada. She returns the compliment. “She is undoubtedly the voice of young generations, with a soul and heart of great sensitivity,” says Lafourcade. “She possesses ancient wisdom in a vibrant, beautiful form.”

Art, Society, and Dialogue

In 2023, Mexico’s then president played Estrada’s music as part of an effort to deter young people from corridos tumbados, the genre of regional Mexican trap popularised by Peso Pluma that has been accused of glorifying drug cartels and stoking violence. Estrada says she was “honoured”, but feels otherwise conflicted. Rather than banning such music, she says, “we should talk about why people are admiring people who are killing us, killing our freedom, killing all the things we love.” “Mexico needs open dialogue involving all. Conversation drives real change.”

Self-reflection fostered emotional accountability. Writing the ultimatum Dime (Tell Me), she realised she didn’t want an ex to stay. she wanted to leave. “It was such a useful thing to realise you can always turn around and walk away,” she says. “I struggled to grasp my right to refuse.”

She links it to Greek mythology, specifically the Furies: goddesses of vengeance depicted with horrifying facial features. “I see their rage as a response to divine injustice. Nobody wants to feel connected to the Furies because they’re ugly – it’s a really machista, misogynist conception of female fury. But I actually feel much more connected with their spirit than the rest of the goddesses: Even with snakes for hair, I embrace it. I strive for happiness, vitality, and growth.”