For 25 years, the Mexican singer-songwriter confesses she did not know the art of expressing anger. “It drained my energy and self-respect,” she reflects. Melancholy, however, was something she always understood: “She has always been by my side.” Now 28, Estrada grew up near Veracruz, an urban center on the Mexican Gulf, exposed to multifaceted violence: rampant femicide, drug cartel influence, and ecological destruction on coffee plantations and waterways. During her solitary youth, she found solace in jazz legends like Billie Holiday. They helped guide the darkness she felt and introduced her to vocal improvisation.
Hailing from a lineage of instrument makers, she started making her own music, using a Venezuelan cuatro and inspired by Mexican son jarocho. Her 2022 debut, Marchita, meaning “withered,” presenting a minimalist, heartbreaking narrative of lost love.
“I consider her one of the richest artists of our time,” notes fellow musician Natalia Lafourcade. “Her voice is freedom, it is birds of paradise, it is Mexico and Latin America. It echoes a bond with love, the natural world, and human connections.”
She remains fond of that record, she mentions now, sitting in a New York cafe. It won her a Latin Grammy and widespread acclaim. However, later, she says, “I really wanted to do something with my humour. Post-Marchita, I felt confined to a somber, solemn persona. 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. Tracks from Marchita originated in her teens, she says: “I view that eloquence and darkness as naive, believing it was the sole way to express love and dreams.”
Shifting Sounds and Deeper Emotions
She planned a brighter, more pop-oriented follow-up. But then unexpected losses forced her to get acquainted with an even darker side of her personality. Estrada’s new lyrics are stark with recrimination and brutal despondence: for ex-lovers who couldn’t reciprocate; for a friend who ditched her “because he couldn’t stand that my career was” – she shoots her hand upwards – “and his wasn’t. That betrayal led to deep depression. She wondered how years of brotherly love could end over insecurity. That shocked me so much.”
She transformed her anger 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. “Sometimes our lives are like a telenovela – infinite drama and suffering,” she remarks, recalling the intense soaps from her childhood. “Existence involves pain, but ghosting—where someone chooses invisibility—is utterly miserable!” Her offense remains palpable. ‘It’s funny because I guess it shows how small we can be.”
The Power of Anger
During the process of writing, “I was like, wow, anger is really helpful,” she says. “Anger is this energy that really wants you to be responsible for your needs and your limits. It’s beautiful, strange, uncomfortable, almost like a grandmother telling you: ‘What are you doing? You don’t want this.’ We need anger, actually, to fight for our lives and the lives of others.”
But Vendrán Suaves Lluvias (Soft Rains Will Come) doesn’t sound angry; it’s one of the year’s most unabashedly beautiful albums. Following unsuccessful collaborations with producers, she took creative control. She acknowledged her unique vision. Trusting others over her instincts felt irresponsible.” She enriched her cuatro with orchestral elements, her powerful voice overflowing with empathy. The bright, dewy Como un Pájaro (Like a Bird), a Latin Grammy nominee, evokes springtime freshness. Joyful tunes emerged unexpectedly. “As I get older, I understand the importance of pleasure and joy, even during hard times. This record swings between beauty and fear.”
Loss and Homage
The insult of being ghosted paled next to the tragedy of losing her best friend and fellow musician, Jorge, who was brutally murdered alongside his brother and uncle in December 2022. “This is a little bit embarrassing, but I didn’t value friendship very much when I was growing up,” she says. “I was a little bit weird. I liked music that nobody was listening to. I felt deeply isolated. Even friends treated me poorly. I’ve always been highly sensitive.” Jorge showed her true friendship. “A person who loves, accepts, and honestly communicates with you. We were inseparable.”
When Estrada wanted to move to Mexico City, her parents consented only because Jorge joined. “They loved Jorge so much. He was like an older brother to me.” When she started touring, he came too. “I enjoyed so much feeling loved, not so like this super lonely child.”
Regarding Jorge, she shares: “I could be a child again. My heart was so light. And now my heart is heavy. I’m getting used to it.” Somber and intensified by strings, Un Rayo de Luz (A Ray of Light) is her tribute to him. Composed at Chavela Vargas’s home, her idol, and interpolates her words: “¿Cómo será de hermosa la muerte que nadie ha vuelto de allá?” “I cling to that belief,” she states.
Activism and Inspiration
The perpetrators were apprehended. “They’ll perish in prison,” she declares, “but justice is the minimum. The state, everybody, failed us. I can’t even believe in jail. I advocate for rehabilitation.”
Estrada has always been vocal about justice: a 2018 video backing abortion rights gained early traction, predating legalization. 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 try to use the voice I have and the space that has been given to me as an example of empowerment, especially for little girls,” she affirms.
Lafourcade inspired her. She reciprocates the praise. “She is undoubtedly the voice of young generations, with a soul and heart of great sensitivity,” Lafourcade comments. “I see her as an old soul and wisdom within a young body full of vitality and beauty in every sense.”
Music, Culture, and Conversation
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 had mixed feelings. Rather than banning such music, she suggests, “we must discuss why society idolizes destructive figures.” “Mexico needs open dialogue involving all. Conversation drives real change.”
Listening to herself helped Estrada become accountable to her own feelings. Writing the ultimatum Dime (Tell Me), she realised she didn’t want an ex to stay. She sought departure. “Discovering the power to walk away was liberating,” she explains. “I struggled to grasp my right to refuse.”
She links it to Greek mythology, specifically the Furies: vengeful deities with fearsome appearances. “I see their rage as a response to divine injustice. Society shuns them due to misogynistic views on female anger. But I align with their spirit over other goddesses: OK, I’m gonna have snakes instead of hair and one eye in my frente – I don’t care: I strive for happiness, vitality, and growth.”
