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Over 25 years, the Mexican singer-songwriter admits she did not know how to get angry. “It drained my energy and self-respect,” she reflects. Melancholy, however, was a familiar companion: “I live with her very close to me.” At 28 years old, the artist was raised near Veracruz, an urban center on the Mexican Gulf, where she witnessed violence from so many angles: widespread gender-based killings, narcoculture, and ecological destruction on local farms and waterways. As a lonely teenager, she discovered Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald. Their music illuminated her inner turmoil 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. 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,” says her peer and mentor, the Mexican songwriter Natalia Lafourcade. “Her voice embodies liberty, exotic beauty, and Latin American spirit. It echoes a bond with love, the natural world, and human connections.”

She remains fond of that record, she says today, during a New York interview. It earned her a Latin Grammy for best new artist and critical raves. 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. While that’s part of me, I sought to reveal my truer self.” Estrada talks with tender humour about that serious young girl so animatedly that her sparkly rose-shaped earrings swing. 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: toward former partners who didn’t return her feelings; regarding a friend who abandoned her over career envy. I got so depressed after that. She wondered how years of brotherly love could end over insecurity. That shocked me so much.”

She channelled her indignation into Good Luck, Good Night, a dramatic, humorous farewell to the pettiness of ghosting. Each verse evokes the image of a tipped wineglass. “Life often mirrors a telenovela, full of endless drama,” she says, referencing the high-octane Latin American soap operas of her youth. “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!” She still sounds offended. “It’s ironic, highlighting human pettiness.”

Harnessing Anger’s Energy

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 a peculiar, almost grandmotherly nudge toward self-awareness. 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, Silvana decided to do it herself. She acknowledged her unique vision. Trusting others over her instincts felt irresponsible.” She augments her cuatro with swooping flourishes of strings, piano and woodwind, her powerful voice overflowing with empathy. The bright, dewy Como un Pájaro (Like a Bird), nominated for best singer-songwriter song at next month’s Latin Grammys, is as fresh as a spring morning. Joyful tunes emerged unexpectedly. “Aging has taught me to cherish joy amid adversity. This record swings between beauty and fear.”

Loss and Homage

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 was very isolated. Even the friends I had were super mean to me. I’ve always been highly sensitive.” Jorge showed her true friendship. “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 a brother figure.” He accompanied her on tours. “I enjoyed so much feeling loved, not so like this super lonely child.”

With Jorge, says Estrada: “I could be a child again. My heart was so light. And now my heart is heavy. 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. It was written during a residency at the house of the late singer Chavela Vargas, her hero, 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 killers were caught. “They’ll perish in prison,” she declares, “but justice is merely the baseline. The state, everybody, failed us. I can’t even believe in jail. I believe in reintegration.”

She has long championed justice: one of the earliest online hits for her is a 2018 video supporting Mexican abortion rights, predating legalization. In 2022, she released Si Me Matan following a student’s murder. “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 says.

Lafourcade was that example for Estrada. She reciprocates the praise. “She embodies the voice of youth, with profound sensitivity,” Lafourcade comments. “She possesses ancient wisdom in a vibrant, beautiful form.”

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, a genre criticized for cartel glorification. 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.” She adds: “In Mexico, there are so many things we need to start talking about, and we need to involve everybody. Conversation is important to change your reality.”

Listening to herself helped Estrada become accountable to her own feelings. Composing Dime, she recognized her desire to leave. she wanted to leave. “It was such a useful thing to realise you can always turn around and walk away,” she explains. “For me, it was hard to understand that I could just say no.”

She draws parallels to the Furies of Greek myth: goddesses of vengeance depicted with horrifying facial features. “My interpretation is that they were angry because of all the injustice on Olympus. Nobody wants to feel connected to the Furies because they’re ugly – it’s a really machista, misogynist conception of female fury. 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 just want to be whatever makes me happy, or more alive, or better.”