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Over 25 years, Silvana Estrada confesses she was unable to learn the art of expressing anger. “That cost me so much energy and dignity,” she states. Melancholy, on the other hand, was something she always understood: “I live with her very close to me.” At 28 years old, the artist grew up outside Veracruz, a city on the Mexican Gulf, exposed to multifaceted violence: rampant femicide, narcoculture, and ecological destruction on coffee plantations and waterways. During her solitary youth, she discovered Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald. They helped guide the darkness she felt and sparked her interest in improvisational singing.

Hailing from a lineage of instrument makers, Estrada 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” 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 reflects a deep connection to love, nature and human relationships.”

Estrada still loves that album, she says today, 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. 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 with such energy that her earrings dance. Some of Marchita’s songs dated back to when she was 18, 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

Her second album, she decided, would be poppier, lighter. Yet, personal losses unveiled a deeper, darker aspect. 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. I got so depressed after that. She wondered how years of brotherly love could end over insecurity. 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 says, recalling the intense soaps from her childhood. “Existence involves pain, but ghosting—where someone chooses invisibility—is utterly miserable!” She still sounds offended. “It’s ironic, highlighting human pettiness.”

The Power of Anger

During the process of writing, “I was like, wow, anger is really helpful,” she says. “Anger drives you to uphold your boundaries and desires. 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.”

However, Vendrán Suaves Lluvias conveys serenity; it’s one of the year’s most unabashedly beautiful albums. After futile attempts to make the record with four other 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 radiant Como un Pájaro, nominated for best singer-songwriter song at next month’s Latin Grammys, evokes springtime freshness. She was surprised by the joyful melodies that came out of her. “As I get older, I understand the importance of pleasure and joy, even during hard times. This album is like a pendulum between beauty and terror.”

Tragedy and Tribute

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 confesses. “I was an odd child. My musical tastes were unconventional. I felt deeply isolated. Even friends treated me poorly. I’m super sensible [sensitive].” Jorge showed her true friendship. “A person who loves, accepts, and honestly communicates with you. We were inseparable.”

When she planned to relocate to Mexico City, her parents were unsure until they heard that Jorge was going too. “They adored Jorge. 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.”

Regarding Jorge, she shares: “I rediscovered childhood joy. My heart was so light. Now it carries heaviness. I’m getting used 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 idol, incorporating her line: “How beautiful must death be?” “I really want to believe that,” she says.

Advocacy and Empowerment

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.”

She has long championed 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 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 inspired her. She reciprocates the praise. “She embodies the voice of youth, with profound 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, her music was used to counter corridos tumbados, the genre of regional Mexican trap popularised by Peso Pluma that has been accused of glorifying drug cartels and stoking violence. She felt honored, but feels otherwise conflicted. Rather than banning such music, she suggests, “we must discuss why society idolizes destructive figures.” 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. Writing the ultimatum Dime (Tell Me), she realised she didn’t want an ex to stay. She sought departure. “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: vengeful deities with fearsome appearances. “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: 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.”