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Over 25 years, the Mexican singer-songwriter confesses she was unable to learn the art of expressing anger. “It drained my energy and self-respect,” she reflects. Melancholy, on the other hand, was a familiar companion: “She has always been by my side.” At 28 years old, the artist was raised near Veracruz, an urban center on the Mexican Gulf, exposed to multifaceted violence: rampant femicide, drug cartel influence, and environmental attacks 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 sparked her interest in improvisational singing.

Born to a family of luthiers, she started making her own music, using a Venezuelan cuatro and inspired by Mexican son jarocho. Her 2022 debut, Marchita, meaning “withered,” and the record offered a spare, devastating, deeply poetic account of first love gone awry.

“She stands among the most profound artists today,” notes fellow musician 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. But afterwards, 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.” 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 notes: “All this eloquence, darkness, I see it as so much naiveness because I thought that was the only way to talk about love and dreams.”

A New Direction and Darker Themes

Her second album, she decided, would be poppier, lighter. 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. That betrayal led to deep depression. 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. Each verse evokes the image of a tipped wineglass. “Sometimes our lives are like a telenovela – infinite drama and suffering,” she remarks, 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!” 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 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.”

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, Silvana decided to do it herself. She acknowledged her unique vision. It was so irresponsible to let in other people, to ignore my own desire.” She augments her cuatro with swooping flourishes of strings, piano and woodwind, her powerful voice overflowing with empathy. The radiant Como un Pájaro, nominated for best singer-songwriter song at next month’s Latin Grammys, is as fresh as a spring morning. 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

Ghosting’s sting faded compared to losing her friend Jorge, killed violently with his family in late 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 was very isolated. Even the friends I had were super mean to me. I’ve always been highly 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 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.”

With Jorge, says Estrada: “I rediscovered childhood joy. 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, incorporating her line: “How beautiful must death be?” “I cling to that belief,” she states.

Advocacy and Empowerment

The killers were caught. “They’ll perish in prison,” she declares, “but justice is the minimum. The state, everybody, failed us. I don’t fully trust incarceration. I believe in reintegration.”

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 embodies the voice of youth, with profound sensitivity,” says Lafourcade. “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. She felt honored, but feels otherwise conflicted. Rather than banning such music, she suggests, “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 is important to change your reality.”

Self-reflection fostered emotional accountability. 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 links it to Greek mythology, specifically the Furies: vengeful deities with fearsome appearances. “My interpretation is that they were angry because of all the injustice on Olympus. Society shuns them due to misogynistic views on female anger. 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 just want to be whatever makes me happy, or more alive, or better.”