🔗 Share this article

Over 25 years, the Mexican singer-songwriter admits she did not know the art of expressing anger. “That cost me so much energy and dignity,” she states. Sadness, however, 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 Gulf of Mexico, where she witnessed violence from so many angles: widespread gender-based killings, drug cartel influence, and environmental attacks on coffee plantations and waterways. As a lonely teenager, she discovered Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald. They helped guide the darkness she felt and introduced her to vocal improvisation.

Born to a family of luthiers, Estrada started making her own music, played on a four-string 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,” says her peer and mentor, the Mexican songwriter 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.”

She remains fond of that record, she mentions now, during a New York interview. It earned her a Latin Grammy for best new artist and critical raves. But afterwards, she says, “I really wanted to do something with my humour. Post-Marchita, I felt confined to a somber, solemn persona. While that’s part of me, I sought to reveal my truer self.” She fondly recalls her younger self so animatedly that her sparkly rose-shaped earrings swing. 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.”

Shifting Sounds and Deeper Emotions

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. Her latest songs brim with accusation and despair: 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. The shock was profound.”

She channelled her indignation into Good Luck, Good Night, a fabulously melodramatic, comic kiss-off for something as pathetic as “el 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, referencing the high-octane Latin American soap operas of her youth. “Existence involves pain, but ghosting—where someone chooses invisibility—is utterly miserable!” Her offense remains palpable. “It’s ironic, highlighting human pettiness.”

Harnessing Anger’s Energy

While composing, she discovered anger’s utility. “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. Ultimately, anger is essential for personal and collective survival.”

But Vendrán Suaves Lluvias (Soft Rains Will Come) doesn’t sound angry; 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. 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. Joyful tunes emerged unexpectedly. “Aging has taught me to cherish joy amid adversity. This album is like a pendulum between beauty and terror.”

Loss and Homage

The insult of being ghosted paled next to the tragedy of losing her best friend and fellow musician, 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 confesses. “I was a little bit weird. I liked music that nobody was listening to. I was very 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 consented only because Jorge joined. “They adored Jorge. He was a brother figure.” 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 felt weightless. 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 idol, and interpolates her words: “¿Cómo será de hermosa la muerte que nadie ha vuelto de allá?” “I cling to that belief,” she states.

Advocacy and Empowerment

The killers were caught. “They’re gonna die in jail,” says Estrada, “but justice is the minimum. Institutions failed us all. I don’t fully trust incarceration. I believe in reintegration.”

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

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. Estrada says she was “honoured”, but had mixed feelings. Instead of cancelling this kind of music, she suggests, “we must discuss why society idolizes destructive figures.” “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 sought departure. “Discovering the power to walk away was liberating,” she explains. “For me, it was hard to understand that I could just say no.”

She links it to Greek mythology, specifically the Furies: goddesses of vengeance depicted with horrifying facial features. “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: 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.”