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Over 25 years, Silvana Estrada admits she did not know how to get angry. “It drained my energy and self-respect,” she states. Sadness, however, was something she always understood: “She has always been by my side.” Now 28, Estrada grew up near Veracruz, a city on the Mexican Gulf, exposed to multifaceted violence: widespread gender-based killings, drug cartel influence, and ecological destruction on local farms and rivers. As a lonely teenager, 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 began composing her own songs, 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.

“She stands among the most profound artists today,” 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 echoes a bond with love, the natural world, and human connections.”

Estrada still loves that album, she mentions now, sitting in a New York cafe. It won her a Latin Grammy and widespread acclaim. 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. While that’s part of me, I sought to reveal my truer self.” She fondly recalls her younger self 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

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; regarding a friend who abandoned her over career envy. That betrayal led to deep depression. I thought, ‘I cannot believe that I’ve been loving you as my brother all these years and you don’t want to see me because you feel small?’ The shock was profound.”

She transformed her anger into Good Luck, Good Night, a fabulously melodramatic, comic kiss-off for something as pathetic as “el ghosting”. Each verse evokes the image of a tipped wineglass. “Life often mirrors a telenovela, full of endless drama,” 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!” She still sounds offended. ‘It’s funny because I guess it shows how small we can be.”

Harnessing Anger’s Energy

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 stands as a breathtakingly beautiful record. Following unsuccessful collaborations with producers, Silvana decided to do it herself. She realised: “‘You’re the only one that knows what you want.’ 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, is as fresh as a spring morning. She was surprised by the joyful melodies that came out of her. “Aging has taught me to cherish joy amid adversity. 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. “I used to undervalue friendship in my youth,” she says. “I was a little bit weird. I liked music that nobody was listening to. I felt deeply 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 she planned to relocate to Mexico City, her parents were unsure until they heard that Jorge was going too. “They loved Jorge so much. He was like an older brother to me.” He accompanied her on tours. “I relished feeling cherished, shedding my loneliness.”

Regarding Jorge, she shares: “I could be a child again. My heart was so light. And now my heart is heavy. I’m adapting 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 hero, 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 merely the baseline. The state, everybody, failed us. I can’t even believe in jail. I advocate for rehabilitation.”

She has long championed 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 returns the compliment. “She embodies the voice of youth, with profound sensitivity,” Lafourcade comments. “She possesses ancient wisdom in a vibrant, beautiful form.”

Art, Society, and Dialogue

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 had mixed feelings. Instead of cancelling this kind of music, she says, “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. Composing Dime, she recognized her desire to leave. she wanted to leave. “Discovering the power to walk away was liberating,” she says. “I struggled to grasp my right to refuse.”

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 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.”