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For 25 years, the Mexican singer-songwriter confesses she was unable to learn the art of expressing anger. “That cost me so much energy and dignity,” she reflects. Melancholy, on the other hand, was something she always understood: “She has always been by my side.” At 28 years old, Estrada grew up near Veracruz, an urban center on the Mexican Gulf, where she witnessed violence from so many angles: rampant femicide, drug cartel influence, and ecological destruction on local farms and waterways. During her solitary youth, she found solace in jazz legends like Billie Holiday. Their music illuminated her inner turmoil 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,” and the record offered a spare, devastating, deeply poetic account of first love gone awry.

“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 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 aimed to incorporate more humor. 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. Tracks from Marchita originated in her teens, she says: “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. Yet, personal losses unveiled a deeper, darker aspect. Estrada’s new lyrics are stark with recrimination and brutal despondence: toward former partners who didn’t return her feelings; 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. 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?’ 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, recalling the intense soaps from her childhood. “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.”

Harnessing Anger’s Energy

While composing, she discovered anger’s utility. “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.’ 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. Following unsuccessful collaborations with producers, she took creative control. She acknowledged her unique vision. It was so irresponsible to let in other people, to ignore my own desire.” She enriched her cuatro with orchestral elements, her powerful voice overflowing with empathy. The bright, dewy Como un Pájaro (Like a Bird), a Latin Grammy nominee, 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.”

Tragedy and Tribute

Ghosting’s sting faded compared to losing her friend 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 a little bit weird. My musical tastes were unconventional. I felt deeply isolated. Even friends treated me poorly. I’m super sensible [sensitive].” Her first real friend, Jorge taught her what friendship was. “A person who loves, accepts, and honestly communicates with you. We were always together.”

When Estrada wanted to move to Mexico City, her parents consented only because Jorge joined. “They loved Jorge so much. He was a brother figure.” When she started touring, he came too. “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.” 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.

Activism and Inspiration

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 advocate for rehabilitation.”

She has long championed justice: a 2018 video backing abortion rights gained early traction, predating legalization. In 2022, she released Si Me Matan following a student’s murder. “I use my platform to empower, particularly young girls,” she affirms.

Lafourcade was that example for Estrada. She returns the compliment. “She is undoubtedly the voice of young generations, with a soul and heart of great sensitivity,” says Lafourcade. “I see her as an old soul and wisdom within a young body full of vitality and beauty in every sense.”

Art, Society, and Dialogue

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. Estrada says she was “honoured”, but feels otherwise conflicted. Instead of cancelling this kind of 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 drives real change.”

Self-reflection fostered emotional accountability. Composing Dime, she recognized her desire to leave. She sought departure. “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: 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 strive for happiness, vitality, and growth.”