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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 states. Melancholy, on the other hand, was something she always understood: “I live with her very close to me.” Now 28, the artist was raised near Veracruz, a city on the Gulf of Mexico, exposed to multifaceted violence: rampant femicide, narcoculture, and environmental attacks on coffee plantations and rivers. During her solitary youth, she discovered jazz legends like Billie Holiday. Their music illuminated her inner turmoil and introduced her to vocal improvisation.

Hailing from a lineage of instrument makers, she began composing her own songs, using a Venezuelan cuatro and drawing from Mexican folk traditions. 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,” notes fellow musician Natalia Lafourcade. “Her voice embodies liberty, exotic beauty, and Latin American spirit. It reflects a deep connection to love, nature and human relationships.”

She remains fond of that record, she says today, sitting in a New York cafe. It won her a Latin Grammy and widespread acclaim. But afterwards, she says, “I really wanted to do something with my humour. Post-Marchita, I felt confined to a somber, solemn persona. 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

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. Her latest songs brim with accusation and despair: 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 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 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!” She still sounds offended. ‘It’s funny because I guess it shows how small we can be.”

The Power of Anger

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 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 stands as a breathtakingly beautiful record. After futile attempts to make the record with four other 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 augments her cuatro with swooping flourishes of strings, piano and woodwind, her powerful voice overflowing with empathy. The bright, dewy Como un Pájaro (Like a Bird), nominated for best singer-songwriter song at next month’s Latin Grammys, evokes springtime freshness. Joyful tunes emerged unexpectedly. “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.”

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 says. “I was an odd child. I liked music that nobody was listening to. I was very isolated. Even friends treated me poorly. 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 consented only because Jorge joined. “They adored Jorge. He was a brother figure.” 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 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 hero, and interpolates her words: “¿Cómo será de hermosa la muerte que nadie ha vuelto de allá?” “I really want to believe that,” she says.

Advocacy and Empowerment

The perpetrators were apprehended. “They’re gonna die in jail,” says Estrada, “but justice is merely the baseline. The state, everybody, failed us. I don’t fully trust incarceration. I believe in reintegration.”

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 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 is undoubtedly the voice of young generations, with a soul and heart of great sensitivity,” Lafourcade comments. “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, a genre criticized for cartel glorification. Estrada says she was “honoured”, but had mixed feelings. Rather than banning such music, she says, “we should talk about why people are admiring people who are killing us, killing our freedom, killing all the things we love.” She adds: “In Mexico, there are so many things we need to start talking about, and we need to involve everybody. Conversation drives real change.”

Self-reflection fostered emotional accountability. Composing Dime, she recognized her desire to leave. 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: 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 align with their spirit over other goddesses: Even with snakes for hair, I embrace it. I strive for happiness, vitality, and growth.”