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For 25 years, the Mexican singer-songwriter admits she did not know how to get angry. “It drained my energy and self-respect,” she reflects. Melancholy, on the other hand, was something she always understood: “She has always been by my side.” Now 28, Estrada was raised near Veracruz, an urban center on the Gulf of Mexico, exposed to multifaceted violence: widespread gender-based killings, drug cartel influence, and environmental attacks on local farms and waterways. As a lonely teenager, she found solace in jazz legends like Billie Holiday. Their music illuminated her inner turmoil and sparked her interest in improvisational singing.

Hailing from a lineage of instrument makers, Estrada started making her own music, 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 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 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. Some of Marchita’s songs dated back to when she was 18, she notes: “I view that eloquence and darkness as naive, believing it was the sole way to express love and dreams.”

A New Direction and Darker Themes

She planned a brighter, more pop-oriented follow-up. Yet, personal losses unveiled a deeper, darker aspect. Her latest songs brim with accusation and despair: for ex-lovers who couldn’t reciprocate; for a friend who ditched her “because he couldn’t stand that my career was” – she shoots her hand upwards – “and his wasn’t. 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?’ 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. “Sometimes our lives are like a telenovela – infinite drama and suffering,” she says, recalling the intense soaps from her childhood. “Existence involves pain, but ghosting—where someone chooses invisibility—is utterly miserable!” Her offense remains palpable. ‘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 a peculiar, almost grandmotherly nudge toward self-awareness. We need anger, actually, to fight for our lives and the lives of others.”

But Vendrán Suaves Lluvias (Soft Rains Will Come) doesn’t sound angry; 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 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. “Aging has taught me to cherish joy amid adversity. This record swings between beauty and fear.”

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. “I used to undervalue friendship in my youth,” she says. “I was an odd child. My musical tastes were unconventional. I felt deeply isolated. Even the friends I had were super mean to me. I’ve always been highly 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 were unsure until they heard that Jorge was going too. “They adored Jorge. He was like an older brother to me.” 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. Now it carries heaviness. I’m getting used to it.” Grave and sharpened by sudden bursts of strings, Un Rayo de Luz honors his memory. 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 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 advocate for rehabilitation.”

She has long championed justice: one of the earliest online hits for her is a 2018 video supporting Mexican abortion rights, 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 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, a genre criticized for cartel glorification. She felt honored, but feels otherwise conflicted. 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.”

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. 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 just want to be whatever makes me happy, or more alive, or better.”