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Over 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: “She has always been by my side.” Now 28, Estrada was raised near Veracruz, an urban center on the Mexican Gulf, exposed to multifaceted violence: rampant femicide, narcoculture, and environmental attacks on coffee plantations and waterways. As a lonely teenager, she found solace in Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald. They helped guide the darkness she felt and introduced her to vocal improvisation.

Hailing from a lineage of instrument makers, Estrada started making her own music, using a Venezuelan cuatro and drawing from Mexican folk traditions. The title of her acclaimed 2022 debut, Marchita, translates to “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.”

She remains fond of that record, she says today, sitting in a New York cafe. It earned her a Latin Grammy for best new artist and critical raves. But afterwards, 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.” 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: “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. Yet, personal losses unveiled a deeper, darker aspect. 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. 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 says, referencing the high-octane Latin American soap operas of her youth. “Existence involves pain, but ghosting—where someone chooses invisibility—is utterly miserable!” She still sounds offended. ‘It’s funny because I guess it shows how small we can be.”

The Power of Anger

During the process of writing, “I was like, wow, anger is really helpful,” she says. “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.”

However, Vendrán Suaves Lluvias conveys serenity; it stands as a breathtakingly beautiful record. After futile attempts to make the record with four other producers, Silvana decided to do it herself. She realised: “‘You’re the only one that knows what you want.’ 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 commanding voice brimming with compassion. The bright, dewy Como un Pájaro (Like a Bird), 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. “As I get older, I understand the importance of pleasure and joy, even during hard times. 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, killed violently with his family in late 2022. “I used to undervalue friendship in my youth,” she says. “I was an odd child. My musical tastes were unconventional. I was very isolated. Even the friends I had were super mean to me. I’m super sensible [sensitive].” Jorge showed her true friendship. “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 always together.”

When Estrada wanted to move to Mexico City, her parents consented only because Jorge joined. “They adored Jorge. He was like an older brother to me.” He accompanied her on tours. “I relished feeling cherished, shedding my loneliness.”

With Jorge, says Estrada: “I could be a child again. My heart was so light. Now it carries heaviness. I’m adapting to it.” Somber and intensified by 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 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 can’t even believe in jail. I believe in reintegration.”

Estrada has always been vocal about 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 says.

Lafourcade inspired her. She reciprocates the praise. “She embodies the voice of youth, with profound sensitivity,” Lafourcade comments. “She possesses ancient wisdom in a vibrant, beautiful form.”

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, 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.” 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.”

Listening to herself helped Estrada become accountable to her own feelings. 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 links it to Greek mythology, specifically the Furies: vengeful deities with fearsome appearances. “I see their rage as a response to divine injustice. Nobody wants to feel connected to the Furies because they’re ugly – it’s a really machista, misogynist conception of female fury. But I align with their spirit over other 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.”