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Over 25 years, the Mexican singer-songwriter admits she did not know the art of expressing anger. “That cost me so much energy and dignity,” she reflects. Melancholy, on the other hand, was a familiar companion: “She has always been by my side.” At 28 years old, the artist grew up near Veracruz, a city on the Mexican Gulf, exposed to multifaceted violence: rampant femicide, drug cartel influence, and ecological destruction on coffee plantations and rivers. During her solitary youth, she found solace in Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald. They helped guide the darkness she felt and introduced her to vocal improvisation.

Born to a family of luthiers, Estrada began composing her own songs, played on a four-string Venezuelan cuatro and inspired by Mexican son jarocho. 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.”

Estrada still loves that album, she says today, sitting in a New York cafe. It earned her a Latin Grammy for best new artist and critical raves. However, later, she explains, “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 with such energy that her earrings dance. Some of Marchita’s songs dated back to when she was 18, 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.”

A New Direction and Darker Themes

She planned a brighter, more pop-oriented follow-up. Yet, personal losses unveiled a deeper, darker aspect. 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. 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 dramatic, humorous farewell to the pettiness of ghosting. Every line feels as though it should be accompanied by the wayward slosh of a glass of wine. “Sometimes our lives are like a telenovela – infinite drama and suffering,” she remarks, referencing the high-octane Latin American soap operas of her youth. “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.”

Harnessing Anger’s Energy

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. 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 acknowledged her unique vision. Trusting others over her instincts felt irresponsible.” She augments her cuatro with swooping flourishes of strings, piano and woodwind, her commanding voice brimming with compassion. The radiant Como un Pájaro, nominated for best singer-songwriter song at next month’s Latin Grammys, is as fresh as a spring morning. 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.”

Tragedy and Tribute

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. “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. My musical tastes were unconventional. I was very 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 always together.”

When Estrada wanted to move 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 could be a child again. 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 really want to believe that,” she says.

Activism and Inspiration

The perpetrators were apprehended. “They’re gonna die in jail,” says Estrada, “but justice is the minimum. Institutions failed us all. I can’t even believe in jail. I believe in reintegration.”

She has long championed justice: a 2018 video backing abortion rights gained early traction, three years before they were legalised. 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 use my platform to empower, particularly young girls,” she affirms.

Lafourcade was that example for Estrada. 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.”

Art, Society, and Dialogue

In 2023, her music was used to counter corridos tumbados, a genre criticized for cartel glorification. Estrada says she was “honoured”, but feels otherwise conflicted. Instead of cancelling this kind of music, she suggests, “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.”

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. “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. “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: 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.”