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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 a familiar companion: “I live with her very close to me.” Now 28, Estrada grew up near Veracruz, a city on the Mexican Gulf, exposed to multifaceted violence: rampant femicide, narcoculture, and environmental attacks on local farms and rivers. As a lonely teenager, she found solace in jazz legends like Billie Holiday. They helped guide the darkness she felt and introduced her to vocal improvisation.

Born to a family of luthiers, she began composing her own songs, using a Venezuelan cuatro and inspired by Mexican son jarocho. 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 echoes a bond with love, the natural world, and human connections.”

Estrada still loves that album, she says today, during a New York interview. It won her a Latin Grammy and widespread acclaim. 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.” Estrada talks with tender humour about that serious young girl so animatedly that her sparkly rose-shaped earrings swing. 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.”

Shifting Sounds and Deeper Emotions

Her second album, she decided, would be poppier, lighter. 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. I got so depressed after that. She wondered how years of brotherly love could end over insecurity. That shocked me so much.”

She transformed her anger 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 remarks, recalling the intense soaps from her childhood. “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

While composing, she discovered anger’s utility. “Anger drives you to uphold your boundaries and desires. 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. 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 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, 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.”

Loss and Homage

Ghosting’s sting faded compared to losing her friend 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 friends treated me poorly. I’ve always been highly 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 she planned to relocate to Mexico City, her parents consented only because Jorge joined. “They loved Jorge so much. He was a brother figure.” 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 was so light. And now my heart is heavy. 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 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 killers were caught. “They’ll perish in prison,” she declares, “but justice is the minimum. The state, everybody, failed us. I can’t even believe in jail. I advocate for rehabilitation.”

She has long championed justice: a 2018 video backing abortion rights gained early traction, predating legalization. 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 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 affirms.

Lafourcade was that example for Estrada. She reciprocates the praise. “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.”

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 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.”

Self-reflection fostered emotional accountability. Writing the ultimatum Dime (Tell Me), she realised she didn’t want an ex to stay. She sought departure. “Discovering the power to walk away was liberating,” she says. “I struggled to grasp my right to refuse.”

She links it to Greek mythology, specifically the Furies: goddesses of vengeance depicted with horrifying facial features. “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 strive for happiness, vitality, and growth.”