11 Artists Flourishing in El Salvador’s Fertile Underground

Where is Central America? I don’t mean on a map—but in the media. With the rare exception of Costa Rica, which in the past we’ve highlighted as an exciting haven for music, fashion and nightlife, the rest of the region remains a glaring omission from the greater cultural conversation. Take El Salvador for example; The smallest nation in Central America, by square mileage, is also home to breathtaking beaches, verdant landscapes, bomb local cuisine and vibrant movements in music, fine arts and film.

The sound of El Salvador can be described as a melange of influences from powerhouse neighbors like Mexico, Colombia and the Caribbean—manifesting in colorful pockets of rock and reggae throughout the capital city’s urban sprawl and its breathtaking nearby beach towns. Cumbia reigns safely as the country’s sonic lingua franca, a genre where stalwarts like Marito Rivera and Orquesta San Vicente are able to connect with children and their grandparents alike. However, when it comes to the hip underground kids, unspooling a connective musical thread becomes more challenging.

El Salvador’s turbulent political history—which includes nearly a century of dictatorships, civil wars and gang violence—has shaped much of its cultural yield, paving the way for punk and rap as essential outlets for a society in trauma. Ignition (hardcore), Toma el Riesgo (straight edge), Adhesivo (ska) and Los Bastardos (experimental) all doled out brutal catharsis over the past decade, eviscerating injustice, institutional violence and economic inequality over throbbing mosh pits. Rappers like Snif and Oneime have also put their necks on the line for their art, spinning intimate portraits of barrio life that bring hope to a new generation of kids eagerly searching for paths beyond gang membership.

“For a scene to exist there must be some sort of harmony, whether musical, emotional, spiritual or ideological,” says Fran Maravilla, one of El Salvador’s most influential and beloved cultural organizers. Maravilla has been an integral part of the national scene for nearly 13 years as member of bands Polly Class and Manyula Dance Club, booker and event coordinator at the iconic Casa Tomada, and a cornerstone of Central America’s tightly-knit indie network. “There need to be meeting grounds,” he adds, “which is what Beatriz Alcaine tried to build with La Luna. Sons of military officers who let their hair grow after the peace treaties were signed—they would come hang out at La Luna. The kids of left-wing exiles who fled to Mexico would also show up and take theater classes there because it was the most similar environment they could find to what they had experienced in Mexico City.”

A lack of venues is one of the many challenges faced by the Salvadoran underground. La Luna closed in 2012 and recently reopened under new ownership as Buhos Pizza, which is once again among the favorite venues in San Salvador. La Casa Tomada shuttered its doors last year and though it’s expected to re-open elsewhere, an exact date and location have not yet been determined. The city’s French Alliance and Spanish Cultural Center often host one-off events, while La Resi, a popular multimedia space that welcomes visual artists, independent educators and musicians alike, remains a bastion of experimentation and collaboration for all who seek it.

El Salvador’s indie music industry is still in its infancy, and though a strong push for formalizing press and management relationships is being made, spearheaded by organizations like KUI and publications Factum and Bulla, many musicians lack the knowledge or tools to properly market their projects. “Musicians here often think about other musicians when creating, not necessarily of their audience, and that’s one of the hurdles that keeps them from growing,” suggests Maravilla when asked about the scene’s relative stasis.

During a recent visit to San Salvador, I noticed a major generational gap at live shows, where young people seemed largely absent from consecutive rap and alternative showcases. “New musicians are learning about music from their parent’s record collection, not from the bands on the scene,” adds Maravilla, suggesting that parents who lived through the end of the civil war that culminated in the early 90s, as well as the rise of gangs like MS-13 and Barrio 18, are sheltering their kids out of reasonable fear for their safety.

Mass migrations have also affected the Salvadoran scene significantly, perpetuating a cycle of brain drain that has scattered members of bands like Cartas a Felice, Adrenalina and Primal Pulse across the globe. Economic instability and safety are largely cited as the main reasons for departure, and while violent crime has declined during current President Nayib Bukele’s government, remittances made up close to 21% of the national GDP in 2018, indicating migration waves will likely continue.

However, there is still much to discover and revere in the Salvadoran underground. Luciana Fortis’ HUS parties and Consecuencia Fest are laying the groundwork for a rapidly growing local electronic music scene. The Ghetto Witches collective and funk ensemble Las Musas Desconectadas have also emerged as agitating feminist forces in what is still a macho-driven scene, disrupting archaic gatekeeping tactics through brazenly inclusive parties and a proud commitment to activism. And while reggaeton continues to blare from the majority of car windows and busy nightclubs, the genre remains largely unexplored territory for Salvadoran musicians—with some even suggesting it might be the scene’s next big wave.

To guide you through this small but vibrant ecosystem, we’ve put together a list of 11 artists representing the different corners of the Salvadoran underground. Whether you’re looking to dance, mosh or daydream in your room, these Salvadoran artists are ready to dazzle.