Mexico City singer-songwriter, visual artist, and filmmaker Luisa Almaguer has made a career of turning deeply affecting meditations on the experiences of trans people into universal tales of love, heartbreak, and community. On her 2019 opus Mataronomatar, cuts like “Hacernos Así” and “Azotea” explored the vulnerability behind acts of physical intimacy, as well as the simple joys of lighting a blunt with bae on her rooftop. That same year, she launched the acclaimed radio show and podcast La Hora Trans, which has grown into an essential platform for artists and activists to share laughs and war stories, welcoming NYC downtown diva Nomi Ruiz and tech influencer Ophelia Pastrana. But 2024 is poised to be the year of Luisa Almaguer, already counting a viral duet with Damon Albarn (Blur, Gorillaz), global campaigns with Spotify and Apple Music, and a visceral new album titled Weyes that refracts her politically-charged worldview through the unlikely lens of men.
“Men mean lots of things to women,” Almaguer tells Remezcla, unspooling the personal and philosophical layers behind Weyes, a Mexican slang term for “guys.” “Me encantan los weyes. I’m always in love with guys and often collaborate with guys I adore. However, the album also has this underlying theme of connecting men to death. This idea of being with a guy and not knowing if you’re at risk. The biggest perpetrators of violence against trans women, and women in general, are men. So it’s a record that considers these beings that I love, desire, and idolize, and which I want to be desired and loved by, but that I’ve also perceived as threatening.”
The album’s psych-pop lead single, “Wey,” is based on a text message that Almaguer sent to a cis-male suitor preoccupied with prejudiced opinions of their relationship. “¿Por qué siempre por la sombra?,” she asks, exasperated by sneaking around, later asserting, “Dilo fuerte, es importante.” With the mercurial punk of “Un día nos vamos a morir,” her dread becomes existential, fearing the demise of a romance that actually makes her feel seen and safe, and deepened by memories of the loneliness she felt at the center of a stacked social agenda.
But while Almaguer is unabashed in her demands to be loved the way she deserves, it would be myopic to reduce Weyes to amorous anxieties. The album’s rainbow of emotions stretches back to her childhood in Mexico City’s Azcapotzalco district, where she says her identity as a “niña marica” was clear as early as kindergarten. Her mother was protective and musical, teaching her to play piano and cooing nursery songs every night, which she credits as the foundation of her mostly self-taught training. In sharp contrast, that natural femininity produced a chasm between Almaguer and her father, which drove her to seek an alternate paternal figure – a story she shares with bittersweet tenderness on the track “Tío Hugo.”
“My uncle Hugo was kind and took care of me, but there was also this sense of distance and non-approval,” she remembers. “And even though I wasn’t into fútbol or superheroes, I still wanted to be there with him and receive his attention and affection. I think a lot of people can relate to that, with extended family or friends who become allies when things at home are tense.”
Like countless queer people before her, Almaguer found family elsewhere. She was embraced by her friends early and largely exempt from bullying. However, she dropped out of high school due to conflictive relationships with her teachers. “I’ve always talked back. It was my political nature that got me in trouble,” she says with a chuckle. The same friends who offered her refuge snuck her into classes at some of the city’s most prestigious film schools, including CUEC (Centro Universitario de Estudios Cinematográficos) and CCC (Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica). She’d listen in on lectures, assist on shoots, working makeup and costumes, and often step in front of the camera. As she bloomed into a celluloid muse, she also explored the impressive range of her most powerful instrument: her voice.
Me encantan los weyes… However, the album also has this underlying theme of connecting men to death. This idea of being with a guy and not knowing if you’re at risk. The biggest perpetrators of violence against trans women, and women in general, are men. So it’s a record that considers these beings that I love, desire, and idolize, and which I want to be desired and loved by, but that I’ve also perceived as threatening.
Since her debut EP Miljillo in 2016, Almaguer has grown into a force of nature in the Chilango underground. She’s cultivated sisterhood with Zemmoa and La Bruja de Texcoco and collaborated with brothers Santiago and Patricio Mijares of Big Big Love on the fuzzed-out production of Weyes. She also recorded an at-home session for KEXP in 2021, railed against Mexico’s negligent church and government from the Pride stage in El Zócalo, and is currently filming her directorial debut, a docu-fiction about Belafonte Sensacional. Earlier this year, she was included in the coalition of Mexican artists who would join Damon Albarn and the famed Africa Express collective during a rapturous five-hour jam at Carnaval de Bahidorá. Almaguer accompanied Albarn on the sole selection from his vast pop catalog, delivering a stirring rendition of “On Melancholy Hill.”
“It was a musical orgy,” she says of the thrilling show and subsequent marathon studio sessions. “I was honored to experience this fantasy with La Bruja de Texcoco and artists and friends I admire so much, like Mare Advertencia Lirika and Tayhana. Later, we went into the studio to record with Damon on piano, Nick Zinner [of Yeah Yeah Yeahs] on guitar, Joan As Police Woman on violin, and the bassist of Gorillaz. It was extraordinary, and Damon put himself at our disposal instead of directing. So it’s a great example of how you can use the privilege of a superstar to support and lift fellow artists.”
Over the past month, Spotify’s GLOW campaign beamed Almaguer’s face onto the big screen in Times Square, and Apple Music highlighted her as an Up Next artist, a title previously bestowed upon the likes of Natanael Cano and Sky Rompiendo. But growing fame and industry acknowledgement also come with mixed feelings. “The day the Times Square thing happened, it was announced Spotify was raising rates for users who want to read song lyrics on the app,” she remembers, “Which caused a firestorm of criticism that dovetailed into Free Palestine discourse because of the CEO’s military investments. So it was a bizarre moment of gratitude for this platform while supporting what artists and customers are demanding and seeing these arguments unfolding under a picture of my face.”
Almaguer’s commitment to socially relevant storytelling comes full circle on Weyes, particularly on the deceptively cheerful cumbia, “María,” which follows the harrowing experience of taking her mother to the hospital after a thyroid cancer diagnosis in 2020. “I included this image of police officers at the entrance to the hospital arbitrarily deciding who could come in or not,” she says, seething at the corruption and injustice she has consistently criticized since childhood. “I’m glad I made it a cumbia, though. I don’t want to hold on to that anger and desolation.”
“And besides, la banda quiere bailar.”
Weyes is out now.
This post is part of Remezcla Pride 2024: Identity Edition. Read more here.
