The Mess is a new column from journalist Richard Villegas, who has been reporting on new, exciting sounds flourishing in the Latin American underground for nearly a decade. As the host of the Songmess Podcast, his travels have intersected with fresh sounds, scene legends, ancestral traditions, and the socio-political contexts that influence your favorite artists. The Mess is about new trends and problematic faves whilst asking hard questions and shaking the table.
We’re going there. We’re talking about it. Even if things get a little messy.
So, I went viral. Before I explain, let me take you back to late October when I was running around Buenos Aires and hitting a couple dozen shows. One day, I received an invitation to see the popular soul band NAFTA at the 15,000-seater Movistar Arena, and though I’ve never been a fan of the group founded by Matías García Molinari, aka Magamo, a large-scale spectacle is usually worth the time. I’m always open to having my mind changed — though I know the messy nature of this column can be misunderstood as only criticism. Anyway, I attended the concert alongside Venezuelan YouTuber and music critic Rodrigo Romero, aka Doble R, and we noticed restlessness from the crowd. Though elegant string arrangements and harmonies from singers Abril Olivera and An Espil were highlights of the night, a lack of bass grooves, frontman charisma, or interesting visuals fueled audience chatter, producing the effect of being stuck in the world’s largest elevator. I’d seen the band perform about two years prior, so I let my counterpart decide when to bounce, and about 30 minutes later, we were off for shawarma. The vibes improved dramatically.
The following day, and after a few facetious tweets about the show, I decided to actually articulate my dissatisfaction with the growing ubiquity of soul, R&B, and disco across Spanish-speaking Latin America: It’s super fucking whitewashed. I argued that NAFTA’s music was too far removed from the source — the alchemic balance of joy and melancholy that made these genres fundamental to global Black resistance and indelibly transformed the DNA of contemporary pop music. This struck a nerve with Argentines, who are often unfairly dogged for their white demographics. However, in the avalanche of retweets that followed, I noticed that for every account telling me to jump off a bridge, two others agreed with me. Class discourse began to dominate the comments, with many casting the band and much of this groovy easy listening as a favorite of snooty hipsters found at specialty coffee shops. A colleague went as far as to call the phenomenon “flat white caramel funk.”
I want to be clear about a few things. First, I take no issue with NAFTA. Being a fan is not a prerequisite to my job as a music journalist and culture critic, and they sold out two nights at the Movistar Arena, with a major festival tour scheduled for next year, so they’re doing just fine without my personal endorsement. It’s also classist to suggest this music can only be enjoyed by upper-middle-class people when American funk laid the sonic foundation of Spanish-language hip-hop, que viene desde “abajo.” Context is important, but music belongs to everyone. Finally, I certainly don’t believe Blackness is a monolithic secret sauce for achieving soul. Dating back to the ’90s, Chile’s prolific funk canon launched influential groups Los Tetas and Chancho en Piedra, and Argentina has some truly iconic entries with Illya Kuriyaki & The Valderramas and new schoolers Lnt. Noire and Gauchito Club.
But why is so much of this music today mind-numbingly boring? For one, it lacks the body and texture of lived experience. Most new artists and hypebeast creative directors prioritize the aesthetic and ahistorical nostalgia of social media, with nearsighted references rarely extending past SZA and Frank Ocean. Jesse Baez is often hailed as the genesis of R&B en español, making a name for himself with covers of PARTYNEXTDOOR and The Weeknd as early as 2016. Baez then became the reference, and his work with Finesse Records cemented Monterrey as the epicenter of a stylish R&B industry that launched Girl Ultra, NSQK, and Foudeqush, back when she still performed with Kiddie Gang. All these artists swerved into reggaeton, house, and corridos — in my opinion, greatly improving their output. But Baez has remained the truest to moody crooning, heard on his solid 2024 LP Henry and a reminder that his early years in Chicago and Guatemala were directly nourished by his family’s Motown records.
The most intriguing exponents of R&B and soul across Latin America engage with homegrown traditions, adapting vocal stylings of the Black-Anglo canon to local codes and stories. Junior Zamora‘s silken vocals and gender-fluid sex appeal are indebted to Usher and Prince as much as to the Cali churches and gospel music that raised him. Further Colombian nods are due to “El Avispero,” where powerhouse vocalists Lianna and Lalo Cortés, Argentine rap transplant Delfina Dib, and folk valkyries La Muchacha and Briela Ojeda storm stages collectively, tapping into the anger and anguish at the heart of soul music. Chilean singer Masquemusica parlayed her years studying and performing boleros into smokey growls and jazzy arrangements that landed her a slot opening for Alicia Keys last year, also shaping her excellent 2024 LP, Tarde o Temprano. And Brazil is the example that proves the rule, with Tim Maia and Elza Soares blazing melancholy trails since the 1960s, now echoed by stars such as Tuyo, Liniker, Iza, Bebé, and Melly.
But disco is where I get especially heated. Over the past few years, Mexico and Argentina have become leaders of the rejuvenated genre, where white dudes in turtlenecks now rule over countless editorial playlists with whispery, retro tunes designed for background listening. In Mexico, Clubz’s twinkling 2018 opus Destellos spawned glossy bands such as Disco Bahía and Noah Pino Palo, even briefly seducing Esteman, Daniela Spalla, and Solo Fernández into an increasingly homogenized indie pop sound. In Argentina, the real pandemic was the emergence of peppy disco bands indistinguishable from one another: El Zar, Silvestre y la Naranja, Conociendo Rusia, etc. Of this latter bunch, the most likely to endure and transcend is Bandalos Chinos, whose electrifying shows capture the unquantifiable joie de vivre of this music, sparking dance breaks rather than mild swaying.
My biggest problem is the “content” nature of the music, which accompanies computer work shifts and living room hangouts but rarely stands out or interrupts. It’s music for corporate sync and Instagram reels, and while I can’t fault anyone trying to secure their bag, vying to soundtrack a streaming series doesn’t make for interesting art. That’s not to say nuanced grooves are unfindable: I implore you to check out Cuba’s Cimafunk, Puerto Rico’s Epilogio, and Colombia’s Duplat. Disco and funk also sparked effervescent new chapters for staunch rockers Mi Amigo Invencible and Diamante Eléctrico, proving joyful bombast is more than a ’70s-reminiscent vibe.
My biggest problem is the “content” nature of [soul, R&B, and disco en español], which accompanies computer work shifts and living room hangouts but rarely stands out or interrupts. It’s music for corporate sync and Instagram reels… vying to soundtrack a streaming series doesn’t make for interesting art.
As a gay, rapturous maximalism has been my campy happy place since I was a tween, blasting my cousin’s Pure Disco compilations to raised eyebrows from my parents. Perhaps I’m mad that straight people have eroded yet another pillar of queer culture. Maybe I just wish Chaka Khan and Aaliyah got mentioned more often. This isn’t just an old-head rant — I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.
The evening of my viral stint, still in Buenos Aires, I was walking to another concert with colleagues. The venue was down the block from the Movistar Arena, and we wondered out loud who was playing that night. A lady who was walking beside us interjected, saying she worked at the parrilla across the street and that they always piped in music by the artist to attract post-show customers. “I don’t know who’s performing tonight,” she added, “but yesterday sounded like supermarket music.” It was one of those surreal moments that you couldn’t make up, and, of course, my friends erupted into laughter, pointing at me in a wild coincidence.
I guess you can always tell when someone fakes the funk.
