One of the first things Silvana Estrada noticed about Las Vegas was its lack of natural light.
The Mexican singer-songwriter has always found the dingy, artificially lit interiors of the city’s casinos to be a bit unsettling. So ahead of the Latin Grammys in November — where her folk ballad, “Como un Pájaro,” was nominated for best singer-songwriter song — Estrada elected to stay in a hotel that didn’t feel like it was “underground.”
“My first thought [when walking into the hotel] was, ‘Thank God there’s sunlight,’” said Estrada, who sat across from me inside a busy coffee shop at the Encore resort in Las Vegas. Her face was illuminated by precious sun rays beaming through the window. “I get to receive sunlight, I can see green trees — and there’s a little fountain with fish.”
Estrada has learned to relish the little things amid a heavy and industrious year. Upon the Oct. 17 release of her sophomore album, “Vendrán Suaves Lluvias,” or, “There Will Come Gentle Rains,” the 28-year-old performed in NPR’s Tiny Desk series; embarked on a European tour; then kicked off a North American tour in November, which will continue into 2026, with stops throughout the U.S. and Mexico.
On Friday, she’ll touch down in Los Angeles, where she’ll headline a concert at the Belasco in Downtown L.A.
“I’m a big fan of being busy,” said Estrada. “I feel like I need to do something all the time in order to have value. But I don’t want to feel guilty when I’m resting… It’s great to always have a passion, but it’s a little bit harmful to do things from the place of needing to be functional.”
According to Estrada, this newfound understanding of productivity was a byproduct of the arduous labor she put into “Vendrán Suaves Lluvias,” a 10-track album ripe with evocative, orchestral reflections on loss. In the three years which she called “a little bit chaotic,” she dedicated the last year in the studio to learn how to produce her own music. She described this particular creative process as “humbling,” yet rewarding.
“I was involved in every single process [of the album],” said Estrada. “So, it all blurred until its ending. To be in total control of your music — that’s something you cannot give away once you feel it. You can’t let go of it.”
As a follow-up to her 2022 solo debut, “Marchita,” which detailed the fallout from her very first romance, her second record strikes a similarly mournful tone; but this time, she sings of a different kind of heartbreak. Much of the album contends with the profound grief she experienced after her best friend and his brother were abducted and murdered in Mexico.
“Being a woman in Mexico, you’re always scared,” said Estrada, who is based in Mexico City. “You’re scared to be raped or killed or both. But at the same time, I grew up in a really loving environment — so in my story itself, there’s some light in the darkness.”
Estrada was born in a small mountain town called Coatepec in Veracruz, Mexico, a place known for its son jarocho music. Her parents were luthiers and orchestra musicians themselves; although she said she was raised in a loving household, her hometown experienced an intense period of violence as she was coming of age. As she lived in the fear of others, Estrada found solace in the natural flora and fauna of her surroundings.
“I always loved nature. I grew up in front of a river in the coffee plantations of my homeland, so nature has always been very close to my heart. But as I’m getting older, I don’t take it for granted,” said Estrada.
In the slow-building symphony of “Un Rayo De Luz,” Estrada bottled the refreshing feeling of sunlight after a harsh winter, while confronting death head on — singing “Cómo será de hermosa la muerte / Que nadie ha vuelto de allá.” Whereas on tracks like “Dime” and “Flores,” there are distinct orchestral peaks, in which subtle percussions give way to grander, more cathartic releases.
“There’s a bunch of songs that I [wrote] while watching the trees and when I was deep in nature. It calms my ego,” said Estrada. “When I’m surrounded by nature, I’m not trying to prove anything to anybody. You start to remember, you are part of a bigger ecosystem, and you just need to be you.”
But even in the somber verses about fields where flowers don’t grow, or a storm that never ceases, her ability to see the brighter side of things continues to peek through in each piercing whistle and delicate guitar strum.
“I’m like a mosquito,” said Estrada. “I naturally follow the light. Of course, I have darkness in me. But when I’m sad or in pain, there’s a moment where I need to go to the light.
“I’ve been surrounded by violence and a lot of times, I don’t want to give it power,” she added. “So I always try to find something beautiful and light in everything — just to make violence weak.”
When she sings these songs live, she taps into the grief in a way that isn’t harmful — but instead, an avenue to connect deeper with herself and her fans.
“Sometimes when I sing, I open certain doors. In one room is my grief and in another is my pain, but opening these doors isn’t causing me pain. I know what’s there. But singing is what connects me with all these places,” said Estrada.
“The wonderful thing [on tour] is that I actually see the people I’m connecting with at that moment too. To me, that’s the magic of the performance.”
While reflecting on the U.S. portion of the tour, specifically, she said that helping her fans feel seen is more important as ever.
“It’s a really strange, violent moment for just Latino people here in the U.S.,” said Estrada, referring to the increasing raids on immigrant communities across the country. “I’m excited to celebrate Latin music and heritage. I just want to create a little moment where people can feel welcomed and loved. They deserve to live well and be happy. I just want to celebrate life during these concerts.”
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