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"Loud" asks us to reconsider mainstream histories of the genre, and reveals critical conversations about its roots and evolution.

Ivy Queen, the host of the podcast "Loud" and a successful reggaeton artist, takes a critical look at her own genre. Credit... Spotify

In Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, marquesinas are centers of convocation, where family and friends gather to drink, dance and talk. Intimacy and conviviality are cultivated at these open-air garages and courtyards, a staple of middle-class homes. They're where you gain an education. Where you learn the curves of your body when you dance to reggaeton for the first time and start to understand the language that the music offers: the ecstasy and uncertainty of youth, sexual self-discovery and the freedom of movement.

Even at early 2000s marquesina parties, reggaeton carried certain myths. If you grew up at the crest of the genre's commercial rise like I did, you were taught certain ideas about the genre early on. The notion, for example, that it is just vulgar party music. Or that it was invented solely in Puerto Rico. Or that it is a feel-good example of global cultural crossover, imploding language and cultural barriers and ushering Latinos into the mainstream.

But these are deceptive and simplistic assumptions. They mask the knotty power dynamics embedded in popular music, especially if a genre emerges from a place of struggle. They perpetuate reductive ideas about reggaeton, obscuring the prismatic conditions of its past and present.

As a movement that is shaped by the displacement and migration of Black diasporic sounds and their people, reggaeton is difficult to pin down with a firm definition. But there are some essential coordinates: the circulation and metamorphosis of Jamaican dancehall, Panamanian reggae en español, hip-hop and Puerto Rican underground.

Many locate the seeds of reggaeton in 1980s Panama, where the children of West Indian canal workers experimented with translating Jamaican dancehall, Trinidadian soca and other Afro-Antillean genres into Spanish. New York dancehall and Panamanian reggae en español traveled to Puerto Rico, where the genre evolved alongside hip-hop en español as a movement called underground. Reggaeton always contained lyrical multiplicity: it was a genre for partying, but also for talking about life on the street: drugs, racism, crime, romance - stories of pleasure and protest.

"Loud," a new podcast produced by Spotify in partnership with Futuro Studios, chronicles the evolution of reggaeton head-on and at a critical moment, after a long period of neglect by the English-speaking media. Today, its global influence is too large to ignore: There is the success of artists like Bad Bunny, who was Spotify's most-streamed artist in 2020; the once inescapable "Despacito" by Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee, a watered-down, popetón smash with a Justin Bieber cameo that tied for the longest-running No. 1 in Billboard's Hot 100 history; as well as endless reports that detail the genre's ascendance on streaming platforms.

"Loud" unpacks all of this context, while fighting the narrative impulse to collapse intricate realities. Conversations about reggaeton usually include the never-ending debate about whether the genre started in Puerto Rico, which overlooks layers of diasporic musical exchange. There is the ongoing argument about reggaeton's political utility, which suggests that political expression must be easily identifiable in order to be valuable. And there is the continued idolization of the "crossover" - songs and artists that achieve success with English-speaking listeners - a marketing narrative that celebrates reggaeton as some sort of Latino victory in the face of marginalization, without exploring everything that fraught concept entails.

The thorough "Loud" is deeply aware of the textures of reggaeton. Over 10 episodes, it traces different chapters of the genre's development: its Panamanian roots, its industry takeover in the early and mid-2000s and its rebirth in Medellín, Colombia. The bilingual podcast embraces nuance and respect for legacy artists; its narrator, Ivy Queen, is reggaeton royalty, one of the few women in the industry who garnered commercial recognition.

In the first episode, the project firmly highlights the genre's Afro-Caribbean provenance and defiant beginnings: "For some people, reggaeton is just party music. But the real story of reggaeton is about la resistencia. Resistance," Ivy Queen states with piercing clarity. "About how kids who were young or poor, Black or dark-skinned - kids who were discriminated against in every way - how we refused to be quiet." As the episode comes to a close, she puts an exclamation point on the show's larger argument, stating that reggaeton is a "Black sound with roots from the English-speaking world."

The 10 episodes of "Loud" include a majority of the music being discussed.

It's a position statement about the music's creators, ethos and identity that holds throughout the series's run. There's no shortage of rebellion in "Loud." This is a project that immerses listeners in dissent.

It tells of how underground artists fought back against the criminalization they faced in the '90s and early '00s in Puerto Rico, when the police raided public housing projects and confiscated cassettes from record stores under the guise of curbing drugs and violence. It describes the fearlessness of Tego Calderón, who made pro-Black reggaeton anthems and scorched the public consciousness with his condemnations of colonial thinking. It reminds us how Anglo major labels and radio stations stumbled as they tried to cash in on a movement that they didn't understand, and that couldn't be tamed. For an industry that often renders arrival in the United States as evidence of ultimate career triumph, this narrative pivot is as curative as it is urgent.

"Loud" has rights to most of the music it analyzes, and knows it holds a gold mine. In one chapter, the show demonstrates how the game-changing producers Luny Tunes infused reggaeton with melody and strings through the lens of Ivy Queen's virtuosic "Te He Querido Te He Llorado." Listening to the episode, as the song's bachata guitar and dembow drums slashed through each other under Ivy's guttural wail, I was moved to stand up and belted her requiem of resentment and heartbreak to no one in particular.

But "Loud" tackles the difficult parts of this music's history, too: the homophobia embedded in Shabba Ranks's "Dem Bow," which serves as the genre's percussive foundation; the vilification of the music, which led to government censorship campaigns in Puerto Rico; and the racist and classist bias of traditional Latino media, which did not book reggaeton acts at the outset of its mainstream ascent. A few moments that surround the genre's history would benefit from further reflection here; a discussion of the racial ideology of mestizaje, for example, is a little too brief to treat the subject with enough depth.

Of course, it is impossible to sketch a complete portrait of any popular music genre over the course of a podcast. And reggaeton is a genre of transformation, a movement that has refused stasis and undergone constant reinvention over the course of its existence. "Loud" asks us to reconsider the collective stories we heard about the music at the marquesina parties that shaped some of our early understanding of its contours. It chips away at reggaeton's canon, urging us to take a closer look at the depth and the insurgency it has promised all along. It forces us to listen to reggaeton with complexity - as much complexity as the music and its history hold in the first place.

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Reggaeton's History Is Complex. A New Podcast Helps Us Listen That Way.

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"Loud" asks us to reconsider mainstream histories of the genre, and reveals critical conversations about its roots and evolution. In Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, marquesinas are centers of convocation, where family and friends gather to drink, dance and talk. Intimacy and conviviality are cultivated at these open-air garages and courtyards, a staple of middle-class homes.

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Listen to this episode from LOUD on Spotify. Medellín, Colombia becomes a new reggaeton mecca thanks to a new generation of artists and producers. J Balvin, Maluma and others find a more commercial sound, and set the stage for reggaeton's global takeover.

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REGGAETON DE COLOMBIA VS PUERTO RICO VOL.1

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Kali Uchis is hardly a newcomer, but Sin Miedo (Del Amor y Otros Demonios), her latest album which dropped in November and is home to the quickly ascending track "Telepatía," has taken her to uncharted territory.

Scoring her first-ever No. 1 on Billboard's Latin Pop Albums (chart dated March 6), the 13-track set is also her first-ever Spanish record and her first leader on any Billboard albums chart. Like most of her songs on her 2018 album Isolation and her 2015 debut EP Por Mi Vida, on Sin Miedo, the Colombian-American gets intimate with her lyrics, singing about love, lust, heartbreak and the daily struggles of life.

See latest videos, charts and news

"I've always used music to express myself," the 26-year-old tells Billboard via phone call from Pereira, Colombia where she's shooting "Telepatía's" forthcoming music video. "So I never force anything that's not there."

The track on the new album - which oscillates between R&B, perreo, reggaeton and synth-pop - that struck a chord with her devoted fan base is "Telepatía," a dreamy, bilingual pop track produced by Tainy about feeling lonely and wishing she could make love telepathically.

"I felt like the world needed some healing energy," explains Uchis, who has collaborated with artists such as Juanes, Jorja Smith and Tyler, the Creator. "After we ended up in this pandemic, the lyrics became more relevant. I try to stay grounded and make music from a clear, level-headed place and contribute something positive to the world."

"Telepatía" was not an overnight success when the album was released last fall. Its popularity has been steadily rising over the past month, thanks to TikTok videos featuring Uchis' song in the background, or English-language artists such as Sabrina Carpenter singing the song. That viral growth has propelled it to No. 2 on Billboard's Hot Latin Songs chart, and a current peak of No. 39 on the Hot 100 - her first entry as a lead act, and her highest career ranking.

"It makes me very excited to see how it's connecting with people because the energy that I was transmitting was about love and good energy, it's beautiful that this is happening with this track in particular," Uchis adds. "I realized that it was more than a viral song, but a song that was pushing me to charts that I had never charted on before. I was like, 'Oh wow, this is real, people are actually listening to the song for what it is. People were sending me messages saying that "Telepatía" gives them serotonin and makes them feel happy.' At the end of the day, that's what I want to do [with my music]."

The chart success of both Sin Miedo and "Telepatía" has also reassured Uchis that singing in Spanish could also catapult her to chart success. "This is a dream come true, because I've been making music for a while, and a lot of people told me that an album in Spanish would be like moving backwards in my career," she says. "But I ignored them, and it's beautiful that my Spanish album is actually resonating with people."
Learn more about this week's Latin Artist on the Rise below:
Name: Karly-Marina Loaiza

Age: 26

Major Accomplishment: " I would say my greatest accomplishment is that I've been able to keep my intentions pure. It's easy to get caught up in this industry and forget why you're doing this in the first place and instead start caring about designers and the support from celebrities and all these things that really don't matter. What matters to me is see ing how much I' ve able to touch real-life people on the streets. That means more to me than who is sending me clothes or which celebrity is posting my song."

Recommended Song: "When I recorded ['Telepatía'], it just felt very natural. It reminded me of my song 'After the Storm,' which is probably the most successful song out of my last album, and well it all happened so fast - we recorded it and it all came together very organically . That's always how the best songs happen. That's how I like to make songs, just very raw, natural and not forced. Music and art should be free, fun. And one should always know the intention you're putting into the song."

What's Next: "I've been working on my third studio album but have no official release date yet. I'm also working on a collaboration that my fans have been waiting for, which is a collaboration with SZA. And in general, I'm working on a few projects. You're the first to know that I' ve working on my first denim collection, Colombian denim, I've been wanting to do it forever. Our denim is known for lifting your booty and I've always wanted to do my own line. I'm going to shoot the samples out here and I'm launching soon."

A version of this article originally appeared in the March 13, 2021 issue of Billboard.

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Latin Artist on the Rise: Kali Uchis Ignored Advice Not to Sing in Spanish, and is Now Ascending the Charts

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Kali Uchis is hardly a newcomer, but Sin Miedo (Del Amor y Otros Demonios), her latest album which dropped in November and is home to the quickly ascending track "Telepatía," has taken her to uncharted territory. Scoring her first-ever No.

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"Where I come from, nobody thinks they're ever gonna leave," Kali Uchis tells Rolling Stone. "Most people don't leave to tell the story," she adds enigmatically, "so I'm telling you today."

Inside her hotel room in New York's SoHo neighborhood, the 24-year-old singer lays out her origin story. She lounges in a white plush robe, canary-yellow stockings and fuzzy slippers, speaking fondly of the Andean foothills of Colombia where she spent much of her youth. A trace of saudade washes over her face when she recalls her teen years in Alexandria, Virginia. There she spent many a night hunkered down in her Subaru Forester, cooking up song ideas on her keyboard after a family feud left her homeless for a time. "Nobody in my family has ever done anything like this," she says of her music career. "All my friends go to school and work jobs. It can be really lonely."

Uchis is currently based in Los Angeles, but her real home is the road. Following both Grammy and Latin Grammy nods in 2017, she booked her dream gig by opening on Lana Del Rey's U.S. tour this past winter; then she kicked off a run of festival dates with her inaugural Coachella shows in April, coinciding with the long-awaited release of her full-length debut, Isolation. Onstage, Uchis and her traveling funk band bring her cosmic soul to life; meanwhile, her devout followers, mostly young women, shriek at the slightest swivel of her hips, clad in metallic spandex and glittering platform heels. ("We love you, Kali!" screamed fans during her set at Governors Ball in June. "Fuck the haters!")

Fittingly for the bilingual, bicultural Uchis, Isolation is a genre-hopping pop experience, crafted with help from friends old and new. Spanish-language track "Nuestro Planeta" features fellow Colombian singer Reykon and rocks a low-key, reggaeton roll; Tyler, the Creator and Bootsy Collins share the sunshine on laid-back funk tune "After the Storm"; and the Damon Albarn-guided meditation "In My Dreams" evokes the feverish synth pop of Alan Vega. In talking to RS, Uchis makes it clear that genre boundaries don't concern her in the slightest. "Anytime there's a genre, it's because it has to be classified for the sake of uploading it to a platform," she says, languidly thumbing her iPhone screen. "I wouldn't consider my music R&B - but even if it was R&B, who cares?"

In advance of a headlining tour coming up in September - co-starring alt-R&B singer Gabriel Garzón-Montano and indie-pop crooner Cuco - Uchis spoke with Rolling Stone about the making of Isolation, the significance of her Latina heritage and her magical year on the road.

Last year, you were nominated for your first Grammy (for your feature on Daniel Caesar's "Get You"). But the only female artist who won in January was Alessia Cara. How did that feel?
I think everyone who's nominated is a winner. But everyone that night was angry that they snubbed SZA. To be nominated for five categories and go home with nothing? It seems a little bit cruel ... and winning in that situation might make you feel a little bad. But they did that to Beyoncé, right? So [SZA]'s in good company.

You have an eye for design - you design your own merch and style yourself so uniquely. What's it like adapting your style to the red carpet?
I love clothing, but [on the red carpet] I feel like we see so many of the same designers. The fashion world is political and elitist in that way. For me, it's fun to work with people who are tastemakers. The girl who designed my Grammys look, her name is Kim Shui. I saw her stuff on Instagram and I was like, "This is fucking amazing!" I love how she mixes really bold patterns and colors - like, who would think to put lilac and gold next to a snake print? I like people that take risks.

That's parallel to the tastemaking role that you play musically, from your collaborations to the references you make in your music. Like when you've busted out Elvis Crespo's "Suavemente" at your shows and kids in the audience would go, "Oh, my God, who sings this song? I hear this everywhere!"
Yeah. I'm always like, "Let me put you guys onto something - this is some good shit."

What I loved about you opening for Lana Del Rey's tour this year was how well your vibes synced up. She brings that Nancy Sinatra, Valley of the Dolls vibe, while you draw on classic Motown - you both continue legacies that still have a lot of life in them. Did you sense that too?
Being an opener is hard and can be stressful - I literally told my agent, "I won't do any tour unless it's a Lana Del Rey tour." And when they told me that Lana wanted me on her tour, I was like, "... OK." Lana's demographic and Lana's fans are receptive to me. They're not sitting there, like, yawning and waiting for someone else to come on, you know? They're actually intrigued and on their phones looking me up and getting drawn in. I can see the moment when they're like, "Hmm, should I fuck with this girl?" That, for me, is fun.

Were you able to spend any time with her?
We hung out sometimes, but it gets too hectic on tour - we have to do soundchecks, we have to glam, and then we have to go on stage. I would have to catch her at the moment, right after I do my glam and right when she's going into her glam. It's cool how we could just sit down and talk shit.

You dropped your Por Vida EP in 2015, but your debut LP took three years to release. Was it difficult to let go of this album?
It was timing; timing is everything. I definitely didn't rush my stuff while making it, but most importantly, after I was done making it, I was like, "OK, look. I took this time to make it - I'm not gonna rush myself to put it out now that it's done." Like, I'm gonna drop this at the right time. Because it wasn't rainy enough for October, and it wasn't Christmas-y enough for the holidays, but it felt like a springtime record.

Isolation is stacked with features - and genres. How did you pull it all together so seamlessly?
Most of my features have been production features. I'm very selective about who gets on the same song as me, and whose song I get on. But when it comes to production, I really like to work with different people, because I'm still looking for that one person to work on my next album with. Every song is a different genre. There's Gorillaz [Damon Albarn], who does some vocals and produces ("In My Dreams"). Kevin Parker from Tame Impala produces a song. Thundercat was doing a lot of ad libs and playing bass. He's one of my good friends. He's a really sweet person. And the Dap-Kings. I love them. For my next project though, I don't want to bounce around between producers and features. I want to just work solely with one person and in one place.

It's kind of like The Dating Game - you sample collaborators, give them one shot and find a winner.
I didn't know anyone who really made music before, and it's different from people who grew up in or around the industry. It can feel like you're on an entirely different planet. When I would be listening to oldies and shit, stuff would just strike me. That's how I made my first mixtape - I just sampled oldies - but in my first real project, Por Vida, that's when people in the industry started noticing me a little bit. I was lucky enough to have things sent to me by Kaytranada, Tyler [, the Creator] and Diplo, and that's when I started working with producers.

But the way I work best is still from scratch on the keyboard, when I'm by myself in my room. I'll just make different sounds, and it can get weird [ laughs]. Then I bring my ideas to people who can really produce, because I'm still figuring out how to be a better singer, writer and musician in general. It's nice to see what you come up with with different people, because I learn so much from all these really talented musicians.

He posted it and was like, "Oh, parcera" - that's "homegirl" in Colombia. He said, "This girl is from Medellín!" and I responded, "Actually I'm from Pereira, but thank you!" He was like, "Oh, my bad." But then I just DM'd him, "Let's work, though." He had a song ready for us to work on - he came to L.A., and we finished the song that night. I wrote my part in Spanglish. You know when you don't speak in Spanish for so long? I was going through a huge phase, where, for some reason, even though I've been living in L.A. for the past few years, a lot of people in L.A. don't like to speak Spanish. My makeup artist and I will be walking around speaking Spanish, and I notice people get really offended. But I'm the type of person that kind of enjoys offending people, so.... [ Laughs] I love to see people get mad when I'm speaking Spanish. It makes me want to speak it more.

Ever since then, every time I talk to my parents, I speak to them in Spanish. If your parents know English, you get reliant on that because you're so used to speaking English in America. I know a lot of Latinos [whose] parents didn't raise them speaking it at all. It's way harder for them to connect, and they feel a little bit of their Latinidad is erased and taken away from them, which is unfortunate. I started feeling like maybe that's why my friends don't like to speak it - when I try to speak Spanish they respond to me in English.

Definitely. So you also spent some of your childhood in Virginia?
I would say most of my childhood. I was supposed to stay in Colombia my whole life, but my parents decided to move to Virginia. I mean, I was blessed to go to school in Virginia and visit Colombia - my family is still there, and my parents are there now. I got to experience both worlds in a way. I feel like that was really nice to have as a kid, and I would definitely want to give that to my own kid, the ability to have multiple places to call home. But Virginia is tricky because basically it's between the North and the South.

It's just under the Mason-Dixon line.
I'm from the DMV area, which is D.C., Maryland and Virginia combined, so it's a subculture of its own. But for some reason when I tell people that I lived in Virginia, they ask, "Oh, is it a bunch of, like, hillbillies out there?" They don't know a lot of legends come from Virginia - Pharrell is from there, Timbaland, Clipse and Missy [Elliott], obviously such an important icon in music and culture. But that's OK, stay sleep.

Let's talk about how you started conceptualizing Isolation. Were there any songs in particular that you modeled the rest of the album after?
My songs are all so different. They're like my babies. They all come from different times in my life, too, because I spent so much time writing the album that I was in a different head space for all of them. So it's difficult, because they're not really all about love, they're not all about one thing. My music is always just an open diary. I just write whatever I feel is going through my head and what I feel most passionate to talk about at the moment. I try to stay away from political topics because that's not fun for me, and I want music to be fun. I'm very anti-group think, and I'm very pro-independent thinking. Self-reliance, self-awareness is the key to being a human being, and that's what's fucking up a lot of shit. It's important to reject the need to feel like you have to assimilate to society. But I don't know. I'm working on my second album now....

I wanted to ask about your working relationship with Tyler, the Creator and how that came about. You two have such a great rapport.
Guess how that came about.

Was it also Twitter?
Yeah, he hit me up on Twitter [ laughs]. I told you. He just followed me one day, and I was like, "Oh, my God, Tyler, the Creator followed me, what the fuck?" And then he DM'd me, like, "I love your songs, I love what they say, da-da-da." He said he loved the first mixtape that I ever made. The next time I was in L.A., I just hit him up, and I was like, "We're gonna make this song."

What was it like, the first time you recorded a song together?
I was super nervous, because I started making music by myself, in my room. I wasn't used to being in a recording studio, let alone with somebody who was much further along in his career than I was. We made a few songs, and then we just kept working together like that. Every time we meet up, we just make songs. I'm really happy and thankful to have him in my life, because it can be hard as a new artist when you don't really have anybody. And I don't have much family in America anymore, either. Nobody in my family has ever been in this industry, so I can't be like, "Daddy, who should I work with?" I didn't have friends who were doing it either - all my friends go to school and work jobs. So it was really lonely. You can get pulled in a lot of different directions if you don't have good people around you. So many people will pretend to be, but they want something from you. They secretly want to sign you, they want your publishing, they want sex from you. So to have people who just think you're talented and don't want anything but to work with you ... that's really important.

Did you work on "After the Storm" in the studio with both Tyler and Bootsy Collins?
I [produced] the song with BadBadNotGood in Canada. Then I went to Ohio to work with Bootsy, brought him the song and recorded his part at home. Then I went to L.A. and showed it to Tyler - you know, as artists who are friends, we share our music. I didn't show it to him with the intention of him [featuring] - I just like showing him all my new music, and he was showing me all his new music. But he really liked this one, so he got on it.

What was that trip like, being in his house and meeting his family?
They live on a farm, and threw a party for me when I left. Their kids, their grandchildren, everybody was there. It was really sweet. There was a cake that said, "We love you, Kali," and it was so cute.

Now that you've racked up so many awesome collaborations, who's your absolute dream collab?
Shakira.

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Pop Loner Kali Uchis on Growing Up Punk in Colombia and the Struggle to Stay Bilingual

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"Where I come from, nobody thinks they're ever gonna leave," Kali Uchis tells Rolling Stone. "Most people don't leave to tell the story," she adds enigmatically, "so I'm telling you today." Inside her hotel room in New York's SoHo neighborhood, the 24-year-old singer lays out her origin story.

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Medellín The World Capital of Reggaeton Will Host Bad Bunny

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The Puerto Rican has announced that he will be in Colombia on November 18 with his World’s Hottest Tour. We tell you everything about Bad Bunny in Medellín.

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In the last several years, billions of views and streams and multi-platinum records from Latin artists have shifted the musical paradigm and challenged conventional thoughts on how we categorize Latin music. The genre often referred to as Latin Urban music or reggaeton has shot to the forefront of popular culture on a global scale, causing artists like Drake, Beyoncé, and Justin Bieber to jump on the wave. Featuring Latin Grammy award-winning artists like Bad Bunny, J Balvin, Ozuna, and Nicky Jam, A New Medellín is an in-depth look at how a city in the mountains of Colombia redefined a genre and brought it to the world.

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A New Medellín: Rebirth Through Reggaeton | Complex News Presents

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In the last several years, billions of views and streams and multi-platinum records from Latin artists have shifted the musical paradigm and challenged conventional thoughts on how we categorize Latin music. The genre often referred to as Latin Urban music or reggaeton has shot to the forefront of popular culture on a global scale, causing artists like Drake, Beyoncé, and Justin Bieber to jump on the wave.

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Reggaeton | How The Latin Genre That Is Topping The Charts Got Its Name

Des-pa-cito... Is the song that got the world obsessed with Reggaeton

The hit from 2017, took the world by storm and represented a pinnacle attained by a relatively new genre. The song that topped all the charts around the world. And, to everyone's surprise, it wasn't an English composition, but a Latin one! The first and the only one Spanish-language track in the history of Latin music which had become such a huge success all over the world.

Basically, this very song started the total popularisation of reggaeton. Although, it became popular in the United States and Europe already in 2004. Today everyone knows J Balvin, the first Latin artist who could conquer American audience. This year he has become the first Latin headliner at all key music festivals in the United States. Daddy Yankee, Karol G, Nicky Jam, Ozuna, Don Omar, Becky G, CNCO, Maluma.... The list is pretty huge. But not everyone knows how this genre was created.

So, below you can get familiar with some history of this amazing music movement which is becoming more and more popular in the whole world.

Many believe DJ Nelson, Puerto Rican DJ and record producer created the term "reggaeton"

In 1995, while working on his solo release, DJ Nelson, Puerto Rican DJ and record producer, accidentally came up with the term "reggaeton". That mixtape was initially named Reggae Maratón, Vol. 1 and had all the characteristics we define as modern reggaeton: 808 drum beats, tropical-flavored timbales, rap-styled, and a thumping dance sensibility. The word appeared while he was talking to one of his colleagues about "Reggae Maratón". DJ Nelson suddenly, with no intention, united two words saying "Reggaeton!". And in the end his mixtape got the name Reggaeton Live, Vol. 1.

Here's how the genre got its name. The genre itself is traced back to the time when the Panama canal was being built and Jamaican labor was used. DJ Nelson himself told that in the 60s-70s Jamaicans brought reggae music with them. Later Jamaicans and Panamanians started to mix their cultures and sing reggae in Spanish. So, in the 80s a new genre - reggae en español - was born. El General and Nando Boom became the first artists of this genre and time.

Reggaeton is mostly created in Colombia and was popularized in Puerto Rico. The signature beat of reggaeton is called dembow which originated from Jamaicans. Shabba Ranks became the artist who made this beat popular. In 1990, he even released the song called 'Dem Bow'.

"...the drum loop most commonly circulating as "Dembow" on Best Reggaeton Beats CDs or as a minimally metadata'd MP3 is not the same one that underpins Shabba's seminal single. Instead, it stems from the instrumental of another version of "Dem Bow," a re-lick of the riddim for a Spanish version, "Ellos Benia," by Panamanian reggae en español pioneer Nando Boom. Produced neither in Panama City nor Colón (Puerto Rico), hot spots of the isthmus nation's reggae scene, but out on Long Island, New York, the recording resulted from a charmed collaboration between Panamanian and Jamaican reggae musicians and producers. Their efforts to translate and cross-market dancehall hits to New York's sizeable Spanish-speaking community laid the foundation for an entire genre, especially once Puerto Rican producers got their hands on this particular instrumental." Waxpoetic

"...Although disputes still arise around the importance of one site over another, reggaeton's pioneers and devotees generally acknowledge the importance of Jamaican music in Panama and how Puerto Ricans were inspired by, as they departed from, Panamanians' relatively faithful interpretations of dancehall anthems. Running dancehall riddims through hip-hop's sample-based blender, Puerto Rican producers like Playero, DJ Negro, and DJ Nelson reimagined reggae en español as a gritty and thickly referential style. Their sample-heavy productions directly indexed the music of Jamaica and Nueva York, overlaying dozens of samples from the same records filling DJs' crates in San Juan and NYC. In the process of hip-hop-ifying dancehall, they Caribbeanized hip-hop for a new generation of Spanish-speaking rappers.

So distinctive was this bricolage that it needed a new name, and while a great many terms cropped up- undergound, melaza, música negra, dembow- reggaeton stuck as the best way to mark, and market, Puerto Rico's transformative take on dancehall and hip-hop." Waxpoetic

Nowadays, the reggaeton beat can be heard in almost all kinds of songs. Even Ed Sheeran's track "Shape Of You" has been influenced by this genre.

Key Labels:

Pina Records (IG @pinarecords1) is a Puerto Rican record label founded by Rafael Antonio Pina Nieves in 1996. This is the most successful record label in the reggaeton industry nowadays. Among the artist who were and are signed to this label are Daddy Yankee, Nicky Jam, Natti Natasha, Arcangel, Zion & Lennox, Don Omar, Plan B and others.

Icon Music (IG @iconmusic) is a Colombian record label, the roster of which includes such artists as Feid, CNCO, Thalia, Pedro Capo. Reykon.

Reggaeton artists to follow:

Ozuna

Check out his YOUTUBE CHANNEL

J Balvin

Check out his YOUTUBE CHANNEL

Maluma

Check out his YOUTUBE CHANNEL

Nicky Jam

IG @nickyjampr

Check out his YOUTUBE CHANNEL

Bad Bunny

IG @badbunnypr

Check out his YOUTUBE CHANNEL

Learn More:

A beginner's guide to the history and hybridity of reggaeton

Digital Rhythm: The loopy origins of dembow and the knotty dancehall roots of reggaeton

References:

https://genius.com/artists/Icon-music

https://www.billboard.com/charts/year-end/top-latin-artists

Contributed by Elena Takmakova a writer from The Clive Davis Institute x Billboard MUSIC INDUSTRY ESSENTIALS program

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Reggaeton | How The Latin Genre That Is Topping The Charts Got Its Name | The Music Origins Project

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Reggaeton | How The Latin Genre That Is Topping The Charts Got Its Name The hit from 2017, took the world by storm and represented a pinnacle attained by a relatively new genre. The song that topped all the charts around the world. And, to everyone's surprise, it wasn't an English composition, but a Latin one!

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Words: Jhoni Jackson
Illustration: Larissa Hoff

When Daddy Yankee's Gasolina was unleashed into the world in 2004, it spread like wildfire.

The quickly-iconic hit signalled a new era of Latinx representation in mainstream culture, something that had been missing since Mexican-American pop star Selena was tragically murdered at the height of her powers in 1995. Fifteen years later, and it still commands a perreo intenso (or, intense grinding) like no other when DJs drop it in the club - which they do, all over the Anglo world, frequently.

Fast forward to 2017 and Daddy Yankee is featuring on Luis Fonsi's chart-busting hit, Despacito, signalling another reggaeton revolution. By the following year, the song's unprecedented commercial success had even garnered Fonsi Guinness World Records recognition: it spent 16 weeks at No. 1 in the Billboard charts (a feat only topped by Old Town Road), became the most-streamed song worldwide and was the first YouTube video to hit five billion views. And that's just the beginning.

Right now, reggaeton is closer to pop than it's ever been

But in its commercial triumphs, and in comparison to Gasolina, Despacito also serves as an indicator - and a guidepost - for how the genre's sound has permeated into the mainstream. Right now, reggaeton is closer to pop than it's ever been, a powerful force in the music industry, underwritten by skyrocketing YouTube views, Billboard chart placements and global concert sales.

The genre's popularity in Western markets might seem sudden to some, but it has a history. Reggaeton, an intoxicating blend of Spanish-language reggae, dembow rhythms and dancehall, is an adaptable, living genre. For better or worse (depending on who you ask) reggaeton has evolved over time - and never more so than in the 2010s. Its latest commercial iterations rely heavily on trap and pop, harnessed by chart-topping artists like J Balvin, Ozuna and Arcangel. It's upped the dancehall quotient at times, and dialled it down, incorporated more or less of its fundamental rhythm, dembow, and even spawned surprise mutations, like when Bad Bunny's Tenemos Que Hablar folded in touches of pop-punk.

The building blocks of the genre, though, trace back to late- 70s Panama. The US-controlled Canal Zone construction drew in West Indian workers, and when the area was returned to Panama in 1979, Jamaican riddims paired with Spanish lyrics flowed on local buses called Diablos Rojos (red devils). In the early 90s, the sound grew with the Puerto Rican collective The Noise, which included pioneering female artist Ivy Queen. Founding figure DJ Negro ran a club in San Juan by the same name, and it was there that the collective, plus artists like Daddy Yankee, Tego Calderon and Wisin & Yandel, propelled the movement.

Reggaeton was a fountain of unadulterated joy for many, warranting close dancing and unrepentant sexuality as a form of catharsis

Reggaeton was a fountain of unadulterated joy for many, warranting close dancing and unrepentant sexuality as a form of catharsis. And as it's prominence rose, spreading to other Latin American countries and the US, the genre became an unmatchable source of pride for Latinxs.

As a result of the Gasolina-aided mid-00s commercial boom, the past few years have been a blur of hits - many that have changed reggaeton's landscape forever. A major accelerant in this is Bad Bunny's boundary-breaking debut album X 100PRE. A rich tapestry of trap, reggaeton and bachata, it features a cameo from Ricky Martin on self-love anthem Caro, and with Solo de Mi, Bad Bunny fortified the song's affecting lyrics with a message of solidarity with domestic abuse survivors in its music video. Most notably, though, the album was praised for its unabashed emotional vulnerability and, paired with Bad Bunny's meticulous manicures and eccentric, neon-hued fashion sense, presented male reggaetoneros in a different light altogether. Operating in the same arena where Puerto Rican artist Anuel AA espoused homophobic lyrics in 2018 diss track Intocable, Bad Bunny's aesthetic and social stance felt significant.

Reggaeton and urbano are, in some corners, also running parallel to the #MeToo movement. Artists like Natti Natasha, Karol G and Becky G are flipping the genre's overt male-narrated sexuality to the female POV, reclaiming agency with each beat. There's the aforementioned politics of Bad Bunny's X 100PRE and, earlier this year, he teamed up with Puerto Rican rapper Residente in what many heralded as a step forward in feminist progress. Their joint track Bellacoso is all about being horny as hell - but explicitly "sin acoso" (or, 'without harassment'), spotlighting consent as the centre of the song.

the inclusion of feminism and queerness shores up the genre's ability to grow and adapt

An offshoot of this is the neo-perreo movement, a digitally- drenched, feminist iteration of dembow led by artists like Tomasa Del Real, Ms Nina and DJ Rosa Pistola, and outspoken queer artists like Sailorfag, La Pajarita La Paul and the late Kevin Fret, Puerto Rico's first openly gay Latin trap artist who was fatally shot in his hometown this year. For a genre with roots in the hyper-patriarchal Latinx landscape, the inclusion of feminism and queerness shores up the genre's ability to grow and adapt to the world around it.

This progress wouldn't have been possible in any other decade. As an Extremely Online generation, people from marginalised backgrounds the world over have created new platforms for themselves on the internet, raising their communities and culture to new heights. Latinxs have also followed suit in this movement, boldly expressing our varied identities with unflinching pride.

This was the decade Latinxs demanded space and reggaeton became truly visible

In the 2010s, reggaeton became our protective shield, with its infectious hooks, waist-pumping beats and inimitably radiant energy. It crystallised into the worldwide genre we always knew it could be if it was given the chance. And in a Trumpian, increasingly right-wing landscape where our Latinx identity is not only misunderstood, but largely not tolerated, the genre's success offered a sparkling counter to the antagonising narratives associated with us on the news. This was the decade Latinxs demanded space and reggaeton became truly visible - and we invited everyone along for the ride, one perreo intenso at a time.

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Words: Jhoni Jackson Illustration: Larissa Hoff When Daddy Yankee's Gasolina was unleashed into the world in 2004, it spread like wildfire. The quickly-iconic hit signalled a new era of Latinx representation in mainstream culture, something that had been missing since Mexican-American pop star Selena was tragically murdered at the height of her powers in 1995.

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Maidel "La Sista" Canales vividly recalls the " reggaeton fever" of the Nineties. At 16, Canales and her brother, four years her senior, formed the rap duo "Los Brothers," performing in the streets of Loíza, Puerto Rico, during cultural festivals. "Everyone in Loíza wanted to be a reggaetonero," says Canales, now 36.

Canales recalls the ubiquitous presence of black reggaeton artists during the genre's early years. But today, the most recognizable faces of reggaeton and música urbana continue to lighten. Take one look at who occupies today's Latin music charts, and it's clear that reggaeton is now heavily dominated by light-skinned Latinos such as Bad Bunny, Karol G, Anuel AA and J Balvin. Although a handful of black artists, like Don Omar, Ozuna, and Sech have made comparable strides toward international fame, the mainstreaming of the genre has correlated with a departure from its black heritage.

"I remember on one of Bad Bunny's videos, I commented, 'When are you going to put a black girl in a video? It would be nice to see a black woman there,'" says Canales. "And in his next videos, I swear I saw a black woman!'"

Canales grew up in Loíza: a coastal Afro-Puerto Rican enclave with a rich musical history that began long before the advent of reggaeton. It is the home of bomba, a musical tradition brought to the island by Africans forced into slavery by the Spanish colonists. Enslaved populations from various tribes used bomba music and dance as a means of communication when they were forbidden from speaking to one another on the sugar fields. Today, the genre continues to thrive as a way to express black identity in Loíza.

"There are a lot of reggaeton artists who have integrated bomba, and that's because they recognize the roots," explains Maricruz Rivera-Clemente, the founder of Corporación Piñones se Integra, a community organization based in Loíza.

"I remember Tego Calderón doing this, and it was vital to the entire genre of bomba and of reggaeton."

Calderón, who first came on the scene in 1996, is one of reggaeton's most influential early artists. Calderón was extremely outspoken about the black Puerto Rican experience in his lyrics; in his hit song, titled "Loíza," Calderón bluntly tackles the racism faced by dark-skinned Boricuas, rapping, "They want to make me think that I'm part of a racial trilogy/Where everyone is equal without special treatment." He continues, "You changed the chains for handcuffs/We're not all equal in legal terms/And this is proven in the courtrooms."

"Tego Calderón was the voice of all of the black Puerto Ricans," says Canales. "He was a big influence on me. Although he isn't from Loíza, he motivated me to share what it was to be from Loíza."

Ivy Queen, the First Lady of reggaeton, recalls the pushback Calderón received as a result of his image. "He took all the heat, carrying his afro and his swag," explains Ivy Queen. Calderón has since made rare appearances in public; he has not responded to Rolling Stone 's requests for comment.

Rivera-Clemente feels that in addition to shared instrumental elements, bomba and reggaeton also share ideological roots. "They come from the struggle, from spaces where we're not recognized," she says. "In its origins, reggaeton was about denunciations and grievances against an economic and political system that excluded the youth who were making the music."

Besides bomba, reggaeton also carries influences from early American hip-hop and Jamaican reggae.

Elías de León, the founder of White Lion Records and force behind reggaeton superstars like Daddy Yankee, Calle 13, Nicky Jam and Tego Calderón, remembers the earliest days of reggaeton. At the age of 17, De León left his home in Torres de Sabana, a housing project in Carolina, to break into the New York City music scene. He recalls spending hours sifting through hundreds of dancehall and hip-hop records in Manhattan music stores.

"I would always buy new records and take them back to Carolina, to DJ Playero and DJ Negro who were friends of mine," says de León. "It was music that no one had in Puerto Rico because we didn't have the internet." Back in Carolina, Playero and Negro were busy mixing the rhythms into a concoction they referred to as "música underground."

Ivy Queen recalls spending her teenage years listening to rappers like Das EFX, Onyx, Lil Kim and reggae singer Patra. Ivy Queen says that these black artists were some of her biggest musical influences, who she still carries in her music today.

Along with Ivy Queen, Don Chezina, another pioneer of the genre, was among the first to rap over a reggaeton beat. The reggaeton "riddim," consisting of sounds from the African diaspora, artfully fused together by DJ Playero and DJ Negro, had a bounce that was irresistable to the crowds that gathered in the illegal garage parties where Chezina would perform.

"The heart of our music comes from Africa," explains Chezina. He went on to name artists like Jamaican reggae singer Shabba Ranks and Panamanian MC El General as being among the first to develop the dembow rhythm, or, the drum pattern that became the building block of all reggaeton. Chezina's hit song " Tra Tra Tra" was one of the first reggaeton songs to ever reach global success, bringing the world's attention to the caseríos of Puerto Rico.

Even today, we continue to hear Jamaican reggae and dancehall music sampled in modern reggaeton music. "Murder She Wrote" by Chaka Demus & Pliers, for example, was sampled in at least 54 songs since the song first was released in 1992, including some of the biggest reggaeton hits like Pitbull's "El Taxi," "La Barría" by Wisin y Yandel, Daddy Yankee's "Shaky Shaky" and "Que Tire Pa'lante." What is even more noteworthy is that, according to music scholar Wayne Marshall, instrumental elements from Shabba Ranks' song "Dem Bow" have been used in over 80 percent of all reggaeton songs dating up to 2008.

Dr. Petra Rivera-Rideau, the author of Remixing Reggaeton: The Cultural Politics of Race in Puerto Rico, finds this a curious phenomenon; but says the erasure of black voices and faces from reggaeton is not unique to the genre. "The Latin music industry borrows heavily from Afro-Latino cultural practices, but privileges and prioritizes white Latino artists to perform them," says Rivera-Rideau. "And that's a historical pattern we've had."

Canales has firsthand experience with the racial dynamics at play in reggaeton. "One of the reasons I want to succeed and transcend with my music is because out of [all] the reggaetoneras around, not one has my appearance," says Canales. "Most of them look the way the industry says they're supposed to look. But in reality, you don't see a thousand Natti Natashas walking around [in Puerto Rico]."

During the peak of her career, Canales was working with the likes of Wisin y Yandel, Ivy Queen and Jowel y Randy. But overnight, her entire career fell apart following the imprisonment of her manager, Pablo "Calidoso" Delgado. Canales declined to give details of his incarceration.

"He was the only one who invested in me," explains Canales. "[After his arrest] I kept knocking on doors and nobody wanted to open them for me." Canales felt that this was, in part, due to racism.

"Racism exists [in the industry]," says de León. "Whoever says it doesn't is a liar." De León went on to describe witnessing different financial opportunities being afforded to artists based on color.

"People don't talk about the racism, they negate it. But it exists," Canales says. "I have a lot of talent but it's been so so hard for me. If I looked different, I would have done way more than what I've done." After a 10-year hiatus, Canales continues writing and releasing music under her pseudonym, La Sista.

Rivera-Rideau wonders what it is about Latino society that allows this "white-washing" to be acceptable. "No one bats an eye at it," she says. "And the people who do...are seen as people who don't know what they're talking about because we're so invested in this idea that [Latino] spaces don't have racism."

This can be attributed to a general denial of African heritage in Puerto Rico. According to the latest U.S. census data, over three-quarters of Puerto Ricans self-identified as white. "[There] is a lack of education," says Ivy Queen. "My relatives are black, my grandmother is black, most Puerto Ricans are black."

However, artists like Canales feel hopeful for the future of the genre.

"My path has been hard and what we are talking about in terms of prejudice is real," Canales explains. "But things are changing. We had a black Miss Universe, a black president, a corporation as big as Disney is casting more black actors. The world is seeing that there has to be equality."

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Maidel "La Sista" Canales vividly recalls the " reggaeton fever" of the Nineties. At 16, Canales and her brother, four years her senior, formed the rap duo "Los Brothers," performing in the streets of Loíza, Puerto Rico, during cultural festivals. "Everyone in Loíza wanted to be a reggaetonero," says Canales, now 36.

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Karol G is the latest artist to take the hot seat in Billboard 's series "Growing up Latino," where she sat down to talk all about her family traditions growing up, Colombian pride, plans for her future children and more.

At first, she got real about her English-speaking skills, saying she began to learn the language about two or three years ago. "I'm still learning English. It's hard because it's not my native language and I try to speak English with everybody and anywhere I can, but it's really hard," she says.

See latest videos, charts and news

She then talked about the "magic" Latinos have when it comes to creating music. "We're able to mix many different styles into one song," she says when asked what she wants non-Latinos to understand about the Latin culture. "People have noticed the explosion of Latin music around the world at the moment. I think it comes from our mix of distinctive styles, genres and artists together on a collaboration. We're able to give you a little bit of everything on one song."

When it comes to splurging, the "Mi Cama" singer admits she spends the most money when she travels. "What I really spend money on is finding a nice place to stay near the sea," she says. "When I go on trips, I like to have everything in one place. Someone to be in charge of the food, someone to keep things organized, and someone to attend to us. I need the house to be awesome, by the water, with all the amenities I need. That's what I spend the most money on, more than clothes or anything."

As for passing on her family traditions to her children, the Colombian star fesses up that she wants to have three or more kids. "Traditionally, my family members all had a lot of kids. Family gatherings were very important to me growing up. I have great memories of my cousins, aunts and uncles," she says. "Hopefully, I'll be able to make those gatherings myself. I think I'll be one of those moms that doesn't raise her kids with too much technology around because I didn't have much of that growing up. I was creative and played with what I had. I'd make houses out of cardboard boxes and things like that. I want the same for my kids, so I'll carry on that tradition."

Growing up as a Latina meant everything for the singer, who was born in Medellin, Colombia. "I feel very proud. I think Latinos have something in us that makes us special. We're extroverted and very friendly. And we're happy people. When we want something, we strive and work hard for it. That makes me proud to be a Latina. I'm proud to show the world. And especially Colombia. I'm from Medellin, Colombia, and that's something I'm very proud of," she concludes.

Watch the entire episode of Growing Up Latino above.

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Karol G Talks Childhood Traditions, Colombian Pride & More on 'Growing Up Latino'

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Karol G is the latest artist to take the hot seat in Billboard 's series "Growing up Latino," where she sat down to talk all about her family traditions growing up, Colombian pride, plans for her future children and more.

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catch Colombian singer Karol G in a rare moment of calm, while she is in a car on her way to a hotel. She has just landed in New York to film a music video, but home is Miami, she clarifies, the engine humming in the background. "I love it there because there are so many Latinos!"

Born Carolina Giraldo Navarro in Medellín, Karol G, 30, is one of Latin America's biggest pop stars, an expressive performer who uses beautiful hooks for lyrics that explore female desire and sexual agency - a rarity in the male-dominated Latin music scene, where, she says, women have historically been treated like "products".

With more than 32 million monthly listeners, she is among Spotify's Top 50 artists worldwide; the video to her first single from her new album KG0516, Tusa (a collaboration with Nicki Minaj), has been watched more than a billion times. Her success demands the sort of schedule where interviews are done in transit, and means she has attracted scrutiny, including for some misjudged comments about her continent's complex racial inequalities.

Having appeared on Colombia's X Factor, she made a name for herself with a string of singles in the late 2000s, but it was Ahora Me Llama (Now He Calls Me), with Puerto Rican star Bad Bunny, that brought her international attention in 2017. Streaming and globalisation are partly responsible for Latin pop's recent reach, Karol says, but mostly, the singer chalks the genre's success up to its magnetic appeal: "Latinos have such a fun, lively personality - you can feel it in [our] music."

Karol credits her family with catalysing her career. "My dad was in a band and wanted to be a singer, so we'd listen to songs he put on at home" - everything from salsa, to metal, to the Bee Gees, to vallenato, Colombia's take on country music. Father and daughter performed together at small shows: it made her realise that she wanted to pursue music professionally. "At first, I thought that it would be easier for me because there weren't many women in the industry, but when I started working I understood why things were the way they were."

Business executives made her feel inferior in those early years, leaving Karol baffled and angry. "As women - as humans more so than as women - we fall in love, we fall out of love; we have sex, we like it, or we don't; we make mistakes. Why should people ask me to limit how I express myself as a human just because I'm a woman?"

I ask why she thinks that kind of candour bothers people. The word that comes to my mind is machismo, though she wavers in agreement: Karol says she's 100% pro-women's rights, but sometimes fears that "dividing" society, be it by gender, race, or sexuality, isn't productive.

But isn't it even less productive to ignore the fact that certain divisions exist? Last summer, the Black Lives Matter protests spurred new conversations about race in the Latin music industry. Reggaeton and trap are rooted in Black culture, but many of the Latin artists profiting from these rhythms are white or light-skinned. It didn't help that many prominent Latinx artists' responses to the movement were tone-deaf, Karol G's included. In June, she sparked controversy when she tweeted a photo of her dog, citing its colouring as the "perfect" example of why black and white look beautiful together. She later said: "There is only one race and that is the human race."

"I acted in a really ignorant way," she confesses. "That somebody would discriminate against someone else because of the colour of their skin ... it's something I can't understand and that wasn't a part of my household." Karol says that because she comes from a country where "the percentage of racist people is so low it's almost imperceptible", she only realised the extent of the problem when she went to the US, where "things are different". After the post, she started "studying, looking into the history, watching videos [to] understand why people were feeling pain and anger, and understood a lot".

But Colombia, like the US, is a country with a violent racial past and present - something that Afro-Indigenous artists such as Lido Pimienta denounce. Is that something she came to realise? "Yes, I started researching because of what happened in the US, but later understood that it was a global problem." She cites examples of racism in Colombia, which only gained more exposure after the Black Lives Matter protests of 2020, but insists the situation there is "different", somehow.

Karol says the experience saddened her - "people really judged me, I lost a lot [of opportunities]". Her future seems bright, though. She's taking acting classes, working on building her own fashion and beauty brand. As the car approaches the hotel, I ask Karol what her goals are, short-term and long-term. "That's easy," she says. "I simply want to do it all."

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Karol G: 'Why should I limit how I express myself because I'm a woman?'

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catch Colombian singer Karol G in a rare moment of calm, while she is in a car on her way to a hotel. She has just landed in New York to film a music video, but home is Miami, she clarifies, the engine humming in the background.

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The feminist movement in Colombia has a long and complex history. Its collective political activities have constructed different subjects made up of multiple identities and political perspectives, yet they have always been united by their desire for peace and their spirit of revolt, writes Erika Rodríguez Gómez (LSE Centre for Women, Peace, and Security).
* Disponible también en español
In the context of the global fight against war, feminists have acted as peacebuilders and brought about negotiated political solutions to different armed conflicts by demanding commitments from the parties involved. They have also advocated not only for the consolidation of peace but also for the enhancement of rights and freedoms for women.

In the case of Colombia, feminists were responsible for the creation of a pioneering, unprecedented body, the Sub-Commission on Gender, as well as the inclusion of a gender focus in the Final Agreement, signed by the Colombian government and the FARC-EP guerrilla movement in November, 2016.

At the same time as these political peacebuilding activities have taken place, feminists have led a struggle for recognition and redistribution around ideals of justice in the economic, political, and cultural domain of women, its ultimate goal being the overthrow of the patriarchal system.

Thus, feminism in Colombia came to be known as such from the era of the struggle for the right to vote in the mid-twentieth century, ushering in what is known from the Western social science perspective as the first wave of feminism, or the suffrage movement. The historical understanding of this social movement as a series of waves or stages has proven to be helpful in situating women's struggles chronologically in the context of other emancipatory struggles triggered by other social movements, and in the context of the development of industrialised societies in Europe and North America. However, it has also proven to be misleading and overly linear when analysing contexts and subjects as different as those of Latin America, for example.

In that regard, Colombian women's struggle for citizenship coincided with the initial signs of the emergence of the armed conflict, in which was present not only the controversy concerning political participation, but also the need for redistribution of land tenure. Moreover, what became the second feminist wave (from the seventies to the nineties), in which women began to politicise their bodies and express their sexuality more freely, unfolded in a country with a growing armed conflict where counter-insurgency policies began to be implemented and violence began to intensify. The most important sphere in which this violence occurred was precisely women's bodies.

As well as demanding the right to control their own bodies, Colombian women who formed part of the second wave had to begin to understand the nature of patriarchal violence and make it a priority for both the state and social organisations. Right from the early nineties, when the conflict began to escalate and the world started to focus its attention on gender issues, Colombian women had gained a good deal of experience in demanding peace without abandoning their revolt. They came to understand that they could be subjects with the ability to take decisions concerning their own bodies, and that the exercise of violence, whether as part of or external to the armed conflict, as a realisation of the patriarchal system, created significant obstacles in their lives.

The third wave of feminism arrived with a new constitutional charter (in 1991) which enshrined equality for women in its text but failed to resolve Colombia's social, political, and armed conflict, which at that time involved guerrillas, paramilitaries, and security forces fighting for territorial control. Women began to specialise in advocating peace and demanding a negotiated political settlement to the conflict, as well as constructing discourses and practices centred on this objective. The culmination of this stage came with the signing of the final agreement. Women were involved in and able to influence this process to a significant degree (if not as negotiators than at least as participants) thanks to civil-society roles that enabled the positioning of women's issues and a gender focus.

Their reach was such that the variegated rebelliousness of women from many arenas could converge in the development of the peace process: feminists in the world of academia, in social organisations, in government, and in the rebel movement have been exchanging ideas and opinions for the last four years. In the new FARC-EP political movement, female guerrilla fighters are positioning insurgent feminism as a revolutionary ethical-political concept of reality underpinning their struggle both inside and outside the party.

If we recall the inaugural Conference of Latin American Feminists (Bogotá, 1981), which brought together at least 200 feminists from across the region to exchange ideas on women's liberation, the main topic of debate at that time - and a constant for the last thirty years - was the tension between identifying as a feminist and belonging to a mixed-gender, left-wing political party.

The debate again became public when female members of FARC-EP presented their Thesis on Woman and Gender at the party's founding conference, as the guerrilla movement had been widely perceived as a patriarchal military structure where women were never anything but victims.

It is important to recognise the legitimacy of women in the guerrilla movement telling their own stories using their own reference points and creating spaces to develop a wide-ranging feminism. Being a feminist necessarily means being a rebel. It means being uncomfortable with the asymmetrical forms of power that shape our public and private lives.

But peace is not immune to such power. It is an unfinished process which has yet to transform patriarchal structures. The building of this more holistic peace is a task that all of us, men and women alike, must take on together.

Notes:
* The views expressed here are of the authors rather than the Centre or the LSE
* Please read our Comments Policy before commenting

About the author

Posted In: Gender | Peace in Colombia | Society

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From suffrage to insurgency, female rebelliousness has always been crucial to peace in Colombia | LSE Latin America and Caribbean

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The feminist movement in Colombia has a long and complex history. Its collective political activities have constructed different subjects made up of multiple identities and political perspectives, yet they have always been united by their desire for peace and their spirit of revolt, writes Erika Rodríguez Gómez (LSE Centre for Women, Peace, and Security).

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Colombian women’s and feminist movements in the peace negotiation process in Havana:complexities of the struggle for peace in transitional contexts

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Scitrus annotations are shutting down early May

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Kali Uchis: ‘I’m An Artist In Every Sense Of The Word’ | Bandwidth

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It’s somewhat surprising that the rising singer, rapper, and producer Kali Uchis has spent much of her life in the humble suburbs of Northern Virginia. Her style seems sourced from somewhere between Beverly Hills and South Central Los Angeles, and her music—a mix of doo-wop, R&B, and hip-hop—doesn’t…

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Fresh from performing live on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, Kali Uchis has announced details of her debut album 'Isolation'.

Appearing live on the late night telly show last night (Wednesday 14th March), Kali performed her recent hit 'After The Storm' and was joined by collaborator Tyler, The Creator. It was then that she confirmed that her first full-length will be released on 6th April via Virgin EMI.

The album's set to follow on from her 'Por Vida' EP - which was released in 2015 - and will include her aforementioned single, along with previous hits 'Nuestro Planeta' featuring Reykon and 'Tyrant' featuring Jorja Smith.

Last year we caught up with Kali to talk about her eclectic pop and doing it all on her own terms. Read the full interview here and watch her performance from The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon below.

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Kali Uchis announces debut album 'Isolation'

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Fresh from performing live on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, Kali Uchis has announced details of her debut album 'Isolation'. Appearing live on the late night telly show last night (Wednesday 14th March), Kali performed her recent hit 'After The Storm' and was joined by collaborator Tyler, The Creator.

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Reggaeton seems to have taken the world by storm in 2017, particularly in the wake of the global mega-hit that was . Colombia might not be the home of reggaeton, but there are excellent reggaeton artists throughout the country nonetheless, from established global superstars to hungry up-and-comers. So here are 10 Colombian reggaeton artists you should be listening to.

The Colombian reggaeton artist who really needs no introduction: the hit machine that is J. Balvin. This Medellin-born reggaeton superstar has a number of massive hits to his name, including 6 AM, Ay Vamos and, of course, the global smash hit This last track solidified J. Balvin's reputation as the hottest artist in reggaeton right now: it was the number one song in the world in August according to the Spotify Global Top 50, and the remix featuring Beyonce reached the US Top 10.

Another Medellin reggaeton artist with a strong global reputation, Maluma is more of a reggaeton singer than a rapper, but that doesn't mean he hasn't been responsible for some absolutely huge tunes! Credited with evolving the reggaeton genre thanks to his broader musical interests - including mambo and merengue - Maluma's music is naturally indebted to reggaeton, but there's a lot more to him as an artist.

Kevin Roldán was born in Cali and has been performing since he was just 13 years old. With a string of hits to his name - including Salgamos, Una Noche Mas and Me Matas - he is particularly beloved by a number of football players. He was invited to Cristiano Ronaldo's birthday party and has been mentioned by James Rodriguez and Gerard Pique, among others.

Farina is one of the pioneers of the reggaeton genre in Colombia and, in a genre largely dominated by male artists, was one of the first women to make reggaeton songs in the entire country. She has been making popular songs since back in 2005, but remains active to this day, being nominated as an Artist of Tomorrow at the 2016 Grammy Awards, as well as signing for Roc Nation Latin in 2017.

Feid is a young reggaeton singer and songwriter: he may have only started his singing career back in 2015, but reggaeton aficionados will surely be familiar with some of his lyrics. Remember J. Balvin's massive hit Ginza and it's instantly iconic chorus: "Si te gusta el reggaeton..." - Feid was one of the composers of the track and has also written songs for Nicky Jam, Alberto Style, Magnate and Valentino y Reykon, along with his own solo material.

At just 17 years of age, Manuel Turizo - born and raised in the Caribbean coastal city of Monteria, before relocating to Colombian reggaeton mecca Medellin in 2016 - is the talented wunderkind of Colombian reggaeton, and is surely on the path to superstardom. His 2016 single Una lady como tú was the track that really broke him into the mainstream, and it currently has almost half-a-billion views on YouTube!

Although Legarda was born in the Colombian city of Barranquilla, he moved to Atlanta 15 years ago, and the influence of the US city's hip-hop and R&B scene on his music and style is unmistakable. One of the more eclectic Colombian reggaeton artists out there today, his remix version of J. Balvin's Ay vamos led to a deal with Sony Records, a move back to Colombia, and a few million views on the video for his single Ya Estoy Mejor.

Born in the Coffee Region city of Pereira, Jaycob Duque is another Colombian reggaeton artist who started young and has since made big waves in the Colombian music scene. His first single A Fuego Lento featured popular Puerto Rican reggaeton artist Arcangel: quite the coup for a young artist just starting out on the scene.

Valenti had quite the itinerant childhood: born to an Italian father and Colombian mother, he spent his early years moving between Milan and Medellin. He was also a talented footballer, playing for Medellin side Envigado, and even the reserve team for AC Milan. He then decided to give music a go, and his debut single Muévete Así came out earlier this year and featured a cameo from veteran artist Cheka.

At just 25 years of age, Karol G is the great female hope in a genre that is still overwhelmingly dominated by male artists and perspectives. She may have started out as a contestant in a children's reality TV talent show, but don't write her off. Since 2012 she has collaborated with such reggaeton luminaries as Reykon, De la Ghetto, Ozuna and Nicky Jam, and has well over 60 million YouTube views, making her easily the most well-known and respected new female artists in Colombian reggaeton.

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10 Colombian Reggaeton Artists You Should Be Listening To

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Reggaeton seems to have taken the world by storm in 2017, particularly in the wake of the global mega-hit that was . Colombia might not be the home of reggaeton, but there are excellent reggaeton artists throughout the country nonetheless, from established global superstars to hungry up-and-comers.

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Reggaeton may have originated in Puerto Rico in the 1990s, but the hip-hop influenced genre has found a natural home in Colombia in recent years, and many people are calling Colombia the world capital of reggaeton right now. Following the genre's breakout global year in 2017, we take a look at why Colombia is now the world capital of reggaeton.

Reggaeton is not a Colombian musical genre. Although the South American country is responsible for many exciting genres, including champeta, cumbia, vallenato and palenque, reggaeton was actually born in Puerto Rico. Although there is some debate as to its exact origins, most people agree that it began in San Juan, the capital of Puerto Rico, in the early 90s, when DJs like DJ Playero and DJ Nelson began fusing hip-hop with Latin American music. It was known back then as 'underground' music and really began to grow in popularity in Puerto Rico in the early 2000s, by which time it had become part of Puerto Rican culture, in spite of efforts to ban it for obscenity in the mid-90s.

In 2004, reggaeton began the slow process of crossing over into global culture. Artists like Tego Calderon and Daddy Yankee received US airplay, and a broadening range of artists began to fuse reggaeton with other genres to create fusion tracks which helped to cement its growing appeal in Europe and North America. However, it wasn't until last year that reggaeton truly crashed the mainstream music party, spurred on by the monstrous chart-topping success of Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee's 'Despacito', a track which has sold over three million copies and is already one of the bestselling Latin singles in the United States.

So where does Colombia come into the story? For many years, fans and aficionados of reggaeton had quietly been calling Colombia, and particularly Medellín, one of the most important places for the reggaeton movement. However, it wasn't until 2017, with the global success of the genre, that people truly started to realise that Colombia was now producing some of the best reggaeton artists and songs out there.

This was spurred on by the huge success of J Balvin, whose mega chart-topping hit 'Mi Gente'was the song that finally knocked 'Despacito' off its perch. The track topped Spotify's global chart in August, and went on to remain in that spot for a further 14 weeks. The video has since racked up over 1.6 billion views on YouTube. At the same time, another of Balvin's Colombian reggaeton contemporaries, Maluma, was celebrating over a billion views of his track 'Felices los 4'. Colombian reggaeton had truly taken over.

It's no surprise that reggaeton would find a natural home in Colombia: it's a country of myriad tropical music genres, whose biggest artists have often experimented with diverse musical forms and fusions to create exciting and modern music. Puerto Rico may have been the birthplace of reggaeton, but it is Colombia where the genre has moved forward to exciting new places, fusing diverse genres to create something like the Latin American version of dancehall.

For that, and many more reasons, Colombia is clearly the world reggaeton capital right now, and we can only sit back and wait for what surprises Colombia's creative exponents of the genre have in store for us in 2018.

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Why is Colombia the World Capital of Reggaeton Right Now?

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Reggaeton may have originated in Puerto Rico in the 1990s, but the hip-hop influenced genre has found a natural home in Colombia in recent years, and many people are calling Colombia the world capital of reggaeton right now. Following the genre's breakout global year in 2017, we take a look at why Colombia is now the world capital of reggaeton.

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Becky G, KAROL G - MAMIII (Official Video)

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Official website of MALUMA. Find all the information about the urban artist here. Music, videos, events, merchandising and more!

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Kali Uchis went from sleeping rough in the back of her car to working with Gorillaz and Snoop Dogg. The Colombian-American star tells us the story of her hard-won success.

At the age of 17, Kali Uchis was thrown out of her parents' house for repeatedly breaking her curfew.

For months she lived out of her car, staying with friends when she could and working in a grocery store to make ends meet.

Her rebellious streak first started to cause problems two years earlier, when she'd begun skipping class to spend time making experimental short films and working on her music.

It makes the lyrics to the opening song on her latest album, Isolation, particularly fitting.

"There's no tracking where I'm going," she sings on Body Language.

It's not just a boast, it's a promise - one that's fulfilled by the wild profusion of ideas she presents over the following 50 minutes.

The album glides effortlessly between soul, bossa nova, reggaeton, Cumbia, bedroom pop and elastic funk - all wrapped up in Uchis' sun-baked, jazzy vocals.

It's a reflection of her open-minded approach to music, which all began with her father's job.

"My dad managed apartment complexes and a lot of people, when they would leave the apartments they would leave their old music behind," she explains.

"So my dad would bring me home little boxes of CDs sometimes. That's how I found out about Kenna [Zemedkun, Ethiopian-American musician], and there was a group called Cerar who were super-weird, almost demonic.

"I'm pretty sure they were putting some type of curse on me, but I would still listen to it."

Kali deliberately sought out the strange and obscure - the more bizarre the better.

"I wanted to feel like music was my secret," she says. "I wouldn't want to just turn the radio on and everyone be singing the same song as me."

That musical curiosity fuelled her own songwriting, to the point where she's suspicious of singers who stick with a single style.

"To just have one aesthetic or one thing you sing about is a little bit gimmicky," she decrees.

As you might have noticed, Kali Uchis is not lacking in confidence.

She's funny, smart and friendly too - but carries the hard-won determination of a woman who's had to fight for her place in the world.

Born Karly-Marina Loaiza in Virginia, she was raised in her parents' native Colombia before violence forced them to flee back to the US in 2000.

Home life was often chaotic, with her parents and four older siblings joined by a rotating cast of relatives who'd come from Pereira to find work.

Her father would get them jobs as cleaners and construction workers on the properties he managed. When money was tight, he'd rope his daughter in too.

"I was caulking and putting up dry-walls," she says. "We all did it, me and my brothers and everyone - construction and auto-mechanic repairs.

"I had no problem at all with hard work."

In school she played saxophone and piano, eventually becoming first chair of the jazz band.

But it was around this time her rebellious streak started to surface, with her parents eventually throwing her out as a result of her class-skipping and curfew-breaking.

She's since reconciled with her family - Kali Uchis is a nickname her father gave her - but the experience taught her to be self-reliant.

"It was kind of like, 'You are your own saviour,'" she says.

"People look so much to others for validation, for support, for comfort: 'Do I look okay? Is this too desperate? Am I good enough? Am I good enough?'

"If you're good enough for yourself, then you're good enough."

Shortly after moving back into her old bedroom, in August 2012, the teenager summoned up the courage to post some of her music online.

"I made 17 songs in one night," she recalls. "I didn't really expect anyone to hear it."

But her lo-fi mixtape, Drunken Babble, caught the attention of people like Snoop Dogg, Gorillaz and and Tyler, the Creator, who invited her to appear on their albums.

Her next releases, Ridin' Round and Know What I Want, racked up more than 10 million views on YouTube. But the singer was still outside the mainstream.

Typically, it didn't bother her.

"Numbers lie," she says. "Some of these people who have hit songs, they're paying hundreds of thousands of dollars to get played on the radio every five minutes - but they can't sell out the venues that I'm selling out.

"My fans will stay with me no matter what. They don't care about me just because of a hit song."

Those fans sustained her during the laborious, three-year process of recording her debut album.

They're all over her Instagram, leaving comments in their thousands as she posts pages from her notebook and updates on her braces alongside the usual parade of selfies and concert footage.

"I like to be able to let my fans into my life," she says. "To connect with them in a personal way and not just have them see the parts you want them to see."

But is that openness compatible with her self-professed desire for privacy? After all, her album is called Isolation, and one of her previous singles carries the refrain: "I'd rather be a loner."

"I guess it's just finding a balance," she says. "I give my phone to my assistant a lot and she lets me know if there's a text message that I need to answer."

Sometimes, she says, "I don't even want the phone to touch me. It can become really addictive and really distracting."

Instead she throws herself into her career - not just making music but styling her photo shoots and directing her videos. In other words, she's building her own world.

Many of her songs revolve around the desire to have it all, without giving anything away. As she sings on Miami, " Why would I be Kim?/I could be Kanye."

"It's not a jab at Kim," the singer stresses. "It's more about being a creative person. Although Kim is an entrepreneur, I think it's fair to say she is not creative."

Elsewhere her lyrics dwell on the idea of travel and escape, reflecting a childhood desire to rise above her circumstance.

She makes the connection most directly on Teeth In Your Neck - a diatribe against the system that traps immigrants in a cycle of poverty.

"My entire childhood I watched everyone around me lose their lives to trying to make money," she says of the relatives who worked day and night in the US to support families in Colombia.

"So you get to know that your kid is ok and that they're eating, but you don't get to actually be at any of their birthday parties or see them graduate.

Her upbringing has given her a perspective on success that many of her contemporaries lack.

"I make a lot of sacrifices in my career but I'm really thankful that I'm not doing something that makes me miserable.

"Now I'm going to be able to invest in myself, to train myself to be a better performer. I don't think there's any time to be afraid or be safe."

Like she says, there's no tracking where she's going.

Isolation is out now.

Follow us on Facebook, on Twitter @BBCNewsEnts, or on Instagram at bbcnewsents. If you have a story suggestion email entertainment.news@bbc.co.uk.

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How Kali Uchis went from living out of a car to pop stardom

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Kali Uchis went from sleeping rough in the back of her car to working with Gorillaz and Snoop Dogg. The Colombian-American star tells us the story of her hard-won success. At the age of 17, Kali Uchis was thrown out of her parents' house for repeatedly breaking her curfew.

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The last thing that Pamela Lorduy remembers from June 8, 2019 was having an argument with her boyfriend at the time. The following day, she woke up in hospital. She had broken her pelvis in six places, three ribs, four vertebrae, her tibia, fibula, heel bone, ankle, sacrum, and humerus bone.

Lorduy, now 29, believes her ex-boyfriend of 14 years pushed her off the ninth-floor balcony of the home they shared in Envigado, a town south of Colombia's second-largest city, Medellín. Envigado is in the department of Antioquia, home to the country's most dangerous municipalities for women.

The year of Lorduy's attempted murder, one Colombian woman became a victim of violence at the hands of her partner or ex-partner every 13 minutes, according to Sisma Mujer, an organization that works with victims of gender-based violence.

Today, the administrative analyst still suffers from chronic pain, limited mobility, depression, and anxiety, while her ex-partner-after spending 540 days in preventive prison-now walks the streets a free man, having exceeded the legal timeframe for pre-trial detention. His trial is yet to take place.

In 2020, more than 90 percent of family violence cases against women in Colombia remained in the "inquiry" stage, and only seven percent went to trial, according to Sisma Mujer.

"The justice system in this country doesn't work," Lorduy said.

Marta Restrepo, a member of Colombia's first nationwide feminist political movement, Estamos Listas, believes that the existing justice system fails women. "The feminist presence on the interior of the justice system ... is practically absent," she said.

In its current form, according to Restrepo, "the state is occupied by those who insist on maintaining women in a position of subordination and maintaining men in a position of impunity."

Estamos Listas, or "We're Ready," is a grassroots movement born in Medellín in 2019 building a feminist democracy by redistributing power and wealth and achieving justice for women. One of its main priorities is to combat violence against women in Colombia. Estamos Listas is currently endorsing Francia Márquez and Angela Robledo, two progressive feminist precandidates who will run in next year's presidential elections.

Feminists in Colombia, Restrepo believes, are at an inflection point. Responding to the state's failure to serve them, they have spent years building alternative political worlds through independent, non-governmental organizations. But not engaging with the political system means patriarchy still defines the state.

"What Estamos Listas has proposed to Colombia and its feminists is to occupy the state," Restrepo said. "We see no other alternative."

The organization recently decided to expand its current base of 800 active members nationwide. They hope to recruit a diverse range of women from another 120 municipalities across Colombia to join the movement. As Estamos Listas is not connected to a political party, the movement is currently collecting a list of signatures to gain representation in the Colombian Senate as an independent political movement.

April 5, Estamos Listas held the country's first National Feminist Convention, inviting precandidates Márquez, a human rights and environmental activist, and Congresswoman Robledo. Instead of Colombia's largest cities such as Bogotá or Medellín, they chose Honda, Tolima, for the event-a small town in central Colombia that connects the country's peripheral departments, to reflect their aim of decentralizing politics.

Márquez is a well-known social leader from a village in Cauca, a victim of Colombia's half-century-long armed conflict, and the winner of the 2018 Goldman Environmental Prize. Robledo is a congresswoman, previously for the center-left Green Alliance in Bogotá and was the running mate of leftist candidate Gustavo Petro in the 2016 presidential elections.

Márquez will be running independently for president, through the political movement Soy Porque Somos (I am because we are). Robledo will be running with the center-left Hope Coalition, comprised of the Green Alliance, and five other centrist and leftist politicians. Although the two women will compete against each other for the presidency, they both, along with Estamos Listas, share a common goal: to feminize the state.

Through their endorsement of Márquez and Robledo's presidential candidacies at the National Convention, Estamos Listas formed part of a "pact" of progressive female politicians and the Colombian feminists who will vote for them.

This social and political pact, explained Restrepo, will give citizens the ability to advance structural change. "And this is only possible if we remove this minority from political power," she said.

Since Dora Saldarriaga became the Estamos Listas representative for Medellín's city council in 2019, the movement has pioneered campaigns to track down disappeared women, support the families of feminicide victims, and reduce soaring levels of violence against women.

Their members, or "militants," wear purple neckerchiefs to identify themselves around the city. They fight to change the unequal power dynamics between women and men in all areas of society and put women's lives at the political center, as opposed to economics or private property.

According to Restrepo, the movement's manifesto focuses on recognizing the gradual decline of the state, acknowledging the political and economic value of reproductive and care-orientated work, defending life, and opposing the anti-rights agenda.

"The advancement of an anti-rights agenda is a fundamental nod to those backward political sectors who want us to retreat in what we have earned through years of fighting, not only for women, but also for sexual and gender diversity, and for the groups historically deprived of power in our country-Afro-Colombians, Indigenous people, rural farmers, and the working class," Restrepo said.

The women who experience the highest levels of violence in Colombia are racialized, explained Márquez in an interview.

"As an Afro-descendant woman, I want to aim for the precedency and vie for a position that has been a place of privilege for white men," she said. "I represent the voices of some women who, although they don't stand out in feminism, are taking action against the injustice we live through in society."

Violence Against Women in Colombia

According to Colombia's Feminicide Observatory, so far in 2021 there have been 106 feminicides. The United Nations defines feminicides as homicides of women killed by gender violence. Last year, there were 630 feminicides, an increase of more than 10 percent from 2019. However, the ethnicity of the victim was only specified in 125 cases during 2020.

Restrepo believes the "tremendous deficit" in information systems for reporting these crimes is due to state corruption and a lack of coordination between government agencies, which often restrict access to these databases.

In Colombia, violence against women also goes underreported because it is normalized, dissuading women from speaking out, explained a recent Sisma Mujer report. State institutions often stigmatize or revictimize women, meaning they refrain from telling their stories out of fear.

"I feel a responsibility to raise my voice for the other women who couldn't raise theirs," said Lorduy. "I'm raising mine for me and for all of them."

Like in Lorduy's case, the majority of violence against women happens in the home, and according to Sisma Mujer, mostly at the hands of a partner. For Adriana Benjumea, Director of Corporación Humanas Colombia, a research center that works to defend women's rights, these numbers are a cause for concern because the home should be a safe space for women.

While women were confined to their homes during the pandemic, violence against them worsened. From March 2020 to February 2021, calls to Colombia's domestic violence helpline increased by approximately 85 percent.

In a recent report on the impact of the pandemic on women across the world, the United Nations attributes this increase to five factors: security, health and money worries, cramped living conditions, isolation with abusers, movement restrictions, and deserted public spaces.

But in Colombia, Benjumea believes prevention fell short. "During the pandemic, the Colombian government was late in generating a rapid response to reports of violence against women," she pointed out.

In Latin America, the pandemic has also set back women's participation in the labor market by a decade, according to the United Nations.

"This sector of society ... is the weakest link in the chain," said Benjumea. "They're the women who used to work in domestic service and were laid off, the sex workers unable to work during the pandemic, the female informal workers," she reeled off the list.

City Councilwoman Saldarriaga believes the only way to remedy the gender pay gap is through political determination. Márquez hopes to drive this change.

"Economic empowerment driven by public policies that put care for life at the center is a priority," Márquez said.

But before she can do this, Márquez believes she must heal the wounds of Colombia's armed conflict first. "Armed conflict has served as a distraction for the state to avoid concentrating its actions on its basic purpose," she said.

Restrepo of Estamos Listas says that it is significant that two women will run for president and Colombian feminists must rally behind them. Estamos Listas is hoping to build the necessary political and strategic unity to overcome the barriers to a woman being elected.

"It will be the biggest ever bet to change the hegemonic power structures," said Saldarriaga, reflecting on the prospect of a feminist presidency. "It would be the first time that two women ... would change the discourse of war that we have heard for so many years for a discourse of life, one which structurally modifies inequality."
Sophie Foggin is a freelance journalist based in Medellín, Colombia covering human rights, politics, and gender issues in Latin America.

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Feminist Political Movement Organizes for Change in Colombia

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The last thing that Pamela Lorduy remembers from June 8, 2019 was having an argument with her boyfriend at the time. The following day, she woke up in hospital. She had broken her pelvis in six places, three ribs, four vertebrae, her tibia, fibula, heel bone, ankle, sacrum, and humerus bone.

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A Billboard Led Karol G Back into Music | The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon

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SCENE REPORT Colombia's Rap Scene is On the Rise By Martin Cordova · April 01, 2020
In the back half of the last decade, hip-hop culture achieved mainstream saturation in South America. It's not that there wasn't rap music in the region before-artists like Tiro de Gracia, from Chile, and Argentinian rapper Emanero, made waves and earned fans-but it always felt niche. Now, the beats have gotten stronger, the bars fiercer, and the crowds larger.

The recent rise of hip-hop in South America was fueled by both rap battles and the ascent of trap music. The former have become a fixture of Latin hip-hop culture, particularly in Mexico, Argentina, Chile, and Peru; the biggest names in the battles-like Trueno or El Menor-are proper top-tier celebrities. The 18-year-old Trueno, for example, has the most viewed freestyle on YouTube: His sixth BZRP Freestyle Session has logged an impressive 88 million views. (For context: Eminem's much-discussed BET cypher from two years ago comes in at 50 million.)

And while the region is home to a bevy of styles-trap, for example, has gained particularly strong foothold in Argentina-in Colombia, rappers like to keep things more old-school. The Colombian scene loves boom-bap, and holds to ruthlessly high standards. Seductive beats, jaw-dropping bars, and serious wordplay all make for a scene that's overflowing with talent, even if it has yet to command attention from international audiences and media outlets. The country's hip-hop scene has always coalesced around a single talent. In the '90s, it was La Etnnia. In the last two decades, Alcolirykoz, from Medellín, have been the torchbearers. Other groups, like No Rules Clan and Doble Porcion have also helped to shape the new wave of Colombian rap.

Colombian journalist Santiago Cembrano has described this new era in Colombian rap as "La epoca del rap de acá." That's also the title of his book, where he explores Colombia's new rap movement in depth. It's a must-read for any Spanish-speaking hip-hop fan who wants to go deep into one of the most inspiring contemporary hip-hop scenes.

Here are five Colombian rappers sure to thrill true hip-hop heads.

Hailing from Colombia's capital of Bogotá, N. Hardem is one of the city's most unorthodox rappers. His flow is laid-back but firm, and his shy voice gains confidence as he raps. He's also not afraid to lay bars over more experimental beats. Both aesthetically and sonically, Hardem stands out in a city that's used to more direct and hard-hitting rappers. His 2018 LP with Las Hermanas, , was his strongest effort to date, and his most recent single " Free Play aka Orbe, " with its hallucinogenic R&B backdrop and tongue-twisting verses, is proof of his musical adventurousness.

Sabez, born Sebastián Hurtado, an underground rapper from the city of Cali, has been making music for almost five years. His lyrics are centered around the idea of competition, depicting him as a rapper who turns a critical eye on the current scene. In 2019, he released Defectos de sonido, an album marked by defiantly lo-fi production and Hurtado's heavy accent and driving flow. The icy beats in songs like "Tierra de nadie" or "In da building" are the perfect complement to Hurtado's deep, resonant voice.

Luis7Lunes is a medical school graduate who's pursuing a career as a psychiatrist, but he continues to rap part time. His voice is raw and captivating, and his writing style is unique: In his songs, Luis depicts rap as a sport, making clever and vivid comparisons between the two disciplines. His 2018 LP El Armador del Sol (a wink to the Phoenix Suns' Steve Nash) takes the comparison even further, with songs like "Roger Federer," and the title track, where he compares his skills and timing to Nash on the court. With simple but precise beats courtesy of VicDeal, the album is great material for hip-hop lovers who appreciate good rapping and powerful bars.

Previously known as Rapiphero-and, before that, as El Magno-Noiseferatu's latest name signaled a new phase to his career. The Medellín rapper's self-titled 2018 debut was one of the year's most-anticipated releases. Noiseferatu has been active since the early '10s-a member of groups like Izquierdos Reservados-but had mostly been involved in collabs or joint projects. This was the first time he'd stepped out on his own. The album's greyscale, horror-fantasy cover and the record's shadowy beats create a dark and introspective atmosphere, and the rapper's lyrics follow suit. "Papele$" is essentially the Colombian version of Joey Bada$$'s "Paper Trails;" here, the San Antonio rapper critiques the economic and social systems around him, referencing money, power, and hypocrisy. Noiseferatu has a way with clever comparisons; on "Sincretismo," he spits, "Hablo este idioma como Hans Landa, cualquier otro detecto sus Gorlamis de gringo/ Es imaginar a lo Lennon, bajo perfil como Ringo."

In Colombia, artists who opt to experiment with trap beats have been heavily criticized; but Ángel Dumile has managed to make a name for himself regardless. (He was even picked by Santiago Cembrano as his 2020 bet for Shock Magazine.) With two EPs and a handful of singles to his name, Dumile has shown his peers that if you have the talent, the type of beat you're rapping over is secondary, and that it's possible to pay homage to hip-hop's history even when you're not strictly keeping it boom-bap. He's shown his skills in a more classic way too: On " Colores " a simple beat and a jazz sample sets off Dumile's casual but confident flow, as he confesses his feelings for hip-hop: "El rap es más que un género, me generó diferentes sensaciones en mi vientre/ Me puedes entender si me miras frente a frente."

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SCENE REPORT Colombia's Rap Scene is On the Rise By Martin Cordova · April 01, 2020 In the back half of the last decade, hip-hop culture achieved mainstream saturation in South America. It's not that there wasn't rap music in the region before-artists like Tiro de Gracia, from Chile, and Argentinian rapper Emanero, made waves and earned fans-but it always felt niche.

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R eggaeton began organically as a transformation of dancehall, hip-hop, and reggae en español. As an afro-diasporic movement, Panama, Puerto Rico, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic, and New York are all pivotal landscapes in the style's musical evolution. Through Tu Pum Pum: The Story of Reggaeton, a column by Eduardo Cepeda, we'll explore reggaeton's history, sociopolitical struggles, and its impact as a global force in music and culture.

Bad Bunny isn't the only household urbano name whose career began in a grocery store. Years before El Conejo Malo went from packing verduras to packing stadiums, a young boy who would later take the stage as Nicky Jam also hustled for tips while busting freestyles for curious grocery shoppers. What Nicky didn't know then is that his success during reggaeton's first big ascent wouldn't be his only legacy. He'd first hit rock-bottom, but the Puerto Rican singer would eventually re-emerge as one of the key figures in a new wave of Colombian reggaeton that drove the genre's second major surge.

By the mid-2000s, Nicky Jam's once-promising career fizzled. After a very public beef, his former mentor Daddy Yankee no longer considered the young reggaetonero a friend, and drug and alcohol abuse derailed his opportunities. Jam withdrew from the spotlight and took a job as a hotel lounge singer to pay the bills. His addictions destroyed what was left of his career, and soon after, a late 2000s stint in prison for carjacking seemed to finally finish the job.

Maluma and SagaWhiteBlack. GIF by Alan Lopez for Remezcla

However, when all hope seemed lost, Jam noticed something. Colombians were listening to his old tracks in overwhelming numbers. Sensing a clear opportunity, he kicked the vices and made the trek to Colombia, where it seemed as though his stardom never faltered. What he found was a bustling local reggaeton industry, comprised of future star songwriters and producers like the Infinity Music crew, Saga WhiteBlack, Chez Tom, the Rude Boyz, and Ovy on the Drums, among others. In the beginning, artists like Final y Shako, Reykon, Golpe a Golpe - then J Balvin and Karol G - propelled the scene in Medellín. Radio stations like Tropicana and Rumba Estereo, and labels like Codiscos, which helped re-establish Nicky Jam, provided an infrastructure that helped early Colombian reggaeton artists navigate the industry.

At the time, Colombian reggaeton had a heavier, Luny Tunes-inspired sound, but Nicky embraced melody, a product of the hotel gig that forced him to develop his talents as a vocalist. The country received Jam with open arms, and a copacetic relationship quickly formed. Colombia gave Jam an attentive following and he gave Colombia reggaeton legitimacy.

One of the biggest breakthrough moments for the movement came in 2013, when J Balvin released his single "6 AM" featuring Farruko. The song peaked at No. 3 on the Billboard Hot Latin charts, and catapulted the then 27-year-old singer to newfound international fame. Artists like Karol G and Maluma soon found their own major success, and a movement gradually emerged out of Colombia.

Sky Rompiendo and J Balvin. GIF by Alan Lopez for Remezcla

The new Colombian reggaeton sound developed in the mid-aughts in Medellín, having gradually evolved from copy-and-paste versions of the popular Puerto Rican reggaeton of the time into a more dancehall-derived sound. This shift coincided with the Mode Up movement, a creolized version of Jamaican dancehall that sprouted up on the northern islands of Colombia around 2005. English colonizers once ruled these islands, so San Andres and Isla de Providencia's relationship to Anglophone Caribbean music remains strong. Through the Mode Up movement, artists like S.A. Finest, DJ Buxxi, and Bogotá's El Freaky Colectivo quickly rose in the underground global bass scene, and could have eventually filtered into the mainstream sound.

With the softer, glossier sound, these artists have found an opening to try to capitalize on urbano.

Whatever the source, mainstream Colombian reggaeton marked a softening of the perreo that had once ruled the charts. The new brand of reggaeton traded hard-hitting dembow with more velvety riddims and also toned down the lyrical content by focusing on romantic lyrics. "Our audience is so broad that we have to make videos where women look beautiful and conservative and are treated with respect, because the videos are seen by kids and adults. Other reggaetoneros who do what they do are targeting one audience. They don't have the same responsibility we do," said J Balvin in a 2017 interview with Billboard.

This was in stark contrast to the reggaeton of the early 90s, which often found itself mired in negative attention from the media and the Puerto Rican government. As we've discussed before, while early underground found its footing, Puerto Rican lawmakers tried to stomp it out. One of the chief complaints was that the lyrics associated with the young, burgeoning genre promoted violence, rampant sexuality, and drug use.

Karol G. GIF by Alan Lopez for Remezcla

Perhaps the Colombian approach was one of self-preservation - or simply shrewd business acumen. Whatever the intentions, the results were undeniable: reggaeton found itself in the spotlight again, and this time, the easily palatable sound made the genre an attractive pivot for artists, something that has sparked controversy, as outsiders in the music industry have used reggaeton as cultural capital to re-energize their careers.

Turn-of-the-century reggaeton saw Shakira and Alejandro Sanz dabble in the genre, and in recent months, Latin American pop stars like Thalia and Gloria Trevi have jumped on the dembow wagon. With the softer, glossier sound, these artists have found an opening to try to capitalize on urbano, without any of the added baggage the original, harder-edged sound often brought. While this new iteration of reggaeton has certainly led to pandering by opportunistic pop merchants, it's also created new stars like Balvin, Karol G, Feid, and Farina, among others.

Colombia's new reggaeton wave can be perceived as a sanded-down, pop-oriented sound, and a shift from the genre's black roots. It's a common story in the music industry: marginalized genres gain popularity, and they inevitably go through feeding frenzies, in which white and lighter-skinned artists often receive an unbalanced share of the attention and praise. And yet, the Colombian movement has simultaneously helped bring the spotlight back on the genre. Emerging artists from other countries have benefitted from the increased attention and resources from major labels and streaming platforms, even while the Saturday Night Fever-ization of reggaeton caters to an audience that could never be bothered with the genre to begin with.

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The Rise of Colombian Reggaeton and Perreo's Pop Transformation

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R eggaeton began organically as a transformation of dancehall, hip-hop, and reggae en español. As an afro-diasporic movement, Panama, Puerto Rico, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic, and New York are all pivotal landscapes in the style's musical evolution.

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Brothers Gonzalo, left, and Walter Queragama started their rap group, Embera Warra, two years ago, hoping to preserve Embera culture and stories [Andres Buitrago/Al Jazeera]

Bogota, Colombia - Under the sweltering Andean sun, Walter Queragama walked several kilometres late last month from Ciudad Bolivar, a poor neighbourhood in the south of the Colombian capital, to Bogota's National Park.

There, he and hundreds of Indigenous Embera people, displaced from their homes amid a coronavirus-related economic crisis and forced from their traditional lands by continuing violence, planned to camp out to demand housing and jobs.

As government subsidies offered as part of a COVID-19 relief package run out, the families - many of whom held infants in their arms - said they have nowhere to go.

"Today, we're going to rest," Queragama, a 21-year-old rapper from Alto Andagueda in northwest Colombia, sang in his native Ebera Bedea language, as the crowd walked to the downtown park on September 29, drops of perspiration forming on his face. "Today, we aren't going to dialogue [with the government] because we're too tired."

Queragama and his 23-year-old brother Gonzalo, co-creators of the rap group Embera Warra, or "Sons of the People", said the displacement and resistance of the Embera people serve as inspiration for their art - and rap is the way they have chosen to tell their community's stories.

"We have many stories - of history, of culture, of displacement," Walter recently told Al Jazeera at the makeshift campsite where hundreds have set up tents and cooked outdoors over campfires. "We have to tell all these stories and send a message."

Violence-fuelled displacement

A 2016 peace deal between Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) rebels and the Colombian government promised to end 52 years of conflict, but many Indigenous communities including the Embera have yet to experience peace.

The Embera people, divided between Colombia and Panama, live in remote riverside and mountain communities across the Pacific coast and the jungles of northwestern Colombia. About 50,000 people belonging to the Embera tribe, which consists of Chami, Katio, Dobida and Eperara Siapidara people, are at risk of extinction, according to a high court decision in 2009.

Thousands have been uprooted by continuing violence between the state and paramilitary groups and rebel fighters and forced to live in cities where food, housing, and employment are hard to find. The government has said more than 2,500 have resettled in Bogota since 2012.

But as the conflict lingers, and as Colombia experienced one of its most violent years in recent memory in 2020, hundreds more are expected to arrive.

"Displacement has wreaked havoc for the spiritual and cultural lives of our youth," said Higinio Obispo, a leader of the Eperara Siapidara people, part of the Embera tribe. "These youth want to manifest what publicly goes unsaid. They've found they can do this through music."

One of the first to use rap was Linaje Originarios, a duo of brothers Brayan and Dairon Tascon from an Indigenous community in Valparaiso. They released their first single in 2016. Condor Pasa became a surprise hit, receiving tens of thousands of views on YouTube and launching them to stardom.

It also set a precedent in the country, demonstrating that music based on Embera teachings and performed in the community's native dialect could also be commercially popular.

'Get to know our experiences'

The Queragama brothers have followed in their footsteps, while also expanding the boundaries of rap storytelling in Embera. Their music dives into aspects of their culture, but mostly focuses on their experiences as youth displaced by the armed conflict.

Last year, they released the song, Displaced, while sleeping in tents in downtown Bogota. About 300 families slept outdoors for four months while they waited for government aid. Women who made a living selling beaded jewellery in the streets had been forced indoors by the COVID-19 quarantine, and without an income, entire families were evicted from their homes.

Although some returned to their ancestral lands, many, including Walter and Gonzalo, said clashes between the National Liberation Army (ELN) - Colombia's largest remaining armed group - and the military have continued to put their towns in danger.

The government of President Ivan Duque deployed extra security forces this year to sites of high displacement and offered security guarantees for Embera community members to return to their traditional lands. The federal government offered general aid to Colombians during the pandemic, as well as specific housing support to displaced Embera people.

But many Embera have said that they are afraid to return to their communities, and in the meantime, the Bogota mayor's office is offering temporary housing and grocery assistance to those who remain in the city.

"The government doesn't care about us, Indigenous people, while we are in our territory," the Queragama brothers rap in, Displaced. "That's one of the reasons for our displacement."

These realities have often gone under-reported, added Gonzalo, which can be frustrating for Embera youth who seek representation in the media and support from their compatriots. "We rap so that Colombians, our country, can get to know our experiences, how we live, so that they can support us and help us improve our conditions," said Gonzalo.

Women take the mic

Meanwhile, Embera women have rarely been heard in rap songs, but that is slowly changing.

Gloria Patricia Ahise, a 23-year-old rapper known as Wera Fono, signed with the Selva Records label this year after releasing the song, Michi, which advocates against gender-based violence both within Embera communities and society at large.

"I want people to know that abuse is not OK," Ahise told Al Jazeera in an interview at an unfinished brick building in Bogota where she rents a room with her husband and her three-year-old daughter.

Ahise was displaced at three months old when armed groups killed her grandfather in Risaralda province, west of the capital, where she was born. Since then, she has lived in what are called "pagadiarios", communal living spaces in city peripheries where residents make daily rent payments.

"There you see a lot of abuse," said Ahise. "Embera couples come to Bogota to scrape a living and flee the violence in their territory, but on top of that, the husband is also abusing his wife."

As the first woman to rap in Embera, Ahise - who pairs her vibrant beaded necklaces and traditional dress with Nike Air Force 1 sneakers - had no female role models to rely on. But despite the challenge that created, she regularly practised her flow in hopes of inspiring others.

"It's a bit hard to rap. It takes a lot of patience to combine the music with the lyrics and to sing quickly," she said. "But mostly, I want other Embera people to see me and think, 'I can do it, too.'"

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Meet the Indigenous artists rapping for change in Colombia

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Bogota, Colombia - Under the sweltering Andean sun, Walter Queragama walked several kilometres late last month from Ciudad Bolivar, a poor neighbourhood in the south of the Colombian capital, to Bogota's National Park.

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Rap folklórico palenquero represents the voice of the people, says Andris Padilla Julio, leader of the Afro-Colombian hip-hop group Kombilesa Mi. The crew rapidly switches between Spanish and another language - but it is not English, the international language of hip-hop.

The other language is Palenquero, one of the two creole languages native to Colombia. There are 68 indigenous languages in the country, and many of them are under threat of going extinct from "pressure to assimilate" or Colombia's long-running internal conflict with drug cartels and paramilitary forces.

Palenquero traces its linguistic roots to the Bantu language family native to sub-Saharan Africa, and includes influence from several romance languages as well. It is centuries old, and hip-hop might help it survive further into the 21st Century.

"At one point, Palenquero was considered poorly spoken Spanish, and because of that, people felt bad and decided not to speak it," says Padilla Julio, who goes by the name Afro Netto. A grassroots revival in the latter half of the 20th Century sought to fight these negative stereotypes while at the same time re-establishing the language among the town's roughly 3,500 inhabitants.

Similarly, Kombilesa Mi places an emphasis on language and identity through its music, partly making Palenquero words and phrases accessible to audiences. "If we want people to learn how to say goodbye, we do it by singing, adding some rhythm, and people enjoy that," says Padilla Julia. This common didactic approach also explains why, for Padilla Julio, hip-hop is such a natural foundation for a rap version of folklórico palenquero: "With hip-hop, people can dance but they also listen, and since I'm interested in delivering a message... hip-hop allows me to do that and that's why I love it."

Adapting the rhythmic elements of hip-hop to traditional Palenque music and instruments cements it into the community. Though ultimately, it is hip-hop's legacy as a form of social protest that gives rap folklórico palenquero its sense of immediacy. "People see in us [Kombilesa Mi] that courage, that voice of support, that voice of protest, struggle," adds Padilla Julio. "And the way that we're using hip-hop, we're not just protesting, but making ourselves stronger, too." This is important given both the social context and history of San Basilio de Palenque, a town of 3500 people at the base of the Montes de María and the home of Kombilesa Mi.

Kombilesa Mi ("my friends" in Palenquero) was formed in 2011 and boasts nine members. The group released their debut album Así es Palenque in 2016, recording in San Basilio de Palenque's first and only music studio. Along the way, they've forged relationships with Afro-Colombian groups doing similar work in other cities across Colombia, such as Rostros Urbanos in Buenaventura and Son Batá in Medellín. Kombilesa Mi also has a strong presence, says Padilla Julio, among the Palenque diaspora in the capital Bogotá. In addition, the group has toured abroad, establishing rap folklórico palenquero not just as a musical genre, but a broader social movement connecting past to present for audiences both inside and outside Palenque.

For centuries, San Basilio de Palenque has been a symbol of resistance, one that shines through in its language, culture, and identity. The small town is known historically as the first free settlement in the Americas; escaped African slaves bound for Colombian plantations settled the town in the 17th Century and were granted their freedom in perpetuity in the 18th Century after nearly a century of fighting Spanish colonialists. It's the only settlement of its kind that survives into the present.

As a result, In 2005, Unesco recognised San Basilio de Palenque by adding it to the List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Kombilesa Mi have dedicated themselves to preserving this legacy, in the same way it was passed on to the group's members. "That's what our teachers used to tell us, that Palenque culture goes from generation to generation," says Padilla Julio.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, for example, workshops on language, hairstyling, and community identity are held. On the remaining weekdays, the groups offers music and dance classes. "We do this so that the kids can grow up with a solid identity," says Guillermo Camacho, manager of Kombilesa Mi. "Our work is to strengthen Palenquero identity through music and language has always been an element that's allowed us to strengthen our community." The group also works on community murals, which often feature phrases in Palenquero.

Rap folklórico palenquero is at the heart of these initiatives. As such, hip-hop has been embraced into the community in a big way, especially among the youth, says Padilla Julio. This, he explains, is a byproduct of its fusion with Palenque culture and tradition rather than prior attempts to imitate hip-hop from other countries, such as Venezuela, Cuba, or the United States. Above all, rap folklórico palenquero has helped the community learn that hip-hop is a genre that encourages its listeners to "raise your voice and protest".

For Camacho, this ability to question the status quo resonates with the lives of Palenque speakers, from poor water and electric systems to cultural appropriation. "What does it mean to be free when you don't have access to education, to healthcare, to good jobs?" he asks. "What does freedom mean when they discriminate against you because of the colour of your skin?"

Though longstanding, these systemic issues - to an extent - are magnified following the 2016 peace accords, which ended a 52-year insurgency by guerrilla rebels from the left-wing Farc. "The problem isn't just the guerrilla," says Camacho. There are other forms of violence wrought against the community, racism and discrimination notwithstanding. Camacho adds that the ongoing murder of social activists and leaders in Afro and Indigenous communities - hundreds since the 2016 deal - is nothing new. "It's better to take away our path, because we are awakening other communities, other leaders," says Padilla Julio. That is why music has become such a powerful tool.

Kombilesa Mi are currently preparing for the release of their second album, entitled Esa Palenquera. A celebration of women and their contributions to Palenque, the album was recorded in the mountains of Minca, at the studio of producer Cristián Castaño.

The change of scenery coincided with an overall shift to a more organic sound. There are no guitars, nor digital instruments, just rap folklórico palenquero in its purest form, with tracks named for traditional dances such as Mapalé and Pica Pica, or a popular traditional beverage in the case of Ñeque. Others, such as No Más Siscriminación, carry an explicit social message. Los Peinados, in turn, takes a didactic approach, instructing the listener on the history of routes braided into the hair of escaped slaves, with a reference to Los Montes de María where the first palenque settlements were established.

In the end, each of these kinds of tracks fulfills the purpose of rap folklórico palenquero. "This is what the town's residents have been looking for a long time," says Padilla Julio, "a way for the younger generation to guarantee, in part, the future of San Basilio de Palenque's traditions."

More on BBC Music's greatest hip-hop songs of all time:
The 25 greatest hip-hop songs of all time
What critics had to say about the top 10
Full list of critics who participated - and how they voted
Trends and surprises in the poll ( not available in UK)
Why are there so few women in hip-hop polls?
Playlist of the top 25 songs ( Spotify)

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How hip-hop is saving a dying Colombian language

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In Colombia's historic town of San Basilio de Palenque, hip-hop is helping resurrect a local language in danger of dying out.

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Karol G needed one very important thing to make the jump from a childhood in Medellin, Colombia to a career that-with its signature blend of reggaetón, trap, and pop-now has ears and eyes on it around the entire world: Grit. "My personal struggle included many challenges, many roadblocks" she says. "People didn't believe that a woman should be a part of the urban music scene. I had to have a personality that was immune to all of that. I had to defend my work." You sense from the artist, part of this year's Spotify RISE Program, that she's felt that she's had to work that much harder to make a splash in this explosive generation of Latin music, which, thus far, has been often represented by male figureheads like J Balvin, Bad Bunny, and Luis Fonsi. "So many things were frustrating that it was difficult to pinpoint who I was as an artist, because I didn't know if I should sing things to fit in or to sing things that truly represent who I am as a person," she says.

Thankfully, she chose the latter, as you will hear on her 2017 debut album, the aptly-titled Unstoppable. Writing across every song on the record, Karol G (born Carolina Giraldo Navarro) has crafted a heady blend of trap beats, reggaetón rhythms, and pop hooks, all with a feminist, confessional twist in the lyrics, like the addictive "A Ella," which gracefully offers a warning shot to other women about the cheating ways of her ex. "It was time to start talking about new things, things that would cater to and work for women. I am open to discussing anything," she says. She's also held her own in a number of collaborations which have raised her profile, including songs with Ozuna, Major Lazer, and Quavo, always with her eyes on the prize. "If you are smart, you are able to get the most out of every single collaboration, to learn from these artists who have been in the industry longer than you. Tricks for career longevity, or just humanity and humility," she says.

In many ways, the astronomical rise of Colombian artist Karol G-and, indeed, Latin music more generally, which is currently dominating charts around the planet-is not possible without streaming, which is why she is so excited to be a part of Spotify's RISE Program, an artist development program that will help her find an even bigger audience by, among a number of things, creating an original documentary ("24 Hours on the RISE") with her and linking her up with collaborators for recording sessions ("RISE Recordings"). "I developed my career at the exact same time as digital platforms were developing, and it's allowed me to be global, even to connect with fans in remote countries," she says. And as she says here, that fight-the battle for world domination, with help from Spotify RISE -is just beginning.

You write most of your music and it can be quite personal. Why is that important to you?

The only thing you used to hear out on the street were lyrics from men about women. I didn't know if I should sing things to fit in or to sing things that truly represent who I am as a person. I began telling my side of the story-the woman's side. I talk about love, heartbreak, parties, happiness, infidelity, empowerment. I like to create songs that discuss realities so that people can identify with them. I love it when men can identify, and I love it when women listen and say, 'That is exactly what happened to me!' That's the main reason why I discuss any topic without censoring myself. We women get angry. We want to dance, drink, and have fun. We have been unfaithful and people have been unfaithful to us. We feel. And I want to discuss all of that in my songs.

Latin music has gone through such a revolution in the last five or so years. As someone who has blended reggaetón with pop and trap music, what's your sense of where Latin music is in 2018?

We are living in a very beautiful moment when the barriers have been broken. It feels like there are no more taboos, no more roadblocks. The biggest Anglo artists are collaborating with Latin artists. Latin hits are taking over the world, and they're making everyone dance without caring where they're from.

I'm happy to see that reggaetón and urban music have gone through a transformation. Reggaetón, to me, is no longer such a specific genre. It has many fusions: different rhythms, different instruments, collaborations with artists across genres. [Some] urban music started off with obscene lyrics about partying, drugs, and sex, and it even led to women being seen in a demeaning way. With time, we've started to see much deeper lyrics-and even positive messages-that have helped reggaetón rise to a global level.

I think that that future of Latin music is simply free expression. Trap music is real and that is exactly why it's taking the world and the genre by storm right now. But I also don't believe that we will forget the flavor and variety of other Latin rhythms. I believe the future is variety and happiness.

How did you want to capture yourself in the music you recorded for the Spotify RISE Program?

I wanted people to feel that I am an empowered woman, a fighter, and someone with a strong personality, but also someone who is still sensitive and loving. Streaming has given me the opportunity to connect with other artists, to connect with my fans, which is something magnificent. It fills you with joy and gives you the strength to keep producing great content for the world to enjoy.

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Karol G Is an Unstoppable Force in Latin Music

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Karol G needed one very important thing to make the jump from a childhood in Medellin, Colombia to a career that-with its signature blend of reggaetón, trap, and pop-now has ears and eyes on it around the entire world: Grit. "My personal struggle included many challenges, many roadblocks" she says.

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Kali Uchis – telepatía [Official Music Video]

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The Yepes women (L to R): Sofia, Flor, the Granny Rapper, the Mommy Rapper, and Melany in their home in Barrio Pablo Escobar. Photo by Angelika Albaladejo.

Medellín-Margoth Yepes has a rapper persona as fiery as the red shock of hair that spills down her shoulder. Since she started spitting rhymes seven years ago, the 45-year-old mother of two has been better known among family, friends, and neighbors as La Mamá Rapera (the "Mommy Rapper").

When Yepes took on the moniker in 2011, her family and community had been grappling with gang violence in their hillside slum in Colombia's second-largest city Medellín, where turf wars had taken root in the years following the most infamous urban military operation of the country's five-decade conflict. Yepes' family managed to survive the displacement and other traumas that had left hundreds of their neighbors injured, killed, or disappeared. Then, her teenage son began losing friends to gang rivalries, and he was contemplating revenge. What they needed was "a form of resistance."
'Conscious rap'
The Yepes family call their style "conscious rap," which they describe as a tool for all disadvantaged Colombians to share their lived experiences, raise awareness of the issues facing their community and suggest alternatives. Their songs range from empowering anthems for women's rights to reflections on the conflict.

Although hip-hop used to have a bad rap in Medellín's marginalized neighborhoods, perceptions had shifted in recent years as local rappers began to work with young people, encouraging them to stay away from gangs and take action in their communities. Luis Fernando Álvarez, who goes by the rapper name A.K.A., stood out among the emerging leaders. As the founder of what he calls an " agrarian hip-hop collective," Álvarez looks just as comfortable tending the soil as he does laying down tracks in the studio with his signature style of baggy jeans, big earrings, and a bandana draped across his head. When they met seven years ago, Yepes was intrigued by A.K.A.'s style and started taking her son to spend time with the collective, which was later dubbed "AgroArte." A.K.A. was outspoken about the injustices of the conflict, as well as the gangs now battling for control, which inevitably led to death threats and his displacement. "But the movement got stronger," Yepes says. "Now there was resistance. We realized we were doing something good with the kids. So, I started to support them."

Soon after, she introduced her nephew to the collective. Then, her mother, daughter, sister, and nieces all joined too. Yepes' sister Flor Yepes Ramírez, who has seven children of her own, joined with her daughters 15-year-old Sofia and nine-year-old Ana, who perform with their aunt and 12-year-old cousin Melany. "I wasn't just a mom anymore," says the Mommy Rapper. "I was a mother who did things, who tried to help the kids reflect and gain strength. I was trying to change their minds about what a mom is or what rap is."

"Our pain and what happened to us made us think in a stronger way and decide to change things," says Yepes' sister Flor Yepes Ramírez.
The pain of displacement
During the height of Colombia's conflict, Flor and Margoth's mother-who is also named Margoth but is affectionately known as La Abuela Rapera (the "Granny Rapper")-lost her right leg to a landmine, forcing her out of the rural mountainside and into the city. There, her family survived the atrocities of Operation Orion, Colombia's largest urban military intervention, only to have their lives threatened again by paramilitaries and by drug traffickers, whom the Yepes sisters say are the direct descendants of Escobar's Medellín Cartel.

The first time Flor and her children were displaced, they were living on an "invisible border" delineating the territorial control of rival gangs. "The gang in that area came and told me my two oldest sons were of age to pick up arms. I said, 'I'm sorry, but I'm the mom here. I'm the one in charge of this household and my sons won't be picking up any arms. So, no,'" she recalls. She'd succeeded in keeping her sons out of the gang. They lived. But a barrage of death threats forced them to flee.

Flor and Margoth's family has been displaced several more times since then, due in large part to their outspoken role in the community and their refusal to allow their children to be recruited into gangs. The pain of displacement dominates their lyrics and has haunted them for decades.
Taking root somewhere new
Now, the extended family of 14 lives together in a compact brick house in Pablo Escobar's namesake neighborhood. Although the sisters say they've found it particularly difficult "starting from zero," they've decided to channel their "frustrations, rage, and powerlessness" into transforming their new home. Over the last five months, the family has created a new identity: oriundas ("natives"), an ironic nod to their displacement and that of many of their neighbors. "The idea is that no matter where we go, we're going to plant our seed, our essence, and value the place," says the Mommy Rapper.

In their new neighborhood, the Yepes family has already attracted more than a dozen young people, with ambitions to reach "the whole nuclear family" and build community. The Granny Rapper, who describes herself as "respect, love, advice," remains a draw for community members, young and old, who seek counseling and help writing rap lyrics. She remains firm in her belief that young people hold Colombia's future in their hands and that community action will turn peace-minded youths into leaders. "They kill leaders every day. It makes your heart hurt," she says through tears. "They are giving their lives. But we have to do it."

On a recent tour of her old neighborhood, the Mommy Rapper guided a group of youths past flourishing gardens, vibrant murals and the purple house where the Yepes family used to gather with their collective. The kids' eyes lit up, she says, with dreams of transforming their own community.

Through their persistence, the Yepes family hopes that the image and reality of Medellín will evolve away from its violent reputation, "to show children that we can have a different city."

More articles by Category:Feminism,International,Violence against women
More articles by Tag:Colombia,Conflict,Gang violence

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Three generations of Colombian women rap to transform Medellín - Women's Media Center

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Medellín-Margoth Yepes has a rapper persona as fiery as the red shock of hair that spills down her shoulder. Since she started spitting rhymes seven years ago, the 45-year-old mother of two has been better known among family, friends, and neighbors as La Mamá Rapera (the "Mommy Rapper").

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Last March, the Colombian singer Karol G was just weeks away from finalizing an album she'd been working on for months. The songs had been mixed and the album images had been shot. Then, one afternoon, she was sitting at home in Miami, going through all of her past work and everything she'd accomplished as an artist. The new record had been made during one of the most hectic periods of her life: She'd been touring and celebrating the smash success of her 2019 hit "Tusa," so she'd scraped together concepts in hotels and scribbled lyrics on planes. "I feel like this project is cool, but something is missing. It doesn't have a base," she remembers telling one of her closest friends. She realized that she wanted to toss the entire thing. "I said, 'No. I need to refocus, I need to start over."

Within days, she had. "It was heavy because obviously, there had been so much time involved," says Karol, 30. "Literally, everything we had done ended up in the past." When Covid hit, it gave her time to dive headlong into research and work on nothing but her music. She studied sounds from the '70s that her parents loved, as well as the qualities she admires most in her own favorite pop acts - Beyoncé's airtight production, Rihanna's natural delivery, Lady Gaga's wild aesthetics. She tried producing for the first time, and soon, she had an entirely new set of songs to share with the members of her team, who were just as excited as she was. "I feel blessed that I'm surrounded by people that believe 100 percent in my vision and my ideas," she says.

Karol G shares all of this on a Zoom call while she's sitting in the sun on her parents' farm in Llano Grande, just outside of Medellín, Colombia. Her hair is dyed a jolting mermaid-blue, standing out against the lush green grass that feeds her family's mini-pig, Lupita, who is lurking out of frame. ("She's a medium-pig now!" Karol jokes. "She's getting big.") It's early February, and it's the first time Karol has been to Colombia in more than a year, since the pandemic struck. She's enjoying some time off before she starts releasing a string of singles off of her new album, KG0516, which comes out on March 25th. This time around, it's a project she fully believes in.

Karol calls the album the product of her experiences during the Covid-19 era. It was a difficult period for her: She says it pained her to see how much devastation the virus caused as people lost their loved ones and their livelihoods. She was worried about what would happen in the music industry and in her own career; before the pandemic, she felt like she'd been at the top of her game, and then it all came to a screeching halt. "I felt like I had lost my moment," she says. Then, in the summer, she and her assistant came down with bad cases of Covid-19 themselves. The news that she was sick leaked in Colombia, and her mother called her in tears after being hounded by the press.

One way she got through it all was by watching the videos friends sent her of quarantined people around the world blasting "Tusa" from their balconies. Karol was so moved when she saw the first one that she cried. "Even people who don't know my face, who don't know me, who don't know my name, they're feeling something," she recalls thinking. As the clips kept pouring in, they re-energized Karol, especially while she worked on new music. "I took everything bad that was happening to me and turned the page 180 degrees," she says. "I was like, 'I'm Karol G, the one from 'Tusa'! The one with the superhit! I need to bring this attitude into everything I do from now on!'"

But although 2020 taught Karol to take a more empowered approach to her work, there have been other personal reckonings for her. Last June, following the police killing of George Floyd, Karol posted a picture of her black-and-white dog, Goku, on Instagram. "The perfect example that Black and White TOGETHER look beautiful," she wrote in a caption that was called out across the Internet as completely tone-deaf. Some people pointed out that the image was especially harmful given that Karol has borrowed aesthetics and built a career on music created by Black communities. The incident also underscored the ways that white and light-skinned Latin stars, whom the industry has prioritized in genres started by Black artists, have been unprepared to discuss race and Black Lives Matter.

Karol deleted the post and says she understood the criticism, given the gravity of the conversation. "I was like, 'I'm so stupid,'" she remembers. Ultimately, she sees the experience as something that pushed her into more awareness. "At the end of the day, I feel like [2020] was a year of a lot of wake-up calls," she explains. "Not just for me, but for a lot of humanity - of opening our eyes and going, 'Okay. Life gave us a pause so that we can understand that so much needs to change,' and ultimately, that's a positive thing."

How those changes actually play out in the industry and in artists' future work is something audiences are waiting to see, for Karol and for many other acts. Comments about appropriation resurfaced earlier this month, when Karol debuted the cover of KG0516, in which she wears braids and stands next to the model Quinten Barnard, who is almost entirely nude. In an email, Karol didn't respond to questions about the cover critiques, but said she wanted to do "something different" for the cover art and praised photographer David LaChapelle for "taking the idea to the next level." (She also said she hopes to continue deepening her understanding of the struggle against racism: "I'm aware that I will never be able to talk about these causes in a way of experience, but I can better educate myself in these topics.")

On the new album, she's embraced new genres and sounds more fully than she has before. The first single, "Location," features a country-inspired riff and verses from her fellow Colombian J Balvin and the Puerto Rican rapper Anuel AA. Especially after scrapping the last album, she explains that wanted to be intentional about each detail. She spent hours tinkering with programming software to get just the right sound or samples. If she couldn't get the specific artist she wanted for a song, she threw it out. While the tracklist includes collaborations with Ludacris, Emilee, and Nicki Minaj, most of her guests are from Latin America. She proudly mentions a few "legends" who represent people she'd been dying to get in the studio - likely a reference to "Leyendas," the album's closer, with Ivy Queen, Nicky Jam, Wisin & Yandel, Zion, and Alberto Stylee.

Most importantly, Karol thinks these songs are closer to representing who she is as an artist. "I'm not making all these crossovers and fusions so that my music reaches a ton of people," she says. "It's that I love all types of music and sounds, and ultimately, that's what I want to express to people.... There are a lot of feelings, a lot of flows, and a little bit of everything."

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Last March, the Colombian singer Karol G was just weeks away from finalizing an album she'd been working on for months. The songs had been mixed and the album images had been shot. Then, one afternoon, she was sitting at home in Miami, going through all of her past work and everything she'd accomplished as an artist.

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Karol G: la guerrera del género | Rueda de prensa

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The following story is one of Billboard 's two 2021 Latin issue covers, dated Sept. 18, 2021. To read the other cover story on Daddy Yankee, click here.

2020 was supposed to be Karol G's year.

As she rang in the New Year, she was still riding the high of "Tusa," a triumphant team-up with Nicki Minaj that marked a number of milestones. It was the first Latin song with all women artists to reach a billion streams on Spotify, and it was also the first song with a female lead artist to debut atop Billboard's Hot Latin Songs chart since 2016. Yes, 2020 was off to a great start for Karol G - she was regularly collaborating with stars both within Latin music (J Balvin, Ozuna, Anuel AA) and well beyond it (Jonas Brothers, Damian Marley), seemingly destined for crossover success and mainstream fame. And then - well, you can guess what happened next.

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As the COVID-19 pandemic shut down parts of the music business, along with the rest of the world, the artist born Carolina Giraldo Navarro started to worry she had lost momentum. "I was feeling all this pressure because I thought, 'I will never be able to top 'Tusa.' I feel blocked,' " she says while sipping a cappuccino at Fi'Lia, a hip brunch spot in Miami's bustling Brickell neighborhood. Though she's trying to fly under the radar on this July day, her wavy hair, dyed a mermaid teal, makes her hard to miss. "I stopped making music and told my team to take advantage of this song as much as we could because I would probably be a one-hit wonder," she continues. "All my concerts were canceled. I thought everything was over. I became depressed, and it's a feeling I don't ever wish on anybody."

But after spending the first two months of the pandemic doing "absolutely nothing," the 30-year-old did something unusual: She started watching old interviews she gave and listening to old songs she had written. She was impressed by how fearless her younger self was, and that turned out to be exactly what she needed to pull herself out of her funk. She grows teary as she recalls her early days scraping together a career back in Medellín, Colombia. "It's hard to explain," she says, "but I fell in love with myself all over again."

Karol G already had plenty to be proud of. Although she is not the first female artist to find success in reggaetón - Ivy Queen helped pioneer the genre in the 1990s and early 2000s - Karol has achieved an astounding level of success in a particularly male-dominated field. She has amassed 1.2 billion on-demand U.S. streams, according to MRC Data; scored a dozen top 10 hits on the Hot Latin Songs chart; and won best new artist at the 2018 Latin Grammy Awards. Still, she has yet to achieve the type of global mainstream stardom that her male counterparts - like Balvin and Bad Bunny - have enjoyed in the last few years. As language and genre barriers have dissolved in the streaming era, other assumptions about what female Latin artists can achieve, and how they can get there, have been harder to shake.

"For a long time, we used to think men owned this genre, but we were completely wrong," says Puerto Rican radio personality Jorge Pabón, better known as Molusco. "The thing was that our ear wasn't fully developed, and we didn't want to hear a woman singing reggaetón. There were times when I was in a car with other people and a reggaetón song by a female artist would come on the radio, and someone would quickly change the station. Now, there are women like Karol G who are defying this machismo culture that still exists today. They all have talent - and the right to be part of this genre."

Today, having vanquished her self-doubt, a fired-up Karol G is ready to take her career even higher - and prove she's so much more than just reggaetón's current leading lady. In March, she released her ambitious, genre-hopping third album, KG0516, which debuted at No. 1 on the Top Latin Albums chart - dethroning Bad Bunny's El Último Tour del Mundo and earning the biggest debut week by a female Latin act since Shakira's El Dorado in 2017. (The album also reached a career-best No. 20 on the all-genre Billboard 200 chart.) In October, she'll embark on her first headlining North American tour, which includes two sold-out shows at the Coliseo in San Juan, Puerto Rico - one of the most important venues for reggaetón acts to play - then perform back-to-back stadium shows in December at Medellín's Estadio Atanasio Girardot. It's all a dream come true for an artist who has been plotting a path to stardom since she was a teenager.

"The artists of today don't want the process, they want immediate results, and the problem is that a building without a solid foundation will fall," says Karol. "The opportunities haven't always been there. But from the very beginning, I imagined myself as this huge artist. I thank God that I got to go through visiting little towns to personally hand out my CDs, knocking on doors. Because I can now sit with authority and proudly say, 'I'm here because I worked hard.' It wasn't easy, but I'm here."

Conquering the music industry is only the start of her ambitions in entertainment, though. She envisions herself as a multihyphenate, just like her idols, Rihanna and Selena; she even has tattoos of the pop star and the late Tejano icon on her right arm. "I'm super focused on becoming an entrepreneur, launching a makeup brand, clothing lines and making my debut on the big screen," says Karol. "I want to see how far I can get as an artist and as a businesswoman. I want to be at a point in my life when I can say, 'I've done it all, there's nothing else I can do.' "

It's a mission she takes very seriously: Right next to the Rihanna and Selena tattoos is one of her own face.

Karol G was 18 years old when she considered quitting the music business. In 2007, following an unsuccessful audition for Colombia's X Factor equivalent, she signed a multiyear recording contract with Puerto Rican label Diamond Music. She recorded some songs, but after two years, she says she hadn't seen much success for her efforts. (Diamond Music could not be reached for comment.) That's when her manager-father, Guillermo Giraldo - known to her fans as Papá G - decided to buy out the contract. "It was a bad contract," Karol says now, "but we also didn't know much about what was a good or bad contract back then."

Feeling lost and defeated, Karol sought a fresh start in New York, where she planned to study marketing. But one day, while riding the subway, she noticed an ad for a music-business conference in Boston and couldn't resist giving it one more try. "I attended the conference and that's when I knew: I really do love music, and I can actually make a living off this and look at it as my own business," she says. "I went back home with this new knowledge, and that's when I made a commitment to myself to give music another chance. My dad and I created a home studio where I started writing and recording songs."

That ignited a spark: She started to think of herself as more than just an artist and stopped waiting around for her big break. While studying music at the University of Antioquia, she released songs independently and played every stage she could book - nightclubs, colleges, festivals. She also realized that collaborations and male co-signs could make careers in reggaetón, so she became a savvy networker. She worked as a backup singer for Reykon and approached Balvin and Nicky Jam at different events in hopes of getting into the studio with them. They would eventually become some of her biggest champions. "I was at a show in Medellín, and she asked me if she could hop on the stage with me - and she did," remembers Nicky Jam, who later collaborated with her on the R&B-tinged 2013 track "Amor de Dos." "Even back then, she was a dreamer. She had a clear vision of what she wanted and has worked relentlessly to achieve it."

It was also during this time that she made perhaps her most important connection yet - with producer Ovy on the Drums, who would become her closest collaborator and produce most of her solo music to date. He was impressed by her hustle early on. "We hit it off right away," says the producer (real name: Daniel Echavarría Oviedo). "I loved her energy, her mentality, and that motivated me to propose an idea. I told her, 'I'd love it if you gave me the opportunity to be your producer and become a team like Maluma with the Rude Boyz and J Balvin with Sky [Rompiendo].' I knew Karol would be a major artist, and I wanted to be part of her team."

Karol credits Ovy with helping her sharpen her songwriting skills to match her mainstream ambitions. "When I started writing music, I had no idea how to make something 'commercial,' " she says. "I would write whatever came to mind, and then Ovy would add the instruments, and that was that. But I knew that if I wanted to be part of the industry, I had to learn how to write a song that would be more commercial."

That work soon began to pay off. In 2015, after realizing that she and Papá G "were going in circles and needed someone else to help us get to the next level," she signed a management deal with Alex Rodriguez, a former label manager for Universal Music Latino who had stumbled upon one of her videos on YouTube. She also signed a recording deal with Universal Music Latino after a group of executives - including Angel Kaminsky, Aldo Gonzalez and Jesús López - recognized her potential and the way she stood out as a female reggaetón act.

"She was on my radar as a rising star in Colombia," says Kaminsky, now president of Universal Music Latino. "J Balvin, whom I was already working with, told me she was going to be the 'next big one.' The first time I saw her was at a Universal new artist showcase in Miami, where I was fully impressed by her energy, her vibe and performance, and her [dedication to being] the leading female voice in Latin urban music."

Though she had the Universal Music Group machinery behind her, Karol didn't have to change much to break through. She and Ovy wrote and produced her 2017 debut, Unstoppable, almost entirely by themselves. The project debuted at No. 2 on the Top Latin Albums chart, spawned high-profile collaborations with Bad Bunny and Ozuna, and showcased her range with forays into R&B, pop and reggae - though her versatility wasn't always what jumped out to listeners first. "You had all these Medellín artists who brought in a male perspective and had started making waves in the industry," says Ismar SantaCruz, vp/managing director of radio strategy at Univision. "Then came Karol G, who had a refreshing vibe and, on top of that, a female perspective and angle that made her even more interesting. She stands out not only as a general artist, but as a woman even more."

As much as Karol's "female perspective" opened doors for her, it also subjected her to additional scrutiny. In 2019, she released her second album, Ocean, which featured the hit single "Mi Cama." The track, powered by a squeaky horn that mimics the sound of a creaking bed frame, entered the top 10 on the Hot Latin Songs chart and was remixed by Balvin and Nicky Jam. Yet the song also drew criticism from Spanish-language media outlets over its sexual lyrics - the kind male artists record all the time without getting so much as a raised eyebrow. In conversation, Karol acknowledges the double standards she faces but she's not much interested in unpacking them. Understandably, she doesn't want her gender to define her career any more than it has already. The fact that she's one of the few successful women in reggaetón is something her male collaborators and business partners frequently cite as both a reason for wanting to work with her and a challenge for her to overcome.

"I've been through some really horrible things as a woman in the industry, but I don't even want to talk about that anymore because I don't want to victimize myself," she says categorically. "Whatever happened, it's all in the past. Those experiences helped shape the woman and the artist I am today."

And her career path is already doing the same for the other women looking to establish a foothold in Latin's urbano scene. "You have artists such as Cazzu, Nicki Nicole, Mariah Angeliq and Snow Tha Product who are changing the game with their contributions," says radio personality Molusco. "It's incredible that they all share the same story: [overcoming] machismo and the men holding them back. But all these women have come together to create a battalion. In Karol G's case, I still don't think we've seen her best years. This is just the beginning of a beautiful career, and that only means we'll see more women coming in through doors she has opened for them."

In the middle of last year, Karol G had an idea. She called up singer-songwriters Lenny Tavárez and Justin Quiles and told them, "I need to write a song that says I am la más dura" - the baddest of them all - "and that there's no one else." After struggling with her confidence during the pandemic, she was ready to take control of the next chapter. Together, the three of them - along with Ovy on the Drums and co-writer Cristian Salazar - came up with "Bichota," an attitude-heavy track whose title refers to a strong woman leader. It would become a mission statement for both KG0516 and her career at large.

"Ever since 'Bichota,' I am even more connected to my music," says Karol. "Gone are the days when someone would just send me a song and I'd say, 'OK, I'll sing it if it's any good.' Now, even if there are other songwriters involved, the direction of the lyrics and style are in my hands because I am at that point in my career where I know what I want to and don't want to release."

She's hands-on behind the scenes, too. In 2020, she assembled a new management team, headed up by Noah Assad, the founder/CEO of independent label Rimas Entertainment and longtime manager to Bad Bunny. (Raymond Acosta, head label manager for Rimas, and one of Karol's sisters, Jessica, are also part of the team.) "There are two managers in the industry that I truly respect and admire: Noah and Rebeca León [co-founder/ CEO of Lionfish Entertainment]," she says. "I've loved watching Noah evolve, and I love his work ethic. Same with Rebeca, and as a woman in the industry, she's huge and very committed. But Rebeca already has her main projects [clients Rosalía and Lunay], and Noah didn't have a female artist project. So I called him and said I was interested in working with him."

The two had crossed paths nine years ago at a recording studio in Puerto Rico and loosely stayed in touch. "I don't remember us speaking much at the time [when we met]," recalls Assad, "but I can tell you that as I continued to see her work, I grew respect for Karol and the drive she has to continue growing and breaking the stigma of being a female in a male-dominated genre."

On the first day they started working together, Karol gave Assad a list of career goals that included headlining her first North American tour, which she announced nearly a year later. While talking about the tour, Karol gets so animated that she briefly starts referring to herself in the third person. "I knew this would be Karol G's year," she says. "I mean, I hope to continue to grow, but it has been the best one so far."

For AEG Presents, helping Karol become a headliner in North America meant choosing venue sizes carefully. (The tour will hit a mix of theaters, amphitheaters and arenas.) "We've been following her as an artist not from America for years, so we understood that the market was strong," says Gary Gersh, president of global touring and talent. "But we all agreed that whatever we did, we needed to try to create heat and leave people wanting. The fact that we were able to sell out so many places, it left us knowing we did the right thing for her first tour."

The company also knows that, when it comes to growing her touring business, there are few precedents to follow. "It's remarkable [to have] someone who doesn't have a lot of female peers in her space and is willing to take a risk and go out and play large venues, and the audience agreed; it's exciting for everyone involved to launch this tour," adds senior vp global touring Rich Schaefer. "If you can get an artist that is fearless like Karol G, she's not thrown off by what has come before her, she's not thrown off by male superstars - she's got her own lane."

That lane, she promises, will go far beyond reggaetón. "If I'm going to go onstage and sing reggaetón every single time, then how am I innovating? When will I give my fans something so different that truly challenged me?" she asks, sounding a little frustrated - she tends to bristle when people suggest she has already shown all she has to offer. In the past few months, she has tried to stretch her comfort zone, performing with a mariachi at an awards show in July and teaming up with EDM star Tiësto to release "Don't Be Shy," her first English-language song, in August. "He told me I could sing it in Spanish," she says of the DJ-producer, "but I saw it as an opportunity to look beyond [Spanish-speaking listeners]. With this song, we can bring in a new audience."

With an eye toward expanding into film, Karol says she has hired an acting coach, and she's also enrolled in business courses so she can be directly involved in the expansion of her business. She believes that Karol G can be so much bigger than Carolina - that career longevity will require thinking of herself as not just an artist, but a brand. "Artists aren't really idols anymore," she says. "Now it's all about moments. If your song is a hit, they'll talk about you, but because the industry is so saturated, they'll forget about you when a new artist comes along. Selena died more than 20 years ago, but her albums are still charting, she's still getting awards. That's a legacy. My goal now is to create a product that will connect with many people and for people to remember me."

For now, she still has people talking. Two years after "Tusa," and one year after worrying her career was over, Karol G is happy to report she's not the one-hit wonder she thought she might become. "I always wanted to be the biggest in Latin America, and I thought that was the biggest I could get," she says. "But 'Tusa' shook me up. It came to tell me, 'You're ready for the world, not just Latin America.' "

Karol G will appear at Billboard 's 2021 Latin Music Week, presented by Samsung Galaxy and taking place live in Miami Sept. 20-25. For more event info, go to billboardlatinmusicweek.com.

This story originally appeared in the Sept. 18, 2021, issue of Billboard.

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Karol G Fought Her Way to the Top of the Reggaetón World. What's Next?

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The following story is one of Billboard 's two 2021 Latin issue covers, dated Sept. 18, 2021. To read the other cover story on Daddy Yankee, click here. 2020 was supposed to be Karol G's year. As she rang in the New Year, she was still riding the high of "Tusa," a triumphant team-up with Nicki Minaj that marked a number of milestones.