Soundtracks to Argentina’s Democracy
Argentine rock is one of the richest and most diverse in the world. It probably is, after American and British rock and in contention with Australian rock, the most significant rock scene on the planet. And without a doubt, the Argentine rock scene has been the most important in the Spanish-speaking world since the late 1960s. In 2026, Billboard magazine published a ranking of the 50 best Spanish-language rock bands, in which Argentina had an overwhelming presence: Of the top four, three were Argentine (Soda Stereo, Sui Generis, and Los Fabulosos Cadillacs; the other was the Mexican band Café Tacvba).
Several factors have come together to make the Argentine rock scene unique.
First, the characteristics of Argentine society in the 1960s, when rock was born, which had a middle-class more akin to the ones in the developed world than those in other Latin American countries. Argentina still had then low rates of poverty, little inequality, and an incomplete but present welfare state. The public university system, a guarantee of social mobility, was broad and inclusive. Between the late nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries, Argentina was the country that received the second-largest influx of European migrants in the hemisphere (after the US), which it effortlessly integrated.
In contrast to other Latin American countries, which were poorer and more rural, Argentina was home to a society composed mainly of the middle class. Wage earners with high purchasing power were also protected by both unions and government social protections, and they gradually developed their own conception of both the world and their culture. It was in this modernist melting pot that the rock movement was forged. Argentina’s prosperity—particularly that of Buenos Aires, home to a significant portion of the music scene—and the cultural ambition of its enlightened elite made it possible to import records, magazines, and musical instruments. This led to an early back-and-forth with global rock hubs (London, New York, Los Angeles) that fueled the local bands.
The second factor was Argentines’ high self-esteem. A popular saying suggests that it’s a good deal to buy an Argentine for what he’s worth and then to sell him for what he thinks he’s worth. Argentina could not have created rock music through imitation. The famous Argentine ego gave its rock a unique character: Rock wasn’t born as a copy, as in other countries where bands emulated Elvis or The Beatles, but as a deviation. It was original from the start, sung in Spanish from day one. Unlike other Spanish-speaking scenes, Argentine rock grew out of an ontological need for originality. It set out to be something unique. The usual way of referring to local rock in Argentina is not as “Argentine rock” but as “national rock”: The nation in question is Argentina, obviously. In Mexico, Mexican rock is called “Mexican rock”; the same goes for Chile or Peru.
The Argentine movement’s founding song, “La Balsa,” was composed in 1967 in the men’s washroom of La Perla, a legendary bar in downtown Buenos Aires, by Tanguito and Litto Nebbia. And it hinted at the paths of metaphor and abstraction that rock would take:
I’m very lonely and sad here in this abandoned world
I have an idea: It is to go to the place I most want
I’m missing something to get there, for walking I cannot
I’ll build a raft and go to be shipwrecked
The third factor that explains the power of “national rock” is institutional instability. Between 1955, when Juan Domingo Perón was overthrown by a military coup, and 1983, when democracy was fully restored, Argentina went through a long cycle marked by the alternation of weak civilian governments and increasingly harsh military regimes, culminating in Latin America’s bloodiest dictatorship (1976–83). Peronism, the dominant political force, clashed with military opposition.
During that time, Argentine rock evolved. It emerged as a countercultural phenomenon, rather than a movement of resistance, by exploring new sensibilities, dreamlike imagery, and outlandish metaphors. Rock delved into deeper waters than tango, which spoke of mothers and lovers; folklore, which sang of the countryside and animals; and commercial pop songs, with their banal love lyrics. A noteworthy example was the 1969 debut album by Almendra, Luis Alberto Spinetta’s first band. Without shouting or denouncing, the album drew on Spinetta’s immense poetic talent to whisper ideas and paint images that alluded—with levels of abstraction unprecedented until then—to the established order, the authority of elders, and the state of the world. It was more of an aesthetic defection than a head-on battle against the system. Take the track “Ana no duerme”:
Ana doesn’t sleep
She waits for the day
Alone in her room
Ana wants to play
On the rug
She touches her shadow
She counts the lights
She looks at the big city
Ana is not sleeping
She plays with nothing
Maybe tomorrow
She’ll wake up on the sea, the sea
On the sea, the sea
Over the years, Argentine politics became increasingly radical. The first guerrilla groups emerged, and the military intensified its repression. In step with this growing conflict, which by the mid-’70s involved attacks by insurgent organizations and widespread crackdowns by para-police forces, rock music adopted more directly rebellious stances. From a countercultural phenomenon, it gradually transformed into a movement, yet without losing its poetic depth—largely thanks to the emergence of another musician, slightly younger than Spinetta but equally brilliant: Charly García. With his early bands—Sui Generis and, above all, Serú Girán—García breathed new life into rock. I have just written “new life” but that’s not exactly correct: One of the unique features of Argentine rock is that a style, a rhythm, or a trend doesn’t replace the previous one but rather absorbs it to create something different.
In 1982, a paradox gave Argentine rock its final push. The military government, discredited and under fire, started the Falklands War against Great Britain. As part of its propaganda campaign, it decided to ban the broadcast of music in English on the radio, the primary medium of communication at the time. This opened up a new space for Argentine rock: It had been germinating on the fringes and now it burst into the mainstream. By the time the military finally handed power over to an elected president, rock had become the soundtrack of democracy.
The “Peruvianization” of Argentina
The “Argentina of equality”—the Argentina where national rock was born and where Peronism held political sway under constant pressure from the military—has been eroding. The decisive moment can be pinpointed to the mid-1970s, with the exhaustion of the state-centered, industrialist development model and the last coup d’état, which together began the permanent transformation of Argentina’s economic structure and society.
From that moment on, with a few increasingly brief and sporadic periods of prosperity, the performance of the Argentine economy has been disappointing. Between 1975 and 2023, Argentina’s GDP per capita grew by a mere 30%, or by about just 0.6% annually on average. By comparison, the world’s rate grew on average by 1.6% annually; the European Union’s by 1.7%; the US’s by 1.9%; and the East Asia and Pacific region’s by 3.7%. Between 1974 and 2023, Argentina’s rate of GDP per capita growth was also substantially lower than those of other Latin American countries. This persistent stagnation reflects extreme volatility: Argentina is the only Latin American country other than Venezuela that has failed to resolve the problem of inflation and that suffers from permanent exchange rate fluctuations.
In the mid-1970s, as I have mentioned, Argentine society enjoyed a reasonable level of equality: Its Gini index was 0.36, close to that of Spain and much lower than those of most Latin American countries. Poverty stood at about 4.4% and unemployment at 4.2%, meaning near full employment. With a GDP per capita of about $2,850 in 1974, Argentina boasted back then one of the highest GDP per capita figures in the region (more than five times that of Colombia and three times that of Peru).
Today, Argentina’s Gini index stands at 0.42 and its GDP per capita is close to the Latin American average. At the same time, a core of permanent, structural poverty has solidified at around 25%. As of the 2010s, an income crisis also has emerged. Historically, formal wage employment predominated in Argentina, and given the country’s fairly diversified industrial base, militant unions, and the dominance the pro-workers Peronist party, wages were, in general, quite good. From the mid-’70s onward, this relatively homogeneous working class began to split into three groups: formal wage earners, informal wage earners, and the unemployed. And over the last fifteen years, this fragmentation has led to increasingly lower wages overall.
In Argentina, as in any developing country, there were always pockets of unregistered activity, but the economy enjoyed fairly high levels of formalization—in terms of labor, taxation, and social security. This was evidenced by the fact that street or popular markets were small, in contrast to the gigantic popular markets of Gamarra (in Peru), El Alto (in Bolivia), or Tepito (in Mexico), which have existed since colonial times. Today, the small markets of Argentina are part of the commercial landscape and the daily life of working-class and low-income neighborhoods, ranging from the most organized, such as La Salada, to the most chaotic, such as the one in Solano, both located in Buenos Aires suburbs.
Of course, there are still traces of the Argentina that once was. Social security coverage, at almost 90%, is the highest in Latin America. The enrollment rate in secondary school is 94%, the second-highest in Latin America, and early childhood education coverage is nearly universal, at 97%. The homicide rate is low.
However, and beyond a few differences, the truth is that in many aspects—wealth, inequality, the informal economy, poverty—Argentina has undergone a process of regression that today brings it closer to its Latin American neighbors than to the image of a Paris-like destination enjoyed by tourists spending a few days in Buenos Aires. This is also reflected in the shift in the musical paradigm.
From Rock to Trap
Trap music emerged in the 2010s in the US, and it has urban, Black, and working-class roots: It gets its name from “trap houses”—abandoned, single-door homes where drugs are sold. Musically, the trap heard in Argentina is a variation of American hip-hop crossed with reggaeton to form what some once called “Latin trap.” The genre began to gain popularity in Argentina almost at the same time as in the US, and it was showcased in freestyle battles or “riñas de gallo” (cockfights)—duels between rappers who improvise in front of an audience. These could be seen in the squares of Argentina’s suburbs, at the entrances to some malls (a common hangout for young people in the 2000s), and during recess at school. The rapper YSY A and the radio host Muphasa turned the practice into a tournament known as El Quinto Escalón, held in Rivadavia Park, one of Buenos Aires’ most important squares. Wos, Trueno, and Duki emerged from it. After years of growing success, the initiative was acquired by the Red Bull company, which turned it into a stadium-scale event. Later, trap began to blend with other genres—tango, Argentine rock, folklore—until it gave rise to a distinctly Argentine trap scene.
It’s curious how history repeats itself, in this case confirming the cultural influence that, beyond any socioeconomic decline, continues to set Argentina apart. In the ’80s and ’90s, Argentine rock conquered Latin America. Today still, Soda Stéreo occupies a place in many Latin American countries that is almost on par with that of major American or British bands. Some Argentine rock songs have become part of the region’s popular culture: I have witnessed at parties throughout Central America people intoning “Happy Birthday” to the tune of “Sin gamulán,” a song by Los Abuelos de la Nada. Several decades later, trap music once again placed Argentina at the forefront, turning it into a powerhouse of new urban music, competing with performers from Colombia or Puerto Rico. This is demonstrated by milestones such as Bizarrap’s 53rd session with Shakira (the Latin debut with the most streams in a single day on Spotify), Duki’s show at the Bernabéu in Madrid, and Ca7riel & Paco Amoroso’s Tiny Desk performance.
Trap has prevailed over rock. For my 15-year-old daughter, “national rock” might be okay, but it feels as distant to her as tango. Trap is definitely the genre of the moment, the one that best fits the cultural fabric of this “Peruvianized” country—which is also President Javier Milei’s country. In short, there is a harmony between trap and this era in Argentina, between the musical genre and the new sociological reality.
What’s the connection?
First, it lies in the shift in production models. The emergence of PCs and then smartphones subjected music to a radical transformation. In a movement with global reach, the cost of entry dropped. Whereas before it was necessary to rent a studio and buy instruments, today anyone with a computer or a phone can create music, and then it can circulate on YouTube, TikTok, or Instagram. At minimal cost, Auto-Tune corrects the singer’s off-key voice in real time. These technological advances have democratized access to the means needed to make music, enabling—as the journalist and cultural critic Pablo Schanton has written—an explosion of individual projects.
Here I emphasize “individual,” but I’d like to be careful with this statement, too. It’s not simply a matter of pitting rock’s model of collective creation against trap’s more personal model, because trap artists aren’t isolated—they are connected via networks, and they often work together. But it does rely on a more flexible collaboration than the rock system of permanent organization, with bands that composed, toured, performed, and sometimes even lived together in a community. The mythical scene of a musician leaving the band is simply impossible in trap. If the rock band was a marriage, the bond between trap artists is an open relationship.
What does exist, in any case, is the personal utopia of the trapero (trap man), who believes that all he needs to succeed is talent and a phone. This aligns with the dominant narrative of our time: the myth of the successful entrepreneur who, with nothing but his drive and a small loan, creates his digital unicorn in a garage. The exploitative businessman has been replaced by the innovative entrepreneur as the great mythical figure of contemporary capitalism—a new paradigm of self-justification with which trap’s model of individual creation blends perfectly.
Another interesting point is that trap music rejects political correctness. Both trap and political correctness are products of 2010s Argentina. During those years, the country experienced a surge in feminism, reflected in the growth of the women’s movement and a series of laws expanding their rights. Let me clarify, once again, that I am not suggesting any mechanical comparison. Many trap artists have shown sensitivity toward the gender and diversity agenda; some identify as “progressive” (or woke) and have even dared hint at their political preferences. Wos, for example, has spoken out against right-wing politicians, including Milei. I want to clarify that what I mean here is not that traperos are racist or homophobic, nor that they cannot express progressive values, but rather that they operate outside the bounds of political correctness. Their art consists of stretching those boundaries, of breaking them. If rockers revealed their authenticity by displaying their wildness on stage, smashing guitars, or dying of overdoses in hotel bathtubs, traperos claim their authenticity by saying what they think without weighing the consequences. They take pride in speaking without a filter.
Here is a track by Dillom:
And those fuckers want to see me sleep in a coffin (Uh)
My mom doing coke, right in my face (Fiumba)
And after that, my old man kicked me out of the house
But if it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have anything now (What?)
Because thanks to that whole thing, I’m even more of a hustler now (Oh)
And if you take a nap, homie, I’ll totally eliminate you.
Or these lyrics by Neo Pistea:
Bitch, I walk in spitting pure adrenaline
Emptying ink in the corner, screwing the hottest girl
Giving the stink eye to anyone who stares, shooting back at anyone who shoots at me
I navigate through all this shit, man, I don’t want your peak.
Another point of contact between trap and what, for lack of a better word, I’ll call “the times” is a certain idea of change expressed as an exercise in freedom. It’s visible in the explicit rejection of the prospect of a stable, formal, lifelong job that is very present in some trap lyrics. This can be read as a familiar argument—it’s the kind of job parents have; or the kind of job parents aspire to, the one that’s supposed to be good to get and hold onto. But it can also be read as the sublimation of a frustration: It’s the job that young Argentines, forced to work in precarious conditions, can no longer get. “Dare for More,” says Bizarrap in the Pepsi ad. “What you study doesn’t have to be for life,” Duki told young people at a conference organized by the Endeavor entrepreneurship association. “You can be a lawyer now, but then at 30 open a clothing store, and then sell phones, and then buy a house and move to Jujuy to live like a hippie.”
This brings me to one final essential topic: the relationship between art and the market. One could say that, unlike rock, trap music embraces the new conditions of contemporary capitalism with enthusiasm: digitalization, flexibility, instant gratification, uncertainty, risk. And globality. Although these artists emerged from Argentine cities and peripheries—Bizarrap is from Morón, Trueno from La Boca, Nicki Nicole from Rosario—their aspirations are global. This is demonstrated in their habit of pronouncing “r”s in the Central American style, inserting English words into their songs, and alternating between “tú” and “vos” in their lyrics.
Rock musicians oscillated between an attitude of open rejection or the shameful acceptance of money, and they were torn between, on the one hand, the limousine and the mansion and, on the other, the intention to not compromise and show that they weren’t just more of the same (Fito Páez: “I’d rather be drunk on the subway”). In contrast, trap embraces capitalism without prejudice or hang-ups. As Schanton, the critic, has written, rock masked a business that trap turns into pornography. In a review of 400 lyrics by leading trap artists, the journalist Javier Ledesma noted the frequent mention of brands: The most cited are Nike, Gucci, Prada, and Balenciaga. Just as art uses brands as decoration—in the series “Sex and the City” brands express the enjoyment of guilt-free shopping; in Bret Easton Ellis’s novels they serve as a backdrop—in trap music they function as status symbols. Co-opting them is a classic gesture of the reappropriation by the lower classes—in this case, precarious youth—of the symbols of the ruling classes, much like the gold chains and watches worn by American rappers. It is a form of defiance: “I can do it too.”
“Peruartina” Listens to Trap
The shift from rock to trap is not simply a change in fashion or musical style; it is the reflection of a profound social transformation. Just as the birth of urban, industrial, and middle-class Argentina gradually left behind tango and folklore to make way for national rock, the evolution of Argentina—now unequal, Latin Americanized, digitalized—explains the shift from rock to trap. It is a more multi-class scene than rock and from urban peripheries.
But this evolution is not about supplanting or replacement. In fact, the European Argentina of the past persists in certain aspects that continue to set the country apart from the rest of Latin America, notably Argentines’ cultural hunger. Two Argentinas—the one of the past and the one of today—coexist. The same goes for music.
The evolution is more about absorption. The richness of Argentine music, whether rock or trap, has always lain in its ability to digest the past. It doesn’t deny the past; it transcends it. In its time, Argentine rock drew inspiration from folklore and tango, as well as jazz (a tradition that deserves a separate discussion). Today, trap blends with tango (“Traje unos tangos,” the track by YSY A, begins with a melancholic bandoneon before shifting to a heavy beat), rock (I like Trueno’s use of samples from Gustavo Cerati), and folklore (Milo J’s latest album, La vida era más corta, is a marvel that dares to feature Mercedes Sosa, the great Argentine folklorist who died in 2009).
The persistence of the old, coupled with the ability to absorb the new and create a unique blend, explains the power of the Argentine music scene. Building on the above, we could say that the changes Argentina has undergone in recent years—whose socioeconomic impact has clearly been negative—have, paradoxically, also allowed the country to renew its music by embracing global innovations and infusing them with elements of its own rock, tango, and folk traditions. This tension is the key to the diversity and avant-garde nature of this unique genre.
