Del Pais
Milo J, Cazzu, and more stars are embracing music and traditions of the Argentine countryside, staving off pop homogenization and sharing their history with the world
The Argentine singer Soledad Pastorutti never anticipated that her debut at the Cosquín National Folklore Festival, in 1996, would be historic. At just 15 years old, she took the hallowed stage at Próspero Molina Grand Plaza, where iconic troubadours such as Los Chalchaleros and Mercedes Sosa had shot to fame since the 1960s — some as keepers of rural wisdom, and others as interrogators of the powerful. The teenager performed three songs including the romantic zamba “Salteñita de los Valles” and the stirring chacarera “A Don Ata,” the latter a tribute to one of the godfathers of South American folklore, Atahualpa Yupanqui.
Soledad’s confident vibrato was greeted with cheers and she celebrated by whirling her poncho in a victorious gesture that remains her signature to this day. In the years that followed, she’d soar to pop heights with 1998’s Emilio Estefan-produced Yo Si Quiero A Mi País, and embody the genre’s renewal of the new millennium.
Nearly 30 years later, Soledad popped up on Milo J’s La Vida Era Más Corta. The 18-year old trap star dropped the album in September 2025, and it quickly became the definitive blockbuster of a vibrant, intergenerational new chapter for Argentina’s traditional music movement. The revelatory LP leaned into cultural introspection, enlisting national treasures like Cuti and Roberto Carabajal, and extending invitations to urbano rebels Akriila and Trueno, as well as trova master Silvio Rodríguez. The project dovetailed into a roots zeitgeist also championed by Bad Bunny and Karol G, as well as releases from Argentine artists like Cazzu, Broke Carrey, and Feli Colina, which have beamed folklore to an uncharacteristically youthful audience.
Soon after La Vida Era Más Corta, Milo J teamed up with actor and television host Mex Urtizberea, creator of the musical variety show ¡FA!, for a series of al-fresco live sessions cheekily titled ¡FAlklore! that convened legends and youngbloods to celebrate these classics. Soledad joined Milo J for a rendition of “Cuando Ya Nadie Te Nombre,” a melancholy favorite penned by Horacio Guarany, accompanied by native instruments like bandoneon and bombo legüero that accentuated the timeless magic of Argentina’s heartland songbook.
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“I’m thrilled about this moment in folklore,” Soledad tells Rolling Stone, speaking from her hometown of Arequito, in Santa Fé Province. “Argentina has a lot of economic instability, but the cultural side always survives and is frequently reborn. My vision is that folklore was always alive, that tradition endures, heals itself, and ties us to the past, like links on a chain that connects everything.”
Soledad rose to prominence as an outsider: adolescent in a field that privileges maturity; a descendent of Italian immigrants rather than a family indigenous to the territory; a gaucho-dressed singer from Central Argentina who earned the nickname “La Gringa,” foreign to the northern regions that shaped these heritage songs and rhythms. But her undeniable popularity also uplifted national pride at a time when wounds from the 1982 Malvinas War were still fresh and the country’s return to democracy firmed its footing. “And yet it doesn’t receive the visibility of other musical genres,” she adds, noting the metropolitan ambivalence that keeps folklore niche. “I’m glad the presence of artists like Milo J and Cazzu has finally garnered interest from large media platforms and reached new audiences.”
Indeed, Cazzu’s triumphant 2025 LP, Latinaje, was both personal and pop, enriching her trap bravado with cumbia, chacareras, and the colorful garb of her native Jujuy. Earlier this month, she headlined her first ever stadium show in the northern province, which borders Bolivia, rebuking the sardonic adage, “God is everywhere but handles business in Buenos Aires.”
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This statement also permeates the work of rapper Alkoy, who on Valle Chakal Ki sampled idiosyncratic records from Salta, foregrounding the handmade drums and dramatic guitars that boom in every plaza. For Guazuncho’s Odiseas del Litoral, the electronic producer from Corrientes refracted the chamamé and tango of swampy Northeast Argentina through a lens of ambient and psychedelia, at times sounding like a lost member of Animal Collective. Regional pride seeps into aesthetics, too, as on Chocolate Remix’s Pajuerana EP (the title a reclamation of the pejorative “towny”), where the reggaeton artist bursts through the cover sneering defiantly in a satin dance costume from Tucumán. A recent essay from journalist and folklore chronicler Gabriel Plaza surmised these expressions as “a reflection of Argentina within other Argentinas.”
“We’re all children of this land, so we’re all brothers and neighbors, even with opposing ideologies,” says Buenos Aires rapper Broke Carrey, whose 2026 album Hijo del País questioned what it means to be Argentino while swerving through fables, politics, and what he describes as a “federal sound.” Usted Señalemelo guitarist Cocó contributes a tonada cuyana from Mendoza to “Monumento,” Carrey’s irreverent ode to a paramour’s hind quarters, refuting the stale solemnity wrongfully ascribed to folklore. Later, on the distorted chacarera “Zupay,” a duo from Santiago del Estero called Trouve Feraud transforms the myth of an Andean demon into a meditation on the very real specter of crisis haunting their country.
In fact, traditional music has found fresh relevance as a medium of dissent and social critique. Carrey’s “Miguelito” is an uproarious ranchera (or gato) lampooning Libertarian President Javier Milei, while in August, the ensemble Duratierra released La Patria Viva – El Folklórico Vol. 2, a record unspooling the emotional weight of Argentina’s steepest political turmoil since the economic collapse of 2001. “What is happening to my homeland / that it confuses liberty with a village of solitude,” asks queer singer-songwriter Valen Bonetto on the deceptively cheerful “¿Qué le Pasa a Mi Patria?,” skewering the violent discourse espoused by government leaders.
“This is one of the most uncertain times in our history, and as people seek direction, they return to folklore,” adds Carrey. “Connection to the earth makes you feel a part of something, and people are finding that in music, fútbol, and food. Buenos Aires is experiencing a revival of bodegones and traditional dining, so there’s a new appreciation of our identity.”
Argentina’s national fervor became a subject of controversy this summer during one of the most contentious tournaments in FIFA World Cup history. Amidst the usual passions and withering taunts, a massive online campaign alleging institutional favoritism for the Argentine team and accusations of racism from players and fans resulted in waves of debate and xenophobia that even landed celebrities like Samuel L. Jackson and Rosalía in hot waters. However, some see lessons in conflict.
“Maybe more people should be proud of what’s theirs,” muses singer-songwriter Feli Colina. “We are insufferable, I know that, but there’s something about our self-love and the love we have for our land that really irks people.”
Colina hails from the northern province of Salta, the otherworldly landscapes of which became the atmospheric backdrop of her 2022 LP, El Valle Encantado, swirling with Andean percussion, criollo mysticism, feminist declamation, and avant-pop sensibilities. Though she was ahead of the roots revival curve, the subsequent EP Los Infernales expanded her rhythmic arsenal with Andean carnavalitos and reggaeton, while her visceral new album La Otra Mejilla is rife with global influences from Brazilian samba and Indian bhangra. The artist concedes that her folklore studies were more quotidian, perusing her parents’ record collection and soaking up Cuchi Leguizamón covers in the park, but she is acutely aware of the responsibility of toiling in identity. “Argentina’s music and poetry intersects with politics,” she says, “so there’s a greater commitment and respect when you’re talking about history and that of your ancestors.”
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On August 31, Lionel Messi announced his retirement from Argentina’s national fútbol team via a series of emotional Instagram posts, sparking an outpouring of love and support for a sport-defining hero that carried his country to victory during the 2022 World Cup, and again grazing glory this year. A highlight reel of his career was soundtracked by Soledad’s early aughts hit, “Brindis,” a song that smiles at mountains climbed as well as unwritten futures, toasting the joys we’ve shared with others. The pairing was a perfect summation of folklore as the memory of a people: collective, tangible, and a legacy built to withstand the test of time.
“People think we’re not afraid of anything, to the degree that we come off as disrespectful,” reflects Soledad. “But we Argentinos are empathetic and friendly. We have more time for mate, coffee, asado, and fútbol, than anything else. Sure, we’ll argue with you to death, but then we’ll turn around and hug you. That’s who we are, and what our music is, too.”