Back in March 2011, when Lollapalooza made its first international expedition and held an edition in Chile, pop singer-songwriter Francisca Valenzuela was the first artist to ever play the festival there. At the time she was on the verge of releasing her hit sophomore LP Buen Soldado, while still frantically learning the ropes of a recording industry undergoing a chaotic metamorphosis. Valenzuela’s pioneering set would foreshadow her own work in the festival circuit in Chile: In 2016, she blazed a new trail with Ruidosa, a multi-level festival and feminist organization that now encompasses live music, editorial content, and legislative initiatives championing the inclusivity of women and non-binary artists in Latin American music. Of course, Ruidosa is just the tip of the iceberg in Valenzuela’s never-ending quest for agency over her own story.
Francisca Valenzuela was born and raised in San Francisco, California, then moved back to Chile with her family as a teenager. These days, she resides in Mexico City’s sprawling, industry-fertile metropolis. Her soaring, piano-driven anthems found a devoted audience with early singles from the 2010s, such as “Qué Sería” and “Quiero Verte Más,” which expertly wove romantic confessionals with bouncy pop melodies. Valenzuela launched Ruidosa nearly a decade into her career — a move at first interpreted as a culmination of her acclaimed brand of “pop-rock with teeth,” as she describes it. Later, it became clear that this was part of a bigger career path: With the exception of albums La Fortaleza (2020) and Vida Tan Bonita (2022), which were distributed in partnership with Sony Music Chile, her entire discography has been self-released via her label, Frantastic. And on her latest effort Adentro, one of the year’s rawest and most sobering singer-songwriter records, a recent, devastating breakup led her on a harrowing journey within, unpacking and accepting the hurt on her terms.
As she wraps two years of continuous touring, including stints with Café Tacvba and Jesse & Joy, we caught up with Valenzuela to get into the details behind Adentro, her formative years in Chile’s beloved pop scene, and how women are terraforming the Latin American music industry for a more equitable future.
You’ve been at this for nearly 20 years, but we got to know you with an emblematic generation of Chilean indie artists like Gepe, Javiera Mena, and Alex Anwandter. However, your music and trajectory are often described separately, more aligned with pop.
That’s very interesting because in Chile I am recognized as part of the same generation, but you’re right in noticing a subtle difference. They were part of a scene that skewed indie and electropop, but I came up [in the late 2000s] with rock bands like Los Tres and Chancho en Piedra. Los Bunkers were the first to take me on tour and I opened those shows with just my piano. I started from a more mainstream place and got onto radio quicker, plus, I wasn’t part of the indie friends circle. I met all of them later, and we’ve since collaborated and gotten close, but I was more of an outsider. I come from a Chilean-American family. My parents are Chilean but they went to the U.S. in the Seventies. My older siblings speak English, whereas my younger siblings and I speak Spanish. We’re multi-cultural, very Spanglish, so I had a later start.
How was it different launching your career in Chile instead of the U.S.?
Our generation faced the fall of major record labels across South America, which catalyzed a wellspring of independent scenes and later pivoted towards streaming. So we got a strange deal on industry and infrastructure. Artistically, we all enter the world with our ideas and convictions, but building a career is something completely different. We learned to do everything on our own. Nobody was telling me I had to grow my audience in certain territories, or that I should aim for particular festivals, or which songs and videos tested well with audiences. I learned by asking questions, collaborating, and making mistakes.
These days you’re based in Mexico City. When did you decide it was time to head north?
I reached a point where I wanted to keep growing and needed to go somewhere with an industry that could foster that. I was searching for new opportunities, more collaborators, and new spaces that related to what I’m doing. It’s not about performing everywhere all the time, but moving in a direction that makes sense for my art and career. That led me to find other singer-songwriters and artists with a similar international impetus, and Mexico was that place. For me, growth is not this hollow business term, but about anchoring and expanding my career without being beholden to the industry. I’m building a home for myself.
Since 2020 you’ve released three very different yet deeply emotional albums, each with overarching themes of resilience, optimism, and heartbreak. Do you approach each album conceptually, or is it just serendipity?
When you’re in the eye of the storm you don’t really view a narrative like that, but ultimately each album is a snapshot of your life at the moment. La Fortaleza (2020) came out nearly seven years after Tajo Abierto (2014), which closed the first chapter of my career and left me completely burned out. I developed OCD, depression, and had no desire to ever tour again. It paralyzed me for years. I went back to the States and started writing for other artists and making music for television. Even though I felt completely lost, I built Ruidosa during that time and channeled many of my fears and questions into it. La Fortaleza captured that rebirth with songs like “No Te Alcanzo” and “Ansiedad,” where I talked about anxiety and suicidal thoughts, recognizing my own strength and how other people live with the same fears. It became an album about collectivity, feminism, and facing the shadows to come out the other side. It brought me back into the world, which is why Vida Tan Bonita (2022) was more optimistic, and why on Adentro (2023) I was free to examine my feelings so openly.
You faced a different kind of darkness on Adentro.
Adentro is an album I didn’t expect to write, but last year while on tour I broke up with my partner and writing became a refuge. These songs were an intimate space to face my emotions, and soon I had a body of work on my hands. The record starts with heartbreak and grief, transitions into the fear and euphoria of re-entering the world, and ends in acceptance, maturity, and re-connecting with myself. It’s a literal journey within. Performing songs like “Extraño” and “Juan” still makes my stomach queasy. Before the album dropped I live-tested “Juan,” which is a rather graphic song with phrases like, “Juan, muero si te la coges / si te la coges miénteme” (“’Juan, I’ll die if you fuck her / if you fuck her lie to me”), and audiences would go “Whoa!” But those are real emotions when you’re in a desperate frenzy.
The single “Nada Para Ti” is extra special, not just because it’s your second collaboration with Ximena Sariñana, but it also highlights how friends rescue us in times of need.
Exactly, and that’s recurring throughout the record. If you look at the credits you’ll find backup vocals from Daniella Spalla, Juliana Gattas [of Miranda!], and Fer Casillas, all of whom are close friends and have supported me in pivotal personal and professional moments. Ximena has also been by my side as I go through this process [of separation], so it’s wonderful to include and honor friends who show up in a crisis. Those voices that keep you company and bring you back to reality are in the songs, the videos, and all along the album.
So far you’ve mentioned friends, feminism, and collectivity, which could be a mission statement for your festival Ruidosa. What was the catalyst behind such an ambitious project?
I think those words are key. Ruidosa is a platform and a community that seeks greater representation and participation for women and non-binary artists in Latin American music. We do that through music festivals, conversation panels, workshops, and investigations. [In 2018] we conducted the first gender parity study of festival lineups in the region, which helped propel legislation in Argentina [the following year] and now guarantees a 30 percent minimum of female and gender diverse talent at all live music events. Numerous festivals also publicly committed to maintaining a 30 percent to 50 percent inclusivity ratio on their lineups moving forward. During the pandemic we held a digital edition of the festival that gathered voices across genres, generations, and disciplines to underline plurality. It’s all an effort in demystifying and promoting transparency in music at a pro level.
It’s been a few years since you held a physical edition of Ruidosa Fest. What are your plans for the project moving forward?
We have a big relaunch planned for 2024 with festivals and conferences in different Latin American cities. In terms of content we have the return of our podcast, Mujeres Que Hacen Ruido, as well as our website with new interviews and features. We’ve also been working on a bill to guarantee a minimum of 30 percent female participation in Chilean music festivals. It was already approved in the first chamber of congress and we’re confident we’ll make it law, like they did in Argentina. This work is about consistency and building together, so we fight on.