The Tao of RaiNao – Los Angeles Times

It’s safe to say that Naomi Ramírez, a.k.a. RaiNao, has had one of the most blessed career arcs of her generation. Bad Bunny himself called the singer-songwriter “my favorite artist from Puerto Rico” back in 2022, when she was still an up-and-coming indie promise. By 2025, she earned a feature on his Grammy-winning album, “Debí Tirar Más Fotos” — and elicited the screams of thousands when they sang their song “Perfumito Nuevo” together onstage during his San Juan residency shows later that summer.

RaiNao’s music straddles the mystical and the commercial. Her alt-reggaeton is tinged with lyrical flourishes that oscillate between poetic and salacious in the same bar; which she occasionally follows up with jazzy asides from her tenor saxophone.

Released May 25 via Rimas Entertainment, RaiNao’s sophomore LP, “Marcriá,” arrived two years after her previous effort “Capicú.” In her latest offering, the 32-year-old pivots from the darker sound of her debut, moving toward a meditative approach (in the very literal sense) to the music that colors life in the Caribbean. The name “Marcriá” is a play on the word “malcriada” — which translates to “poorly raised woman,” but is also used to refer to women who don’t stay silent, who defiantly talk back and don’t submit. (And, in the stylized spelling she uses, it also means “raised by the sea.”)

In an interview with De Los, RaiNao talks about her very personal inspiration for “Marcriá,” the joy of collaborating with her musical heroes and her biggest lesson learned in these riveting last two years.

Once you share an album with the world, what happens after?
Well, “Capicú” was my first project. Obviously I had a lot of love for it, but that was also a time in my life when, as a human being, I was quite lost and angry. So when I released it, I felt like I shed it and [afterward] I didn’t want to know anything about it.

What I wanted was to perform, for the world to see me face-to-face onstage. I focused on that, [but] I forgot how to create in a structured way, with a purpose, with a goal. Disconnecting so much from creating with purpose, with intention — I didn’t like it. I felt like I lost myself a little. But at the same time, I think it was a moment for me to heal a lot of things so I could move on. And I don’t judge myself for stepping away and disconnecting from intentional art and intentional creation.

And what inspired “Marcriá,” once you assimilated those feelings?
“Marcriá” stems from an experience I had when I was about 10 years old. I studied at a school for children with visual impairments. Basically, I was one of the few children with sight in that elementary school.

As a child, I didn’t quite understand. My mom told me, “I’m going to put you here; you have good grades, and you’re going to help.” And basically, they integrated sighted children so they could be part of the community and help out. I was like an assistant to all my teachers. Most of my teachers also belonged to the blind community.

My whole life I kept that experience locked away in the most protected corners of my memory. [But] as an adult, it started to intrigue me. Then it became a topic of conversation among my team: “Why don’t you make a documentary about this?”

And I said: “I’m going to do sensory treatments, and I’m going to start exploring colors, looking for poetry, things that transport me to places, thinking about texture, thinking about my growth and development as a child growing up in that school and in the middle of the sea, here in the Caribbean, in Puerto Rico. That childhood experience that led me to be who I am.” I created sensory treatments that I named, then they became songs.

The first time I interviewed you, you said you didn’t like your voice when you sang. I imagine that dislike faded a long time ago, but did you train your voice for this album?
This past year I really put my heart into my voice. I started taking intensive lessons. I feel like I’ve grown more fond of it now than I was when I first started. I understood the power of my voice beyond just singing, and most — because I don’t want to say all — of the melodies you’ll hear on the brass section, on many instruments, originated with my voice. I was saying, “I don’t want to say this with words, I want to say this with my voice, but I want my voice to be a trombone.” So [Wiso Rivera and I] created scores based on my voice and transferred them to instruments.

You recorded the song “Dandovueltas” with Omara Portuondo, a legend of Cuarteto d’Aida, and later Buena Vista Social Club. How did that collaboration come about?
Working with Omara was a dream come true for me. To me, she has the most sweetly powerful voice we have in the Caribbean. I’ve admired her from afar for a long time.

When I wrote this song, I felt a spiritual connection to her. She had just followed me [on Instagram]. I know it’s not her because she’s quite elderly now, she’s 95. But I thought, “Whoever reads this, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to send her a DM.”

So I wrote to her, then one day her son called me and we talked. He said they were thrilled, that his mother was very supportive of all the young talent and amazed that I had thought of her.

We sent her [family] the song. They were going to do everything possible to help her memorize it and record it. Her son suggested, “Why don’t you guys come here, to Cuba? It’d be more convenient.” I said, “Is it easy?” And he said, “No, but I can help you, I’ll get you whatever you need.”

And we went to Cuba. And we recorded everything at her house. She’s a very strong woman, and I honestly couldn’t believe how she memorized the song and kept humming it and recorded it so quickly. It was beautiful.

And she was so funny. She made me laugh so hard: [My manager, Paola] was saying to her, “You’re beautiful,” and she was like, “You have such bad taste.” She has a great sense of humor and is still a gorgeous and amazing singer. I am blessed and grateful to have gone to Cuba, which was also one of my dreams. I had never been to Cuba before.

How did the timing work out, considering the recent blockade?
We went there right around that time. There was no electricity, nothing was open. We saw lots of things that hurt us deeply — like children in the streets, mothers with newborns. Even the Cubans themselves told us, “It wasn’t like this before.” I mean, things were out of control. It’s not right to see a child begging in the street. We saw so much need. We went to record, but we went in the middle of the chaos. We were constantly asking [our driver] questions, and he was worried about what was going to happen.

The variety of guests you have is a tremendous mix of generations from the Caribbean. Could you tell me a little bit about working with Cultura Profética on the track “Dame La Verde?”
Growing up, Cultura Profética was one of the bands that influenced me the most. I saw my first concert at the Tito Puente Amphitheater was Cultura. I was in 10th grade. I remember the capsulón [which translates to “hotbox” in English] but I didn’t smoke yet.

So I gave lessons to [guitarist] Eliut González’s kids. I tutored them during the pandemic; it was one of my last jobs. I knew Eliut, and I was already doing some things [with music], but I was just starting out. One day he looked at me and said, “You didn’t tell me.” And I said, “Tell you what?” And he said, “That you make music.” I guess he saw something online and said, “That’s my kids’ teacher!”

What about the salsa singer, Andy Montañez? On “Cántaro” he sings a chorus typically associated with the late bomba musician Félix Alduén.
Andy was the last to surf the wave. I wrote a letter to Andy Montañez — to his son. Andy is from Santurce, like me. My aunts grew up with Andy. I was like, “He’s the one.” And we had a blast. Andy is so funny. You guys have no idea [how many] ad-libs we got.

I wanted to end with [a song] about death, and more specifically, my own death as an author [once the record was] out. [Once] I give this to people, it’s no longer mine. I could say, “This means this, I did this for this reason,” but people are going to receive it however they want.

I also wanted to talk about death as poetry, as something beautiful, as [a] memory that remains with people. You never really die. You always remain in people’s memories, even more so if you’re good to the world.

And I would keep hearing “Oí una voz divina que me llamó…” from this chorus that is said to be by Félix Alduén, but people don’t know if it came from Alduén or someone before him. People themselves keep those choruses alive. They’re from the street, from the people.

Emanuel Santana recorded this [song], and I was telling him, “Dude, you have to tell me who this is.” And he said, “No, this belongs to everyone. It’s yours, it’s mine, it’s Felix’s. God only knows who it belonged to before him. Come on, make it yours.”

That song also features you playing saxophone on a track for the first time.
It’s the first time I’ve ever recorded my saxophone in any of my projects! I’ve played it live, but I’ve never recorded it. I’ve always waited for someone else to come and record it. We recorded a tumbadero, which is an instrument used in plena, recorded by Luis “Lagarto” Figueroa. To me, he’s one of the current pillars of the plena that’s still performed here. We also included instruments like the bassoon, the harp, the trombone and obviously the saxophone.

I imagine these last two years have been some of the craziest and most exciting for you — from performing with the world’s biggest artist to being more outspoken politically in Puerto Rico and developing this intimate album. What have you learned from these experiences?
Using fear to my advantage. This might sound unbelievable, but I’ve had many episodes of fear in this process — in manifestos I’ve made, at shows, in recordings.

It nearly prevented me from expressing my voice the way I wanted to. With time, it’s supposed to go away, but for me, it was growing. And I started doing things that scared me just for the hell of it. And I think that helped me, and I’m very calm now. I think the biggest lesson for me from this has been how to do it even when I’m afraid.

Any parting words?
There are communities of people with visual impairments, or other disabilities. We need to be very aware of them and embrace those communities. That school changed my life. I hope it’s changing the lives of everyone who passes through there, because I know it’s still open in Santurce.

When I create, I don’t just think about myself; I think a lot about others. You might say, “You’re crazy because you don’t know everyone.” But there’s a collective unconscious there. I’m connected to people I don’t know, emotions [they] have felt. If I’m grounded and open enough, they can reach me, and I can make a song that’s for them without even knowing it.