Love Bites: Revelling in Reggaeton

While visiting my paternal family in Chile one spring, my aunt brought me to a crowded rooftop full of cigarette smoke and tipsy 30-something-year-olds. Amid the clinking of glasses and ambient chatter, my ears locked on to the music playing. A repetitive rhythm, seemingly uncomplicated, but with a depth of groove that led to an immediate infatuation. “It’s called reggaeton,” my aunt explained. “It’s very inappropriate. When you’re older you’ll understand.” 

I believe my aunt’s nervousness stemmed from the explicitness of reggaeton. Born out of Caribbean dancehall and American hip-hop across Panama, New York and Puerto Rico in the 80s, its roots in el barrio meant songs tended to be about social unrest, police brutality or courtship and sex, mostly from the perspective of straight cis men. This would also give way for el perreo (reggaeton’s equivalent to twerking and daggering).

Despite my continued flirtations with reggaeton, I never managed to fully embrace fandom, even when it was staring me in the face. During a two year stint in South Florida, where being a commercial reggaeton fan was the norm among my high school peers, I clung to the safety of indie or hip-hop to assert my “individuality” and to avoid exposing my limited Latin pop knowledge. Before I knew it, I was back in the UK and my encounters with reggaeton became limited to hearing Despacito or Gasolina on a night out (if I was lucky). 

Immaturity definitely stood between my teenage self and feeling worthy of embracing an innately South American cultural phenomenon; the same way it stood between me and my understanding of reggaeton’s explicit nature on that rooftop with my aunt. But with the gift of time, and delving into the more experimental sounds of Arca, Rosalía and Tokischa, as well as reggaeton royalty Ivy Queen and El General, I’m learning to wholeheartedly and shamelessly revel in reggaeton.