MOTOMAMI: Cultural Appreciation or Exploitation?
In 2018, Catalonian artist Rosalía Vila Tobella released her second studio album, El Mal Querer. The album is a neo-flamenco concept album based off of The Romance of Flamenca, and each song is thought of as a chapter in the story of an abusive relationship. El Mal Querer was critically acclaimed upon its release for its experimental and innovative take on flamenco music. Rosalía, a trained flamenco musician, took elements from both her own culture and her favorite genres, including RnB and reggaeton, and tied them together to create a masterpiece. This album launched Rosalía (and flamenco music, by extension) into the international public eye, racking up five nominations at the 2018 Latin Grammys and winning Album of the Year at the 2019 Latin Grammys (making Rosalía the second female artist to win that award after Shakira). She was also the first all-Spanish language artist to win a nomination for Best New Artist at the 2019 Grammys, putting her on the same stage as artists such as Billie Eilish and Lil Nas X.
As a Spanish-American individual myself, I was ecstatic to witness Rosalía’s rise to stardom. El Mal Querer was bold and transcendent, yet also firmly rooted in our shared culture. It wasn’t very often that I’d see Spanish culture acknowledged in American media up until Rosalía. She quickly became a Pitchfork darling and a bonafide American celebrity, hanging out with the likes of Kim Kardashian and Bella Hadid, all while speaking English with that strong Spanish accent so familiar to me. The whole world knew her—she became a sort of hometown hero to all of Spain. Upon her achievement of international fame, Rosalía’s artistic trajectory began to develop into something far from the Spanish roots of El Mal Querer.
In a 2019 interview with Billboard (ironically for a segment called “Growing Up Latino”), the European Rosalía stated, “I feel Latina,” because “...when I went to Panama, or I went to Mexico, I feel like I’m at home.” And ever since El Mal Querer’s release and her rise to fame, she’s begun to occupy this gray area between Hispanic and Latina, taking advantage of most Americans’ ambiguous definitions of “Spanish,” “Hispanic,” and “Latina.” The singles coming after El Mal Querer were departures from her previously established genre and indications of her new musical trajectory, including collaborations with popular reggaeton artists J. Balvin and Ozuna and American mainstream artists such as The Weeknd and Travis Scott. MOTOMAMI, her third studio album released earlier this year, is a culmination of this turn to reggaeton and RnB in lieu of flamenco.
Rosalía’s love of reggaeton is hardly surprising. Young Spaniards are absolutely obsessed with reggaeton, something I’ve observed every summer when I visit my family in Madrid. Reggaeton, a blend of reggae and dancehall originating from Panama, is an elusive, ever-expanding, and wildly popular genre bearing influences from all around the Caribbean and—most notably—Puerto Rico. European Spaniards’ infatuation with reggaeton is comparable with white Americans’ obsession with rap music: in both instances, privileged groups become entranced with music produced by people of color, going so far as to begin to appropriate the social customs associated with said music. Because of this, some argue that Rosalía’s incorporation of reggaeton and its related aesthetics is culturally problematic.
Whereas El Mal Querer was classified as primarily of the “flamenco nuevo” genre, MOTOMAMI is firmly established as a “neoperreo” album, neoperreo being an offshoot of reggaeton and other styles of Latin American dance music. MOTOMAMI opens with Rosalía’s voice saying, “saoko, papi, saoko,” already a series of words that establish Rosalía’s appropriation of Latin American music and themes. “Saoko”—a word from the Dominican Republic’s dialect of Spanish roughly translated to mean joyful, rhythmic dance music—was unknown to most Spaniards, evident by multiple articles published by Spanish news forums asking, “Que significa ‘saoko’?” In “CHICKEN TERIYAKI,” Rosalía describes herself visiting her jeweler in New York City and skating in Washington Heights, while also rhyming nonsensical words in Japanese. The appropriation continues from there: “LA FAMA” is a bachata track—a dance genre also originating from the Dominican Republic—in which The Weeknd accompanies Rosalía with his accented, autotuned Spanish. “DELIRIO DE GRANDEZA” is a cover of Cuban artist Justo Betancourt’s 1968 salsa track (something that casual listeners might not realize), detailed with pitched up horns from the original track and even a Soulja Boy sample towards the end.
MOTOMAMI’s worst offense is the fourth track off the album, “BULERÍAS,” which is the only song reminiscent of El Mal Querer’s flamenco roots. But something is different about this track; rather than encapsulating the tradition-seeped, innovative production of her previous album, “BULERÍAS” employs lifeless, canned flamenco clapping, stepping, and olé’s, while Rosalía tries to convince the audience that she’s still a cantaora— a flamenco singer—whether she wears traditional Spanish garments or a Versace tracksuit. The song reads like a hasty, embarrassed reassurance, a step backwards from the statement she is trying to make with MOTOMAMI—that she is still the same Rosalía from El Mal Querer. The truth is that, once I reached this song on my first listen, I stopped listening. I was unimpressed with the album to begin with, and this piece solidified my opinion on the changed trajectory of Rosalía’s musical style.
A few weeks later, I gave the album a second chance. And then I listened to it again, and again, and again. The five track run of “G3 N15,” “MOTOMAMI,” “DIABLO,” “DELIRIO DE GRANDEZA,” and “CUUUUuuuuuute” completely restored my faith in Rosalía’s artistic lens, and the album’s grand finale, “SAKURA,” became one of my favorite songs by her. I previously discounted Rosalía’s foray into Latin American genres as a cheap, sellout move in order to appeal to a greater audience. However, I have to admit, the album is well thought out and well executed. It’s clear that the album comes from a place of passion rather than a preoccupation with commercial success. I am definitely not a part of the minority opinion: MOTOMAMI was a raging success, opening at number one on Billboard’s Top Latin Pop Albums, and debuting at number 33 on the Billboard 200. MOTOMAMI also received a score of 8.4 from Pitchfork, and was nominated for four awards at the 2022 Latin Grammys and two awards at the American Music Awards for Favorite Latin Album and Favorite Female Latin Artist.
MOTOMAMI aside, the concept of a European Spanish artist creating music in Latin American genres and being nominated for Latin Grammys raises a lot of questions about Hispanidad. It is an incongruous image to see the colonizer capitalizing off of the culture of the colonized. However, it is undeniable that music has historically developed because of interactions between different cultures. Reggaeton itself is a blend of various cultures and styles of music from around the Caribbean. Even flamenco music isn’t strictly Spanish in origin: the music originally came from the ostracized Roma population in Southern Spain, eventually spreading through the rest of the country (and to Rosalía’s native Cataluña) despite protests from racist Spanish elites. As Rosalía points out in the aforementioned Billboard “Growing Up Latino” interview, flamenco also has some Latin American influences. It is useless to claim that each culture has its own specific, strictly delineated musical genres; music is a global phenomenon, one that surpasses artificial borders and allows for multiple cultural traditions to communicate and innovate.
By blending different musical styles together in order to create something new, isn’t Rosalía just doing what all artists do? Should that be called stealing, or is it just how music works? Rosalía is beloved by Latin American countries, as seen by her many Latin Grammy nominations and sold out Latin American tour. Is it fair to accuse Rosalía of cultural exploitation, or rather, is MOTOMAMI a piece of cultural appreciation? Is Rosalía co-opting aesthetics and pretending to be Latina because that’s what makes profits in Spain, or is she paying genuine homage to the Latin American music heavily present in her favorite city, New York?
I definitely don’t have the answer to these questions, especially as a Spaniard myself. But I can say one thing: despite these ever-present questions whenever I listen to MOTOMAMI, I can’t deny that it’s a good album. Rosalía sheds her intense, neo-flamenco prodigy image, allowing herself to have fun with other genres and less serious matters. But she doesn’t abandon her aptitude for storytelling; she still makes a subtle (but powerful) statement on fame and money throughout the album. With MOTOMAMI, Rosalía has proven her creative worth and aptitude for creating catchy, innovative music. It’s worth the hype and well worth a listen, even if its very existence may raise complex and worthwhile questions about music, identity and culture.