Put some respect on Karol G’s name. Over the past two years, the Colombian superstar became the first Latina to headline a global stadium tour for her acclaimed 2023 album Mañana será bonito and its companion, Bichota Season, which transformed heartbreak into top-tier perreo. Her career spans nearly a decade of award wins and collaborations with nearly every major artist in old- and new-school urbano, Latin trap, R&B, and hip-hop. She even has her own Bratz doll.
Mañana será bonito and Bichota Season were sensitive and diaristic, recorded as she healed from a public breakup and decorated with Sharpie hearts and mermaid stickers. But they also showcased her artistic growth, using hope as fuel for high-octane urbano anthems. To follow up this monumental success, Karol G’s new album Tropicoqueta roots itself in urbano’s analog beginnings: Live instrumentation and Latina bombshells who captivated audiences with their confidence. Less drum packs, less clothing, more congas. “Más buena, más dura, más level.”
The essence of Tropicoqueta is the backpacking, Próxima Estación energy of “Viajando por el Mundo,” featuring cherished polyglot Manu Chao. Sidestepping urbano in favor of folkloric heart, Karol G ventures across Latin America with soul and precision. There are no attempts at genre reinvention; this album honors Colombian, Puerto Rican, Panamanian, Dominican, Mexican, Brazilian, and Cuban rhythms by delivering them at their purest. It’s a tribute to the music that taught her how to feel before it taught her how to perform. Tropicoqueta isn’t just Karol G’s most expansive body of work—it’s her most researched.
In form and concept, the album directly traces Colombia’s musical lineage and the roles of Latin women in the global entertainment industry. Colombia’s mainstream music history begins in 1934 with the founding of Discos Fuentes in Cartagena. While Eurocentric sounds dominated early radio, visionary label founder Don Antonio Fuentes set out to shape the nation’s sonic identity by scouting the coasts and countryside for Black, Indigenous, and rural talent. His label championed Afro-Caribbean sounds from la costa like cumbia, vallenato, merengue, and salsa, along with those of the campesinos like parrandera and bambuco. In 1961, it broke through with the first volume of the highly successful compilation series 14 Cañonazos Bailables (14 Canon Shots for Dancing), which united a variety of genres under the umbrella of “tropical” music.
Karol channels this musical revolution in tracks like “Cuando Me Muera Te Olvido,” a technocumbia bathed in cosmic synths and echo. The way she draws out the word “cumbia” is a stamp of authenticity, transporting me to a bustling banquet-hall dancefloor with my primas. Sampling George Michael’s 1984 hit “Careless Whisper,” Karol continues the custom of morphing English-language pop songs into unexpectedly great cumbias. (Was this an Uno Reverse for Wham!’s “Club Tropicana?”) Then there’s “No Puedo Vivir Sin Él,” a stunning, accordion-laced vallenato where Karol’s paisa accent feels right at home. Steeped in melodrama and misty-eyed melancholia, it’s the kind of song that turns a bottle of guaro into a microphone. At just the mere thought of losing her lover, Karol sings, “Yo prefiero morir,” placing a gun to her heart. Oh, to be loved, Colombianly.
Though the Cañonazos compilations primarily featured male salseros (like Joe Arroyo and Fruko y sus Tesos), cumbiamberos (Pedro Laza and Gustavo Quintero), and vallenateros, their album covers were eroticized pinup imagery. Leading up to the release of Tropicoqueta, Karol G shared some of these historical covers via Instagram, as if to ask: What if the women on the Cañonazos album covers had performed the songs? What were their stories? Posing pinup-style atop conga drums, she uses the Tropicoqueta artwork to answer.
The album’s historicism goes beyond strictly musical references. Last week, Karol brought iconic Cuban journalist Cristina Saralegui out of retirement to film a special episode of her eponymous talk show, which hosted the biggest Latin musicians from the ’90s until 2010. She name-dropped @ficheraz, an archival project dedicated to preserving the fascinating history of Latin, Caribbean, and diasporic showgirls. Starting as early as the 1940s and continuing into the ’80s, these vedettes—dazzling leading ladies who danced, sang, acted, and even clowned all within one show—took control of their own sensuality through cabaret, burlesque, and film. In the video for “Papasito,” Karol dances Brazilian lambada on a chintzy set reflecting this era of Latina entertainers. The album’s only song partially in English, this galloping, flirty technomerengue evokes archetypal vedettes like Iris and Lourdes Chacón, muses who spoke to international audiences with over-the-top charm and enigmatic, at times absurd, performances. The sumptuous, smouldering bachata of “Ivonny Bonita” embodies these baddies of decades past: bold rumberas who, like Karol G, fell in love with the stage.
You could follow just about every song here into another musical genre or historical tangent. Even the contemporary-sounding songs have lineage, like the slow-whining, old-school flows of “Dile Luna,” an acknowledgment of how much Afro-Panamanians like Eddy Lover have done for reggaeton. Mariah Angeliq singing, “Ya tu sabes quienes son, en un makinon” (“You already know who it is, in a huge machine”) is a shoutout to Puerto Rico. Karol also references the legacies of several Mexican it-girls and artists, recreating Rossy Mendoza’s glittering green two-piece in the “LATINA FOREVA” video and opening the album with a casual, honey-toned duet with Thalía, the “Queen of Latin Pop,” singing her classic “Piel Morena.” Later, Marco Antonio Solís, formerly of Los Bukis, conjures sweeping novela imagery with “Coleccionando Heridas”—picture a male protagonist riding a white horse on a beach at sunset, half-buttoned shirt rippling in the breeze. But the real showstopper is “Ese Hombre Es Malo,” where Karol’s vocals soar over a breathtaking 57-piece mariachi symphony.
With Tropicoqueta, Karol G delivers an album for people who love Latin music and show business as much as she does. Her ambitious vision is shaped by those who’ve come before her and dedicated to the communities who lift her up. The album’s studied combination of traditional and modern sounds underlines what makes today’s urbano so addictive: The cultural references that the Latin diaspora recognize so easily. The way we know which steps to dance within a song’s first five seconds. “¿Será que se quedó el amor en otros tiempos?” (“Could it be that love has stayed in the past?”) Karol asks in “Coleccionando Heridas.” Her fifth album asserts that it’s inside of us at all times, if only you know where to look.
Bruce Springsteen was right. At the risk of simplifying the value of this impressive box set, giving away the main storyline of his new biopic, and flattening decades of mythmaking, the reality is just what Springsteen always claimed. Even when he tried the material with his closest collaborators, using some of the strongest songs he had ever written, the most powerful version of Nebraska is still the one he recorded at home in Colts Neck in January 1982. Just a lonely man in his early thirties with an acoustic guitar, a TASCAM PortaStudio, and an Echoplex, capturing solo demos for what he thought would be a full-band project. Everything that came after was an experiment.
But what an experiment it turned out to be. For those who don’t know the story, here it is in brief. After the success of his upbeat 1980 single “Hungry Heart” and a long streak of relentless touring and critical praise, Springsteen entered one of the most creatively intense chapters of his life. He began by writing the grim ballads and shadowy lullabies of Nebraska, which he then tried to recreate with the E Street Band and in solo studio sessions before ultimately choosing to release the home demos. He did no press and no tour, which left him free to keep writing, and that work became 1984’s massive commercial hit Born in the U.S.A. During that time, he tossed aside enough songs to fill multiple albums, later shared through collections like Tracks and Tracks II: The Lost Albums. He also found time to help revive the career of early rock’n’roll icon Gary U.S. Bonds, co-writing and co-producing two comeback records, contributing a Grammy-winning song to Donna Summer, and hitting the gym with enthusiasm.
It might sound like a golden moment, but for Bruce, it felt like a creative cage—the kind of brooding, restless chapter that inspires a filmmaker to cast Jeremy Allen White to play you on screen. The twist is that the most crucial moments, from the original Nebraska to the electric and explosive version of “Born in the U.S.A.,” happened quickly and naturally, before anyone could complicate the process. Unlike anything else in his official catalog, Nebraska 82: Expanded Edition offers a clear window into that moment. Within this tight collection is a sharper, more complete image of one of Springsteen’s most legendary and personal records—still the one he treasures most—along with rare insight into his creative rhythm.
The set includes a newly remastered version of the album, a disc of solo acoustic outtakes carrying the same raw emotion, the legendary Electric Nebraska sessions, and a live album and film capturing Springsteen performing the record start to finish in an empty New Jersey theater earlier this year. The live material feels reverent, with beautiful support from former Bob Dylan bandmate Larry Campbell. The remaster reveals that, despite the album’s association with the birth of lo-fi, the sound is richer and more intentional than much of what followed. Listen to the last half minute of “Atlantic City” through headphones and focus on how the acoustic guitars, mandolin, and background vocals fade away layer by layer. It’s a reminder of how much careful craft went into creating such stark beauty.
Unlike his earlier box sets for Darkness on the Edge of Town and The River, this one isn’t about showcasing how many different paths he could have taken. It’s about sharpening the vision. Where Nebraska is known for its unbroken mood, Electric Nebraska jerks between heartland laments and roaring rock songs across its eight tracks. These takes feel like rough sketches more than finished recordings—mostly Springsteen on electric guitar and vocals, Max Weinberg on drums, and Garry Tallant on bass—hinting at an album that could have been more accessible and mainstream in 1982. And yet, this raw version of “Downbound Train,” with its clanging rhythms and unsettling bridge, may be one of the strangest things he ever put to tape.
It’s easy to see why Springsteen thought these sessions didn’t work. Versions of “Open All Night” and “Johnny 99,” which on the original album burn with desperate energy, sound here like something a bar band could fall into with a casual count-in and some good-natured rockabilly riffs. On one hand, it highlights how his delivery gives shape and gravity to his songwriting. (Compare the early acoustic “Thunder Road” to its triumphant album version for proof.) On the other hand, slipping into different musical skins was a key part of his process then. He could turn something as playful as “Pink Cadillac” into a moaning, shadowy reflection of itself, as if the character had returned to earth wrecked and hollow, fixated on one thought.
For devoted fans, these shifts are what make the box set essential: witnessing how songs like “Working on a Highway” transformed from a chilling ballad called “Child Bride” into a loud, laughing, raucous number. Some of the outtakes, like the quietly devastating country song “Losin’ Kind,” have been passed around unofficially for years. But this set also reveals two entirely unheard songs: “On the Prowl” and “Gun in Every Home.” In the first, he ends with a dizzying repetition of “searching,” drenched in slapback echo that mimics the sound of a live band. In the second, he paints a nightmarish portrait of suburban life and ends with a bare, defeated admission: “I don’t know what to do.”
Within a single song, Springsteen might take the role of a killer hiding in the dark or a runaway on the move, either escaping or facing the question of whether being caught is actually a strange kind of salvation. That’s the point of sitting in the dark: you can’t see the exit. Yet sometimes he caught brief glimpses of where it all might lead. Along with the original demo tape, Springsteen sent a letter to his manager, Jon Landau. He went through each track, detailing the grim subject matter, floating arrangement ideas, and occasionally letting a sliver of optimism shine through.
He scribbled a note next to “Born in the U.S.A.,” which appears here in two early forms: a heavy acoustic blues and a full-band rocker stripped of its later synths, leaving no doubt about how the narrator feels. “Might have potential,” he wrote. That small spark of belief carried him through. He knew these songs would take work, and that truly understanding them would take time. But he also trusted that at the end of each hard-earned day, there would still be magic in the night.
