In 2024, RaiNao’s CAPICÚ was a breath of fresh air. Plenty of excellent urbano records arrived the year prior, but Nao’s debut had an unreplicable, homegrown Puerto Rican spirit, soundtracking the island from an audacious femme perspective. Each song reflected the album’s title with tongue-in-cheek trucos in the wordplay and production, grounded in queer Caribeña mischief. But its closer—a swaggering, synth-ragga epilogue marching in defense of la isla—sounded the trumpets: “Nació Borinquen/en medio del mar” (“Borinquen was born in the middle of the sea”). How ironic to be surrounded by water, and just two weeks ago, some of Puerto Rico’s most populated cities were hit by the ongoing water crisis.
Still, there is a unique magic to this small island. Puerto Rican movement finds its flow from tension, partnered salsa and perreo, oriented by an ocean both merciless and restorative. This is the undercurrent of RaiNao’s second album, teachings from the Caribbean sea, calling back to the Santurce-born artist’s pasos básicos. Marcriá, or “ocean-raised,” is her first project that pivots her signature style of solarpunk reggaeton into salsa, Latin jazz, Brazilian funk, Cuban guaguancó, and bolero. RaiNao describes this record as a series of “sensory treatments,” and its songs refine the bratty energy of her previous records, unbothered by the formulaic expectations of popetón.
On Marcriá, RaiNao takes Caribbean pop and R&B for a third-eye vision test. Tainy’s work on “GRIS” is a brain bath. Koji Kose’s tranquil handpan collects stormwater for its cleansing properties. The meticulous arrangements make each second count. From the moment the rock-skipping oboes open “(toco madera y te beso),” it’s clear this album is unlike anything coming out of today’s saturated, sample-filled urbano market. The foundational melody is built from sparse congas and careful cuíca, building to fluttering cuatro and warm, piano-driven salsa. “Mariposas en el estómago” is another knockout kiss-off, this time driven by bomba-infused funk, an excellent hook, and gorgeous, panoramic writing: “Fui una nube decorando tu horizonte” (“I was a cloud decorating your horizon”). The backup singers are not merely ornamental layering; they gleam with the aura of true creative collaboration. (RaiNao has a talent for platforming deserving artists. I rinsed Gyanma’s track on her last album, and will be doing the same for Frido Vargas’ “mareo,” a hypnotic merengue framed by soft keys simulating electric praise organs.)
Nao’s got game for days, especially when the red flags start turning into rose petals. “Dame la verde,” or “Pass the weed,” is built on a bed of shuffling claves and calm synths mimicking lap steel chords. Willy Rodriguez of Cultura Profética, a Boricua reggae band that’s been active since the ’90s, spits a verse so smooth that it’ll liquify the rocks in your glass. And when “sofocón” shimmies into focus, led by Nao’s weapon of study, and buoyed by bioluminescent bomba percussion, the way she says, “Piña colada, vámonos pa Lajas/Chingamo’ en La Parguera, ya eso es rutina,” necessitates a cold plunge. It lands with the same flirtatious charisma as 2024’s “Tentretiene,” mapping out PR’s perfect makeout points while also tracking the unhealthy patterns that keep her caught in a vicious undertow.
Much of this record is a balm for love’s destruction. Such is the case with the sweet melancholy of the unabbreviated “Dandovueltasdandovueltasdandovueltasdandovueltasdandovueltasdandovueltasdandovueltas.” Its gentle salsa-samba rhythms are best danced solita, and it will be my choice of ballad to holler and wake the neighbors, with love, on Sunday mornings. It features stunning vocals from the iconic Afro-Cuban singer Omara Portuondo, who, now 95, was the only woman in the original Buena Vista Social Club. When their tones blend on the final chorus, its heart-wrenching wisdom is passed decades apart: “Lo que quieres de mí, nunca tuve de ti/Tus fotos y tus recuerdos vo’a sembrar.” As Nao and Portuondo riff off of one another, and the pianos pirouette into a vortex of smoke, it’s like exhaling back to center. This is a spell for calling back your power from those who think they deserve both the sun and moon in their orbit: “¿Dime, qué tú te crees?”
As a self-assured, breathwork-loving queer woman, RaiNao uses “ODIO A TU NOVIA” as a rare occasion to throw direct shots at another woman: “una básica.” Its violins brew Bridgerton-level tea, reimagining a hectic situationship as if it were a piece of historical fiction. Electric guitars bring this masquerade-off ball seaside, swaying and letting go of stagnant bitterness stored in the hips. She gives only three verses to address the drama, then demands silence for almost an entire minute, a built-in moment for contemplation. But when she reboots, it’s to the tune of a gothic perreo intenso signaling that an entity has taken over—the only thing missing is an evil laugh. It's one of many moments on Marcriá that evolves RaiNao’s alternative sound, soaring with the thematic breadth and compositional finesse of a virtuoso.
