The 50 Best Latin-American Rock Albums

Just like the Zombies, Uruguay’s Los Shakers released the most influential album of their career after they had disbanded. And just like Odessey and Oracle, La Conferencia grew in critical stature, recognized today as a key step in the emancipation of Latin rock. Fixated on the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s, this wide-eyed song cycle emulates The Beatles’ loopy sense of humor and orchestral coloring. But it also adds a bandoneón line to the kaleidoscopic “Más largo que el ciruela,” and South American folk to “Candombe.” The fusion of disparate cultures would soon become the norm.

The Colombian duo’s sixth album shows how far the genre has evolved since the hesitant first steps of rock en español. Slick and self-assured, it assimilates the expected foreign influences with panache, operating both as a funky party album and a sobering reflection on cultural stereotypes (“Los Chicos Sí Lloran”) and the toxic dualities of Latin American urban centers (“Suéltame, Bogotá.”) Recorded in Nashville, the band’s imperial cover of “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” should make Tears For Fears proud. 

Formed in Guadalajara, La Revolución de Emiliano Zapata reproduced the acid-rock haze of Cream, Creedence and Quicksilver Messenger Service with touching devotion. There is a homemade charm to the rough production, the English lyrics sung with a Latin accent and the sincerity of psychedelic jams like “Nasty Sex” (“sing a song of love,” it suggests.) A promising debut, it did great in Europe and Latin America, but La Revolución succumbed to government pressure and switched to romantic balladry for an even more successful run.

The most grandiloquent concept albums of the British prog era have nothing on this adaptation of a poem by Pablo Neruda celebrating the glories – and inevitable decline – of South America’s indigenous cultures. It has aged remarkably well thanks to the purity of the quintet’s melodies, the superb musicianship, and a sensitive mix of prog majesty with earthy Andean folk – the sound of the quena, zampoña and ocarina manage to keep the pomp factor down. Don’t miss the minimoog solo on the 11 minute-long “La Poderosa Muerte.”

Long before Los Van Van became the kings of Cuban salsa with orgiastic timba hits like “Sandunguera,” the orchestra led with utopian zeal by bassist Juan Formell set up the foundations of songo – an idealistic blend of rock, soul, Afro percussion and the frothy violins that glide majestic on traditional charanga ensembles. The band’s long forgotten second album is still a revelation, the funky cookout “La Habana Joven” ending on a psychedelic electric piano solo by future timba legend César ‘Pupy’ Pedroso. One can only imagine what other treasures Formell – who died in 2014 – could have devised if he had chosen to remain in Latin rock mode.

A nervy compendium of rollercoaster emotions and relationship woes, Los Bunkers’ breakthrough fourth album ponders on desire, anticipation and loss – mostly loss – to the ragged riffs of Strokes-like rock’n’roll. Years of touring had turned the Chilean quintet into a vicious generator of dark melodic hooks, and the transparency of the lyrics is painful – guitarist Francisco Durán wrote the power-pop scorcher “Llueve Sobre La Ciudad” after a post-breakup rainy night walk in Santiago. It became the band’s biggest hit.

Colombia’s Génesis emerged from a hippie commune in 1970, the brainchild of bassist Humberto Monroy, who had already experimented with Latin psychedelia as the leader of Los Speakers. Recorded over four days, Génesis’ self-titled second LP mixes folk-rock with radiant Andean melodies – and a trippy, blues-infused reading of the classic “Cumbia Cienaguera.” The highlight? A somber, fragile Spanish version of Cat Stevens’ “How Can I Tell You.”

The puzzling title alludes to the hero’s mysterious battle cries in the Tarzan comic strip. The music inside is equally zany: “I am the fly that landed in your soup,” the iconoclastic Seixas sings on “Mosca Na Sopa,” as a messy blues-rock riff wrestles for space against stirring samba chants. A man of many countercultural hats, he could sound despondent and folky on “Metamorfose Ambulante,” then dress up as a romantic balladeer on the alchemy fable “Ouro De Tolo,” about turning lead into gold. Seixas died in 1989 at age 44, but his irrepressible spirit lives on.

Some may prefer the grit of his days with Colombian metal band Ekhymosis. But after he moved to Los Angeles and enlisted Latin Alternative godfather Gustavo Santaolalla as his longtime producer, singer/guitarist Juanes found a surefire recipe for catchy pop songs with enough textural ambivalence in them to qualify as rock. No wonder audiences worldwide went crazy for this sophomore effort: the Latin sass on “La Paga” could wake up the dead, and the lavish chorus of “Es Por Ti” justifies its million selling status. Bonus points for the swanky cover of “La Noche” – a tropical diamond by Colombian legend Joe Arroyo.

Following a transformative stint with tropicalia icons Os Mutantes, Rita Lee spent the best part of the Seventies erecting the musical throne on which she was rightfully anointed queen of Brazilian rock. Fruto Proibido grooves wildly – echoing the harder edges of an Elton John – its songs bursting with cabaret piano vamps and bluesy guitar solos. From the cheeky “Esse Tal De Roque Enrow” to the anthemic “Ovelha Negra,” this self-professed black sheep found redemption in music to the very end. Rita Lee passed away in 2023, aged 75.

Zoé’s neo-psychedelic masterpiece bristles with the flame of British rock – from the sound of producer Phil Vinall (Pulp, Placebo) to the stylistic references (The Cure on “Vía Láctea,” Floyd on “Side Effects”) and guest vocals by The Charlatans’ Tim Burgess on the languid “Corazón Atómico.” The tasteful arrangements and impassioned vocalizing by lead singer León Larregui place this cinematic odyssey – the quintet’s third effort – steps ahead from the competition.

“It’s like the perfect blend of Rage Against the Machine and Tito Puente,” producer Gustavo Santaolalla declared gleefully as he was putting the finishing touches to the ridiculously tight second album by this Puerto Rican quartet. The jagged propulsion of the title track gains an extra layer of adrenaline with the addition of Afro-Caribbean coros and snappy trumpet riffs. On the atmospheric “Solo,” the metal section is sandwiched between salsa-jazz grooves evoking the tropical rock of Venezuela’s Guaco and Cuba’s Los Van Van.

Other bands of the time were influenced by psych-rock. This sextet from Lima, Peru, on the other hand, embraced the spirit of psychedelia in all its hallucinogenic glory. Before becoming the first Peruvian band to step out of the country for a South American tour, Traffic Sound released this hazy treasure trove of tambourines, exotic guitars and echoey vocals. With nods to Incan culture, the frantic “Meshkalina” was the undisputed hit, but Virgin is at its most affecting when it breaks into a Peruvian folk pattern (the opening title track), or dives deep into the catatonic Floydian haze of “Tell the World I’m Alive.”

Hailing from Monterrey, El Gran Silencio shone from the beginning as one of the finest live outfits in the business. This genre-bending third album is the one that best captures the party-til-dawn energy of their gigs. Raucous cumbias are the band’s bread and butter, and both “El Retorno de los Chúntaros” and “Cumbia Lunera” deliver on that front. But this chronicle of a day at an imaginary radio station – complete with spoken interludes by famous Mexican DJs – ventures into the ominous psych-norteño gravity of “Canción Para Un O.G.T.” and the affecting warmth of “Círculo de Amor.”

Banda Nueva’s debut celebrates the art of Colombian prog-rock, combining the forlorn psychedelic balladry of Procol Harum (“Quiero Contarte”) and the instrumental pyrotechnics of Return to Forever (“Rumba I”) with the pervasive influence of South American salsa. “El Blues del Bus” builds its groove on music-hall piano, but the lyrics are about surviving Bogotá’s public transportation. The awesome “Emiliano Pinilla” – a protean stepping stone for Colombian pop – begins with an Afro-Cuban tumbao that segues into wistful hippie-rock coros.

The next great hope of Argentine rock appeared seemingly out of nowhere with its geeky moniker – a subtitled dialogue from a trashy American movie – and the most unassuming resident genius in decades: singer/songwriter Santiago C. Motorizado. Hailing from the sleepy city of La Plata, the quintet blossomed on this elusive third LP, both novel and familiar. It opens with the mesmerizing alt-rock of “El Tesoro,” the lyrics mocking and celebrating the miseries of unrequited love. Motorizado sounds painfully honest on “La Noche Eterna,” the kind of guitar-based anthem that would make U2 proud.

It was a triumphant appearance at the 1985 Rock in Rio festival that confirmed Os Paralamas as one of the sharpest Brazilian bands of the decade. The following year, the trio led by guitarist/vocalist Herbert Vianna returned with a third LP, its boldest and brightest party album. MPB icon Gilberto Gil guests on opening cut “Alagados,” the lyrics condemns social inequality and the favelas around Rio de Janeiro. Os Paralamas’ trademark brand of reggae-rock is in full bloom on the call-and-response drive of “Melô do Marinheiro” and the laid-back Tim Maia cover “Você (Usted).”

The Uruguayan band’s fireball of a second album cemented its reputation as one of South America’s most dependable tropi-rock orchestras. It was immensely popular at the time of its release, introducing NTVG’s trademark mix of murga, candombe and ska-pop. The marching band intro of the brassy “Tenés que Saltar” leads into ferocious electric guitar, and “No Hay Dolor” decries the oppression of the Southern hemisphere with biting reggae riddims. But the album’s emotional crux is “Clara,” a heartbreaking song about loss – and the relief of remembrance.

Revered among rock en español connoisseurs, Chilean quartet Los Tres inspired Café Tacvba to record an EP honoring its songbook. The band’s fourth album, Fome takes its sarcastic title from Chile’s slang for tedious, or unfunny – the exact opposite of the session’s hyper-focused web of biting alternative rock. The oblique melody of “Bolsa de Mareo” adds gravitas to the lyrics chronicling permanent dissatisfaction. “Olor a Gas” contemplates suicide from afar, its lap steel guitar moaning with contempt. The gypsy-jazz vibe of “La Torre de Babel” was the album’s biggest hit, but every single song shines with defiance.   

Funny how one of the most transcendent albums in Uruguayan music almost didn’t materialize – sabotaged by his own, less than reliable creator. By the early Seventies, singer, songwriter and guitarist Eduardo Mateo’s perfectionism had become crippling. Recorded during a series of erratic Buenos Aires sessions that he eventually deserted, Mateo solo bien se lame was salvaged by its producer and rightfully hailed as a classic for its sympathetic fusion of Uruguayan candombe, pop, bossa nova, and a hint of traditional Indian ragas. Mateo found inspiration in everyday life – “Uh, Qué Macana” was about his girlfriend leaving him for a trip to New York, and “Lala” about nursing his niece back to health. A solitary record in every possible sense of the word, it reflected the purity of its vision on tracks like the delicate “Quién Te Viera.”

Onstage, Santa Sabina emanated a near-gothic aura, its arty sonics bouncing between the theatricality of ‘70s prog and the icy crackle of Eighties alternative. The star of the band’s self-assured debut was actress and lead vocalist Rita Guerrero, who added operatic madness to the spastic “Chicles” and unlimited diva glamour to brash opening cut “No Me Alcanza El Tiempo.” Guerrero died of breast cancer in 2011 at age 46, and Santa Sabina never received the recognition it deserved as one of Mexico’s most adventurous acts.

You haven’t really lived until you watch the YouTube video of Brazilian lovebirds proposing at Los Hermanos concerts as “Último Romance” plays on. Written by singer/guitarist Rodrigo Amarante, the song describes the devotion of an older couple in love, knowing this will be their last romance. The Rio band’s third outing, Ventura was named best Brazilian album of all time in a 2012 radio station poll. An exaggeration, perhaps, but it underscores the emotional connection generated by these devilishly melodic hits. The funky brass section adds a spoonful of sugar to the euphoric “O Vencedor.” 

“Your sex was poetic/Just like your jealousy,” moans Chile’s grand chanteuse fatale on opening track “Tormento,” but you may altogether miss the nod to Seventies balada on the organ-filled intro – her voice is the kind of beautiful beast that demands complete and undivided attention. Laferte became one of the most electrifying ambassadors of Latin not only because she writes fantastic songs, but also because she elevates them with vocal performances of frightening intensity. “Amor Completo” opens as a gentle balada ranchera before Laferte’s extra rasp invokes the spirit of rock, and the muted trumpet at the end adds a smoky puff of jazz. On “Tu Falta De Querer,” she makes heartache sound like an offer you can’t refuse. 

Between the late Sixties and early Seventies, Uruguayan music could do no wrong, as the originality of the newly minted candombe-beat – Afro-based candombe plus the bonhomie of British beat – transformed South American rock. Rising from the ashes of earlier group El Kinto, Tótem burst into the local scene with a sound of enviable harmonic complexity and cutting percussive chops. “Biafra” juxtaposes the sweet intonation of Uruguayan maestro Rubén Rada with pointed political barbs, while the la-la-la chorus of “Mañana” caresses the senses like a ray of sunlight. Released a few months after Santana’s Abraxas, this unforgettable debut is just as inspired – and prescient.

Vives’ undisputed tropi-pop showpiece is 1999’s El Amor de Mi Tierra. But when it comes to unrepentant rock & rolling, this is the album that will make you sweat profusely. Helmed with a punky kind of punch by Elvis Costello producer Sebastián Krys, El Rock de Mi Pueblo makes a credible case for vallenato being the Colombian equivalent of rock. It helps that the songs simmer from beginning to end, pumped up by raucous 4/4 drums and Egidio Cuadrado’s volcanic accordion licks. As always, Vives excels in declarations of romantic passion – “Como Tú” and “Maleta de Sueños” will make you fall in love with the act of falling in love itself. Tempered with a faint electronica loop, “Qué Tiene La Noche” is a stirring nocturnal anthem.

Molotov’s debut dropped at a time when shocking the mainstream was still a relatively easy thing to do – and the Mexico City quartet jumped at the opportunity with unerring bad taste. First, there’s the album cover – a savage mockery of pop-rockers Maná. Then, the sound: tense and tight, a double-bass menace; the unholy marriage of the Beastie Boys and Rage Against the Machine. Finally, the filthy lyrics, leaving no stone unturned in their crusade to expose the lecherous establishment and systematic oppression of Latinos (“Gimme Tha Power,” “Voto Latino,”) while reclaiming the vitriol of the homophobic slur “Puto” and giving it new meanings. ¿Dónde Jugarán Las Niñas? captured lightning in a bottle – and various bodily fluids, too. Sadly, the band was never able to match such dizzying heights again.

One of Latin rock’s most anarchic albums, El Salmón makes for a hypnotic listening experience. Its original version presents 103 songs spread over five CDs, a pilgrimage into the creative soul of Calamaro – an Argentine rock star influenced by tango, the Stones, Dylan and the blues. Some of the songs are finely crafted: the cynical thump of “Output Input” and the jazzy dusk of “Para Seguir.” There’s also plenty of half-formed ideas and low-energy moments, and that’s part of the charm. Calamaro intersperses original tracks with a wild selection of covers, from a solemn “The Long and Winding Road” to the Latin standard “Alfonsina y el Mar.” By the end of disc 5, you are left pining for more.

The Chilean band’s fourth album – released after they had become a reference point in Eighties South American rock – contains what’s probably the loveliest example of Latin synth-pop: “Tren al Sur” sounds like a Depeche Mode gem, but with the addition of a traditional charango line and biting, socially aware lyrics – don’t call him poor because he rides the public train. Recorded in Los Angeles and tainted by singer Jorge González’s obsessive infatuation with the wife of a bandmate, Corazones brims with bittersweet melodies and psychosexual intrigue (check out the icy poise of “Amiga Mía.”) Three decades later, the flesh has tempered but the music remains.

It’s easy to understand why El Amor became one of Argentina’s best selling albums: the songs are peerless jewels of Beatlesque pop-rock, from the opening title track’s assured electro groove to the joyful positivity of closing hit “A rodar mi vida.” This is where Páez – a keyboard wunderkind from the city of Rosario – reached the pinnacle of his songwriting skills, and El amor captures every single shade and turn of such a privileged moment. Páez gets heavy on “Tráfico por Katmandú,” nostalgic on “Pétalo de sal,” and downright rootsy on “Detrás del muro de los lamentos,” with guest vocals by folk priestess Mercedes Sosa. In 2023, a Netflix series about the making of the album reconfirmed its iconic status.

It may not be a rock record in the more conventional sense of the word, but the blockbuster debut by the greatest Brazilian supergroup of all time is thoroughly informed by the playful spirit of Rubber Soul and Pet Sounds. Songstress Marisa Monte, Bahia percussionist Carlinhos Brown and gravelly voiced Arnaldo Antunes–-all three stars in their own right–are at the peak of their powers in this dazzling pageant of MPB luster, toy instruments and soulful harmonies. From the bouncy electronic beat of mega-hit “Já Sei Namorar” to the barely whispered Christmas ballad “Mary Cristo,” the beauty in this batch of songs is disarming – and magical.

A lo-fi masterpiece, the debut album by Buenos Aires troubadour Mauricio Birabent showcased his gift for writing protest songs that were immensely poetic in their melodic turns, but also laced with a desperate – almost juvenile – plea for a lost innocence that perhaps never existed to begin with. Inspired by Fifties rock’n’roll and the bitter wounds of tango, Moris stood miles apart from his more intellectual Argentine peers. Underneath the rough singing and barrio stage persona, his lyrics were astoundingly sensitive, defending gender fluidity on the timeless “Escúchame Entre el Ruido” and lashing out at opportunistic hippies on “Pato Trabaja en una Carnicería”. A brief, impressionistic session, it pioneered the emotional model of nostalgic remembrance that would inhabit everything that followed.

Long before he became a million-selling Latin crooner, Roberto Carlos found his vocation in rock’n’roll. With his jangly guitar, a phenomenal songwriting partnership with Erasmo Carlos (no relation) and a honeyed vocal tone that encapsulates the longing and exuberance of youth, he spearheaded the jovem guarda, or “young guard,” movement that took Brazil by storm. Em Ritmo de Aventura is the soundtrack to a movie – the South American answer to the Beatles’ Help – that found the charismatic Roberto driving a red sports car to the beat of the sugary, Hammond-heavy “Por Isso Corro Demais.” From the raw charm of soul-rock smash “Eu Sou Terrível” to the wistful “Como É Grande o Meu Amor por Você,” this was one of the first albums that showcased the boundless potential of Brazilian rock.

Determined to quit drugs, Italian singer Luca Prodan moved to Argentina in 1980 because heroin wasn’t available there. He would find refuge in alcohol and die in 1987 at 34. But in those seven years, Prodan reinvented Latin rock with his peculiar European accent and the eccentric mosaic of influences that made up Sumo: virulent post-punk, bouncy reggae, the menacing pomp of Van der Graaf Generator and the dark redemption of Joy Division. The band’s second album boasts some of its strongest material: “Los Viejos Vinagres” extols an open minded attitude to a furious beat, while the febrile “T.V. Caliente” daydreams about Italian diva Virna Lisi. “Heroína” combines the jingle of a shampoo commercial with a bluesy ode to Prodan’s favorite substance. Irreverent, anguished and deeply influential, the music of Sumo was a rare flower – and a harbinger of change.

Inspired by the field recordings that he amassed during his travels around the world, singer and multi-instrumentalist André Abujamra returned to his native São Paulo and spent three years crafting Latin music’s most criminally underrated album: a sprawling, cosmopolitan, immensely poignant debut about unity and love. He enlisted a moving temple of an orchestra–plus two actors and a dog that would sit quietly onstage during concerts–and cross-pollinated formats with abandon: reggae and samba; orchestral rock with Arabic pop; real and imaginary languages. “I’m not from this world/I came from Atlantis,” he states on the infectious “Comendo uva na chuva.” A quixotic, otherworldly master, Abujamra was painfully ahead of his time.

Argentine trio Soda Stereo spent most of the Eighties wearing their synth-pop influences on their sleeves, but by the time the group enlisted the assistance of esoteric keyboardist Daniel Melero and recorded Canción Animal, principal songwriter Gustavo Cerati had cemented an anthemic, guitar-based identity of his own. A meditation on the healing forces of music itself, “De Música Ligera” became Soda’s greatest hit, and a pan-Latin rock anthem. The heavy propulsion of “Hombre Al Agua” and the raw electricity of “(En) El Séptimo Día” contribute to the album’s self-assured combustion. For a more refined experience, try 1995’s neo-psychedelic Sueño Stereo – Soda’s bewitching swan song.

So many emotions, so little time. Lafourcade’s passionate sixth album was sandwiched between tributes to Agustín Lara and the classic Latin folk songbook. By contrast, Hasta la Raíz feels like a whirlpool of sunny vibes, with just a touch of rainy afternoons for good measure (the jazzy breakup ballad “Lo Que Construimos.”) The title track marches forward with undeterred optimism, while the irresistible “Mi Lugar Favorito” feels like the soundtrack to a film about sensitive young artists on a road trip by the sea. Lafourcade was 31 at the time, and the freshness of these songs infused Latin rock with confidence. As the world was already beginning to fall apart, the Mexican singer’s voice – crystal-clear, angelic, always in command – implied that music still possesses the power to soothe the soul.

Judging by song titles such as “Cachete a Cachete” and “El Disco Anal,” you would be right to assume that Los Amigos Invisibles’ breakthrough second album was slightly fixated on the pleasures of the flesh. The Venezuelan sextet’s live gigs of the late ‘90s – a happier time, when guitarist and underrated genius José Luis Pardo was still onboard – became legendary for their Dionysian blend of disco, mambo and decadent ultra-funk. But Los Amigos also channeled Jobim on the silky bossa “Las Lycras del Ávila,” and celebrated the innocence of lounge on “Mango Cool.” Featuring a hilarious rap by percussionist Mauricio Arcas, “Ponerte En Cuatro” poked fun at machismo while lighting up the dancefloor. At their best, Los Amigos are the ultimate party band – but with a subterranean layer of regret.

If the 1970 debut by Luis Alberto Spinetta’s band Almendra was a foundational milestone for Argentine rock, the sessions that he recorded three years later with experimental outfit Pescado Rabioso signified a brutal fracture, as well as a coming of age. Invoking the radical spirit of French poet Antonin Artaud, Spinetta delved freely into surrealism for an album that is essentially a solo effort, informed by acid rock, swaying acoustic guitars and thorny jazz harmonics. “Bajan” simmers with barely contained electricity, while the chorus of the bluesy “Cementerio Club” was inspired by an inscription Spinetta found on the wall of a jail cell after being detained by the Buenos Aires military police.

Anchored on the wounded mystique of singer, guitarist and songwriter Saúl Hernández, Caifanes contributed to the emancipation of Mexican rock with a dense, near-gothic sound that achieved the right balance between hope and despair by knowing when to throw in the occasional ray of light (for a quick pick-me-up, try the brassy majesty of “Nubes.”) The thinly disguised confessional journal of a band imploding just as the world at large surrenders to its lugubrious anthems, El Silencio was produced with empathy and clarity by King Crimson alum Adrian Belew. Hernández’s subsequent band, Jaguares, would operate on a slicker canvass – but for sheer emotional connection, nothing beats Caifanes classics like “Debajo de tu Piel.”

Born in Jalisco, Mexico, Carlos Santana moved to San Francisco as a teen, and soon became the Latin rock architect of the U.S. music establishment. A spiritually inclined guitar sorcerer, he felt comfortable playing the blues, jazz fusion or a Tito Puente standard. Recorded with his band Santana, the million-selling Abraxas embedded Carlos’ abrasive guitar licks on an authentic Afro-Caribbean section of congas and timbales performed by José ‘Chepito’ Areas and Michael Carabello. The group’s soulful adaptation of Puente’s 1962 cha cha chá “Oye Cómo Va” was imbued in the original’s salsa flavor, but it also grooved like the American rock classic that it is. In turn, the sounds of Abraxas rippled back South of the border, influencing a generation of aspiring Latin axmen.

Co-produced by members of Café Tacvba, Gustavo Santaolalla and Joe Chiccarelli, the Tijuana singer’s second outing revealed her as a songwriting prodigy. A song cycle of unfathomable passion, Bueninvento is endearing in its vulnerability and eccentricity. It is also filled with memorable passages, like the mournful self-reflection of “Sería Feliz” and a gutsy cover of the Juan Gabriel gem “Siempre En Mi Mente” that surpasses the original. Until the arrival of Bueninvento, Latin rock albums weren’t supposed to sound like this. Armed with her accordion, knotty piano chords and heavenly vocals, Venegas rewrote the rules of the game for the benefit of everyone else who followed on her path.

Recorded in New York City just as Argentina returned to democracy after years of censorship, the second solo album by the former leader of influential groups Sui Generis and Serú Girán, Clics Modernos chronicled the full transition of rock en español into angular New Wave. An exhilarating session, it mostly forsakes live percussion in favor of an 808 drum machine. Bouncy opening track “Nos Siguen Pegando Abajo” is a not-so-subtle condemnation of dictatorial oppression, while “No Soy Un Extraño” ventures into tango meets synth-pop atmospherics. On the impassioned “Los Dinosaurios,” García shows off his keyboard pyrotechnics while celebrating the end of tyranny. He had never sounded so blissful.

Casting an adoring gaze on Chicano culture, the black and white movies of Tin Tan (“rey del barrio”) and the vintage glamor of Mexico City’s tropical ballrooms, Maldita Vecindad celebrated the past with congas and sax riffs – but also amped up the mosh pit with their uncompromising blend of ska, reggae and punk. El Circo overflows with unexpected pleasures – from the heartfelt sincerity of “Kumbala” and the rollicking “Pachuco” to the airiness of calypso revival “Pata de Perro.” It was also hugely influential for Latin rock as a cultural movement, because of the panache with which it cherished and embraced its own culture.

Hailing from the Buenos Aires suburb of Lanús, Babasónicos echoes the glam-pop vanity of Roxy Music: the exaltation of hedonism as the noblest of life pursuits, a cynical attitude towards sex and romance, and a barrage of art-school and literary references. But the band is also nurtured by singer/songwriter Adrián Dárgelos’ intimate understanding of Seventies balada – its preoccupation with gossamer melodies and a bohemian state of mind (the precious “El Loco.”) They can also rock like Black Sabbath, and devise songs of breathtaking beauty like the majestic opener “Los Calientes.” Follow-up albums Infame (2003) and Anoche (2005) perfected the recipe. 

In the late Sixties, the eccentricity of psychedelia found fertile ground in Brazil, where a young generation of musicians decried the nation’s military dictatorship. Searching for a new sound – forever known as tropicália – they were equally in love with bubblegum pop and the avant-garde. Aided by the ingenious arrangements of Rogélio Duprat, the trio of Rita Lee, Sérgio Dias and Arnaldo Baptista created a delirious sonic wonderland that gave Magical Mystery Tour a run for its money. On the iconic opening track “Panis et Circenses” – penned by Caetano Veloso and Gilberto Gil, no less – hippie chants collide with mellifluous recorder, offbeat percussion and a distorted Strauss waltz playing on the radio. The Mutants have a wicked time covering Françoise Hardy, The Mamas & the Papas and Jorge Ben – but they can also be introspective on haunting pearls like “O Relógio.” 

The commercial success of 1994’s “Matador” –a bombastic mix of carnival beats and political lyrics–inspired Argentina’s Fabulosos Cadillacs to throw record label expectations to the wind and revel in their experimental tendencies. A vaguely conceptual opera populated by surfing skeletons, diablitos and glowing skulls, Fabulosos Calavera employs the band’s instrumental heft to zigzag restlessly from thrash metal to brassy funk, spaghetti western and sentimental balladry. It begins at a furious space, seeking to mock and subvert, but then becomes impossibly tender. “Niño Diamante” morphs the piano riff of Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” into wistful art-rock and “A.D.R.B.” proved that the clouds of tango despair were very much alive. “We write songs/We destroy the songs,” Vicentico sings on “Sábato.” The Cadillacs’ deconstructionist masterpiece is also an audacious declaration of principles.

There is an otherworldly stillness to the songs on Clube da Esquina, a pillar of Brazilian music by the collective of Milton Nascimento, Lô Borges and other like-minded songwriters. At the core of this byzantine double LP lies the genius of Nascimento – the childlike wonder in his fusion of Beatlesque nostalgia, sacred Afro-Brazilian folk, a touch of dissonance, and avant-garde quirks. The songs brim with potent images: the sun on your head as you ride a blue train on “O Trem Azul,” a sunflower the color of her hair on the psychedelic “Um Girassol Da Cor Do Seu Cabelo” – both by Borges. On the tender “San Vicente,” Nascimento searches for a pan-American heart in an imaginary city that he paints with folky guitar riffs and procession-like bells – a taste of life and death. More than a concept album, Clube da Esquina feels like a religious experience.

It begins with the visceral gravitas of “Cosita Seria” and never lets up. The virtuoso vocalizing of self-professed chica difícil Andrea Echeverri soars to dizzying heights as she downplays romantic love on the lilting joropo “La Culpable”–-complete with a misty folktronica bridge–-then praises the healing vibrations of sound on “Música.” Partner in crime Héctor Buitrago adds punky bass accents to the panoramic soundscapes of the superstitious “Buena Estrella” and the breathless “Baracunatana.” The finest band ever to emerge from Colombia, Aterciopelados released many superlative records. Produced in London by Roxy Music’s Phil Manzanera, this is the one that grooves like a derailed freight train.

In the Eighties, Buenos Aires trio Soda Stereo spearheaded a rock en español revolution – and all of Latin America paid notice. The group’s achievements were nothing but a prelude to the relatively brief but glorious solo career of its songwriter, Gustavo Cerati. A tragic figure, the soft-spoken, princely singer and guitarist was left in a coma at age 50 from which he never recovered. His second solo outing – the first following Soda’s breakup – Bocanada is a let-it-all-fly declaration of freedom, a resplendent slice of glamorous South American noir that floats over a gauzy cloud of purples and blues. “Bocanada” turns a sample of Dutch proggers Focus into existential pathos, and “Verbo Carne” evokes the somber aftertaste of a Bond theme. “Everything is happening precisely here and now,” Cerati murmurs on the ethereal “Aquí & Ahora.” 25 years later, it still is.

An astonishing second album, Tacvba’s stylistic tour de force has the spirit of Mexico ingrained in every single one of its 20 tracks, from the chaotic norteño sendup of “La ingrata” to the retro bolero candor of “Esa noche.” At the same time, it sums up the broader colors and contradictions of Latin American culture with the same lack of inhibition of a magical realism novel: the darkly hued humor, innate fatalism and permanent sense of wonder. Re proved, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the music being dreamed up by young Latin musicians within the imperialist context of rock’n’roll could be as original and revelatory as anything by Radiohead or The Clash. Produced with fastidious care by Gustavo Santaolalla, the session illuminated the once-in-a-lifetime chemistry that unites singer Rubén Albarrán (appropriately nicknamed ‘Cosme’ on this LP), keyboardist Emmanuel del Real, and siblings Quique and Joselo Rangel on bass and guitar. Since its release nearly 30 years ago, it has been compared repeatedly to The Beatles’ White Album, and for good reason. The folkified psychedelic ska of “Las flores,” the avant-mambo of “El puñal y el corazón,” and the smoky jazz miniature “El balcón” showcase a band intoxicated with their own power to inspire and subvert.