California’s San Joaquin Valley runs right along the middle of the state, from just south of Bakersfield up to Sacramento. It was ground zero for Cesar Chavez’s groundbreaking campaign for farmworkers, and it was where I met Agustín Lira when I lived in Fresno.

He was a hero there — someone who helped kick off a historic social-justice movement using a guitar and his voice. He, along with brothers Luis and Daniel Valdez, used song and theater from the back of flatbed trucks on the edges of orchards to get Chavez’s message to the folks working in the unforgiving San Joaquin Valley sun.

Luis Valdez went on to create El Teatro Campesino, which became a world-renowned Chicano theater organization. Agustín Lira stayed in Fresno and continued to sing songs about dignity and resistance to exploitation, with a deep understanding of the value of hard physical labor.

With the release of Songs And Struggle And Hope, Lira finds a new home with the legendary record label Smithsonian Folkways. It is the 44th release in the Traditions/Tradiciones series, produced with the help of the Smithsonian’s Latino Center, and it’s a perfect match. Lira is a bit of living history who is moving the tradition of protest music forward.

Here, Lira, along with his musical partner Patricia Wells, adapt their message for modern times, while maintaining the same inspirational lyrics and conviction. Their music resonates as strongly as it ever has.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

“I think about the idea that our bodies are policed at other places, and what are the possibilities of feeling free somewhere, and what are the possibilities of connecting with each other in ways that aren’t blocked by language?” says Kristy La Rat — stylized as Kristy la rAt — through a crackly phone. “Parties are a way of creating unexpected interactions, which are hopefully really positive and transformative.”

As the collective makes clear on the Facebook invitation for its five-year anniversary Friday night: “This fiesta is a mixed-community-amor, queer-fly, immigrant-posi, POC-centered, genderpolice-free, nena-run, friends-welcome, mucho-respeto space! No wackness, no one-identity-dominance! You are importante, loves! Gracias a todxs por ser inspiradorxs.”

Kristy la rAt started Maracuyeah — the name is an enthusiastic take on maracuyá, the Spanish word for passion fruit — with fellow DJ Mafe Escobar, known as DJ Mafe. Since its inception in 2011, the collective has grown to include other D.C.-area “Latinx” DJs, including Carmen Rivera, aka DJ Carmencha. (The “x” is a way to eliminate a/o gender distinctions in Spanish words.)

The community has stretched beyond the city, to Mexico, Austin, Texas and Paris. The goal is “world domination,” DJ Mafe deadpans, but then lets a laugh escape. She’s been in Paris for a couple of years, spreading the Maracuyeah gospel.

But despite that increasingly international reach, Kristy la rAt believes in keeping some of the action firmly in D.C.

“One strong element is a very local party that contributes something to the local scene,” she says. Both Kristy la rAt and DJ Mafe have backgrounds in community organizing.

The five-year anniversary show is Friday at a regular venue, a Salvadoran restaurant in the U Street NW neighborhood named Judy’s. Before the birthday bash, the DJs reflect their time together and what the future holds.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Bandwidth: What is your relationship to music? How did you come upon music and how does it play in your life?

DJ Carmencha: It’s hard to define my relationship to music. I think that my relationship to music started in my living room listening to records with my family, and I try to carry that with me everywhere I go. All those songs and the way they make me feel in my heart.

DJ Mafe: I think growing up a Colombian, you’re pretty much surrounded by music 24/7. So you go to the store, you go anywhere and there’s music blaring there. In my relationship to music, it’s very important. I’m in finals week right now so I’m listening to a lot of music. I love this app called TuneIn where you can listen to radio stations from across the world. So I started with a radio station in Cartagena, Colombia, and then I moved to a station in Lagos, Nigeria, and then one in Tallahassee.

Kristy la rAt: In childhood, it’s how I related to different parts of my family and understood moving between a lot of different spaces. it was kind of like the soundtrack of different experiences that helped me make friends and move through hybrid identity spaces. And then I would also say that growing up in this area, one of the amazing things is that it’s one of the more all-ages type city. So if you’re a teenager, maybe 13, 14, music was the way I could socialize with other people, express myself, even as a participant. I feel like also another really important part of music is raising money for different things. Some collectives I’ve been a part of here, they’re really grassroots efforts and a lot of the time, we end up getting into DJing as a great way to throw parties and raise money and fund our organizations that didn’t have any other funding.

“I don’t really believe that music can exist in an apolitical vacuum at all. We’re working with all different kinds of music at our parties. We’re touching on themes of gender and race and ethnicity and migration and safety, and all those are political and social concepts.” — DJ Carmencha of Maracuyeah

So following that, how exactly did you get into DJing? What made you want to be behind the table as opposed to in front of it, in a sense?

Kristy la rAt: Now looking back, a big purpose was to support different community initiatives. It was for grassroots radical organizing without having to deal with some sort of funding world or a funding world that didn’t want to fund what we were doing. But also, I started organizing and DJing dance parties in Lima when I was there during college. We organized a femme-organized — or “nena-run,” as they say in Spanglish — event space, so we brought a lot of elements of our identities into the vision and how we wanted to move and how we wanted boundaries and how we wanted our bodies to feel existing in that space and how we express ourselves. So kind of creating a space for our experience was a big part of it.

DJ Mafe: For me, I started DJing in college, first at the radio station and then I started the first Latin-alternative party there because I was tired of all the parties that were just Top 40 Latin music. There’s so much music and artists to showcase that are different from mainstream Latin Top 40. And then when I got to D.C., it was also on the idea that nobody else was playing the music that we wanted to hear, so we just took it upon ourselves to play it and learn how to be great DJs and create these spaces and tour.

DJ Carmencha: I came into DJing after working at a radio station in Berkeley, California. I started realizing that one of my favorite parts was picking the songs to play between talk segments and sharing music with people and feeling their reactions to the music.

DJ Carmencha (Courtesy Maracuyeah)

Did it take very long to learn to DJ? What are some of the tips you’ve learned over time?

DJ Mafe: Technology is different, I would say. I started going at it with CDs and then learning the different tools. So just understanding how to do better mixing and understanding the different types of files and different types of sounds like if it sounds bass-y or not and if they go together or not, but also play with those differences. I remember there’s a lot of, how you say, prejudice if you don’t play a song or how the song should be played. So sometimes we were just like “f**k it, we don’t want to continue with the same BPM, let’s just mix it and change it up.” So I would just say keeping up with technology and covering those tools has been important.

DJ Carmencha: I was very privileged in taking a workshop that Kristy organized with another DJ in D.C. for women and gender-nonconforming people of color to learn some of the basics of digital DJing and organizing parties. And that definitely helped me very much feel more confident with what Mafe’s describing in playing with the tools and playing with the technology and experimenting. Just letting go of that perfectionist fear of making mistakes. But I’m still learning.

Kristy la rAt: One thing that I think is important before learning how to DJ is to think about your goals. Especially right now there’s a lot of hype in DJ culture and the atypical, mythological example of making it big very quickly as a DJ. And I think if that’s part of your goal, that’s fine, but it’s good to be realistic because that’s not most people’s experience. And the same elements that happen in society definitely play out in the DJ world, like attaining different levels of economic success and popularity. It’s very traditional in that way with, you know, discrimination and lack of opportunity. I think that’s why it’s important to have identity-based workshops and identity-centered spaces. Sometimes it’s easy to get confused on why you want to DJ, so just take a second to write down your purpose. Also, I think making playlists is half the battle of DJing, right? Like, a lot of the time it’s what you hear and curation is a huge part of it. And having your friends, too. DJing has always been a collective experience and a vehicle for more collective experiences that I just wouldn’t have enjoyed 100 percent alone, ever.

How have your parties changed?

Kristy la rAt: Well, we’ve learned a lot in how to organize these spaces and in the way that we DJ. And we’ve gotten a much stronger community over the years which means more people can hold down the space in a more collective way instead of the few of us who are organizing. Even the music collection has gotten a more hybrid in terms of playing with a bunch of different genres. And the space is a lot more centered on people of color and queer identities feeling welcomed, as well as everybody, but those identities feel more centered than when we began so that’s kind of cool and that was a goal and something that we’ll keep working on.

Should music always have a political role, or does it just have a social function? Or is it a combination?

DJ Carmencha: I think it’s hard to make a distinction between political and social for me. I think anywhere you exist in a space, you’re saying something with your actions or movements or the songs you’re choosing. I don’t really believe that music can exist in an apolitical vacuum at all. We’re working with all different kinds of music at our parties. We’re touching on themes of gender and race and ethnicity and migration and safety and all those are political and social concepts.

DJ Mafe: For me, music is how to share the immigrant experience and the immigrant experience is very political itself. I think it’s very difficult to separate, just as Carmen said.

Has it been hard keeping these spaces safe?

Kristy la rAt: I would say, even like safer spaces is a challenging proposition given the social conditions we’re working with that play out in most public spaces. So I’ve helped organize parties from house settings where you have more control to club settings where you really have to put your trust in the venue. I think that’s something that people don’t expect, to really create agreements with the venue and conversations about what would security look like and what would interactions look like and what does escalation look like. How do we want our guests to be treated or addressed, even thinking about something as simple as checking an ID. We have discussions on having those respectful interactions and having people not feel like their gender is being policed at the door when they’re coming to a place looking for a positive social experience. It’s a lot of work and it’s an ongoing set of questions that we’re looking to address. When we started working with Judy’s, the restaurant that we work with, it’s all-gender bathrooms, but it’s a whole system you have to work on. It’s a huge challenge and one of the most important challenges in organizing a space.

DJ Mafe: It’s just s****y when you go out to a place and you don’t have security or there’s not a positive space. Being harassed can ruin the whole night, so a space should be more open and safe spaces should include best security practices. People should demand more when they go out so that more of these practices can be shared and applied.

What tips can you give to people coming to a Maracuyeah party?

Kristy la rAt: Respect. And think about each other’s humanity. Not putting hands on other people unless you know they want you to. Not singing along to horrible words that you can’t say since they aren’t part of your identity. Just because a song is playing, doesn’t mean that gives you a pass to use that language if it’s not your place to.

Maracuyeah’s five-year anniversary takes place April 29 Judy’s Bar and Restaurant.

It’s an image I’ve imagined ever since I first heard music that combines influences across cultures, like Americana accented with conjunto or a blues-rock trio singing in Spanish. But I’d never heard the exact sounds that I’d imagined playing in a jukebox in that made-up restaurant until I heard Lola, the new album by Carrie Rodriguez.

The self-proclaimed “half-gringa, half-Chicana fiddle[r]” has made an album that combines seemingly disparate influences into one gloriously cohesive Spanglish statement. Lola‘s cross-cultural references turn a song about iconic ranchera vocalists Lola Beltran and Javier Solis into a tender expression of endless love, sung in English. Elsewhere, a song about this country’s immigration policies is set to a loping cowboy shuffle. The seemingly improbable cultural mashups are a perfect expression of reality for many folks in Texas and beyond.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

It’s hard to keep a good idea down. In 1996, Richard Blair and Sidestepper introduced their innovative mix of Afro-Colombian and pop music to a Colombian scene that was about to explode onto the world stage.

The masterminds behind Bomba Estereo and the rappers in Choc Quib Town have said that Sidestepper’s music opened their minds to the possibilities of ignoring boundaries and mining Afro-Colombian musical traditions. Now, Blair has reassembled Sidestepper for a new album, Supernatural Love, and it’s hardly a nostalgic look back. Instead, it shimmers and percolates with guitars and Afro-Colombian percussion, it’s sung in Spanish and English, it looks forward constantly and, once again, it illuminates a musical path likely to influence the next generation of Colombian innovators.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

Grupo Fantasma‘s raucous, good-time mix of funk, cumbia and soul emerged from the clubs of Austin at the start of the century, bringing with it a fresh sensibility for Tejano music. Now, the band faces a challenge: How do you make that great idea even better?

Problemas answers the challenge with Grupo Fantasma’s best songs yet. The album doesn’t break away from the way the group does things normally; it’s another danceable record, with lots of musicianship in its grooves. But there’s something about the way Grupo Fantasma pulls it off. Everything seems to come to the band with ease, as genres burst apart in the most organic possible ways.

It’s one thing for musicians to mature over the course of years and decades. It’s another to do so while maintaining and building on a childlike sense of wonder. Grupo Fantasma is a band built to last — always growing, but always joyful, too.

Copyright 2015 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

Diaz and her bandmates — sister Phanie Diaz on drums and longtime friend Jenn Alva on bass — embrace traditional rock ‘n’ roll, rockabilly, delicate indie-pop and devastating post-punk with the same alacrity. As a live act, Girl in a Coma embodies all the power-trio glory and intensity of The Jam. The band’s most recent album, 2011 LP Exits & All the Rest, is widely considered to be its best.

For now, though, Girl in a Coma is on hold while its members pursue other projects. Phanie Diaz and Alva have a new band, Fea, and Nina Diaz’s debut solo album, The Beat Is Dead, scheduled for release in spring 2016.

With National Hispanic Heritage Month in full swing across D.C. and the U.S., Diaz recently passed through D.C. to perform at a National Hispanic Foundation for the Arts gala. Bandwidth spoke with the musician about her involvement with the organization, her recent transition into sobriety and her experiences as a musician in San Antonio, which — like D.C. — is a relatively large city without a major music industry.

This interview has been edited for brevity and clarity.

Bandwidth: This trip started around the National Hispanic Foundation for the Arts gala. How did that come about?

Nina Diaz: What I’ve come to realize is that in Hispanic arts, it’s a small world. We’re all connected, which is a good thing because in my culture we’re all like family. “What can I do to help you?” “Don’t piss me off.” It’s very close, [with] forgiveness and anger, but we still — bottom line — want to help each other out.

How I got hooked up with [this gig] was Felix Sanchez from the National Hispanic Foundation for the Arts, he’s the one who puts it together, and his nephew is a fan of Girl in a Coma. He went to Brown University with my manager, Faith. So that’s how they are connected.

It seems that part of the foundation’s mission is furthering the presence of Latino and Hispanic artists in media — in entertainment and music. Does that resonate with you?

It does, especially now that I’m understanding what I could possibly do. With Girl in a Coma, it just happens to be that Jenn and Phanie are gay. It just happens to be that we’re all women. It just happens to be that we’re all Latinas. We just want to play music. So, with that, we started our thing without us knowing we were influencing the gay community and Latina communities. Then we took on the responsibility.

Girl in a Coma is known as being such a well-oiled machine, and it seems that with your solo project, you’re pacing things a bit differently.

Yeah, my manager is noticing what each of us did in Girl in a Coma, because now we’re split. [My role in] Girl in a Coma has always been the writer — and the victim in a lot of situations, too — and feeling like the weird front singer. Phanie’s the business, [like,] “Let’s say yes to everything.” Jenn is the muscle. Phanie’s a big reason why we were constantly on the road, which is not a bad thing. It taught me to be strong on the road.

“This is a big deal for me, to put my guitar down. It’s symbolic of me letting go, of me asking for help. To be able to do this shows how much I’ve grown. I’ve been through so many different phases: diva, quiet, all these different things. And the person I’m becoming now, I’m actually liking.”

I think I heard you say once that a lot of what benefits Girl in a Coma is that your bandmates were your sister and your friend first, and your bandmates second. Does that approach come into play with your band now?

When we first started to form, I knew right away that I wanted Jorge [Gonzalez, of Pop Pistol] to play drums. I knew I wanted my band to be made up of San Antonio-based musicians. I wanted to give people a chance to make their way up, rather than well-known musicians already, and paying them $200 a show or something ridiculous which I can’t afford right now. I wanted to give other San Antonio musicians a chance; maybe after playing with me, who knows where this could take them?

When we started, it was all new for me to be a boss. Right now, we’re still in the middle of getting to know each other. But of course, with Jorge, it happened by accident that we ended up [starting] a relationship. It’s funny, they say, “Don’t eat where you s**t,” but a lot of people do it, like No Doubt and Selena. So we definitely have that relationship, but then balancing it with, I’m his boss. But it’s good that he’s the drummer, so he doesn’t get in my way too much.

Speaking of Selena, you’ve been doing “Techno Cumbia” in your solo sets. Of course, you did “Si Una Vez” on Adventures in Coverland. You’ve also done “Come On Let’s Go” from Ritchie Valens. As far as U.S.-born artists of Latino background, do you feel a connection to those artists?

I definitely do. Especially not being fluent in Spanish. Ritchie Valens, Selena — their first language was English. … They felt more comfortable speaking English than speaking Spanish. I feel the same way, I’m not fluent at all in Spanish. I can sing it, but I’m still learning how to speak it. …

So, I can’t help but feel connected with them. But I’m also me. A lot of times I’d get so caught up in trying to be like someone else… that you forget who you are, and you end up being like a poser, you know? … Now at the point where I’m at, especially with my solo music, I find myself thinking for me, and knowing I’m Nina Diaz, these are my struggles, and this is what I’m going through right now.

It strikes me that there are parallels between San Antonio and D.C., where they’re these relatively large cities with significant Latino populations and no real music industry in the city. Do you think that not growing up in L.A. or Nashville helped develop your music more organically?

Yeah. If I had been from L.A. or Austin even, I don’t think I would’ve had the grasp over my music that I do, with such emotion and passion. … Unfortunately, not a lot of bands stick together because they don’t realize you need to go out and tour. You need to get out. You can’t just stay here.

You’re so known as a guitarist. To step away from the guitar — is that freeing in a way?

Yeah. It is. Like I told Travis [Vela, her guitarist], this is a big deal for me, to put my guitar down. It’s symbolic of me letting go, of me asking for help. “Can you carry this?” It’s a symbolic thing for me, and to be able to do this shows how much I’ve grown. I’ve been through so many different phases: diva, quiet, all these different things. And the person I’m becoming now, I’m actually liking.

I would imagine there could be unexpected challenges doing what you do, suddenly sober.

Oh yeah. I’m the biggest challenge to myself. It’s not so much other people. It’s funny, when I’m at a show and someone will come up to me and say, “Do you want a beer?” Someone next to them will go, “She doesn’t drink.” It’s nice to know that people have my back. You will never see a drink in my hand, nor will you ever see a straw up my nose ever again.

In a way, though, I’m the biggest person who can cause conflict for myself. If I just tell myself, “You’re not good enough,” or if those voices start coming in my head, of, “Why is it taking so long? What are you doing wrong?” That’s when I can drive myself crazy, or when a trigger can come at any moment. Being that I’ve been through so much, and I’ve put my family through so much, I know that I would never, ever have a drop of alcohol or ever go back to doing hard drugs again, because of all the pain. But talking about it is the way that I let it out, and getting other people to tell me their stories. I love that.

[But] you’re working at a bar?

Yeah, I’m bar-backing at Limelight in San Antonio, but it’s kind of slow. I’m doing open mics there on Mondays, and that’s a lot of fun. I used to do open mics at this bar called Martini Ranch about four years ago. It was a good time. But then that’s also when I was in my dark times as well. But now, being clean and sober, some of the acts that come through it’s like, “Ah, that’s why I did drugs.” For real! But then, God bless them. They’re having fun.

Now I can look at the bar and not feel anything. I can literally be behind the bar and be like, “I want a Red Bull,” or something else instead. Nina at 16 years old, if she had been at that job she would have been drunk in the first five minutes of working there.

That was the dilemma Los Lobos inevitably faced as its members prepared to write and record their 24th album, Gates Of Gold, because not many bands have faced that problem. There are no guidebooks for aging rockers looking to stay creative after countless tours, recording dates and songwriting sessions.

But Los Lobos could probably write one.

Gates Of Gold, the group’s first album of new material in five years, practically bursts with the spirit of exploration that has marked Los Lobos’ best work over the years. Musically and culturally, the band speaks to its audience in a way few others have or could.

There is no filler material on Gates Of Gold. After four decades, the songwriting shimmers with concisely drawn reflections on life, as well as slight echoes of 1992’s masterpiece Kiko and its many sonic experiments. But like anyone with 40 years of experience doing one thing and doing it brilliantly — experience drawing on that same seemingly eternal creative well — Gates Of Gold stands on its own.

Copyright 2015 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

As a new royal in D.C.’s Latin dance scene, Zavala — who goes by La SalvadoReina, a portmanteau of “Salvadoreña,” meaning Salvadoran, and “reina,” the Spanish word for “queen” — is facing both a thrill and a challenge as she settles into her reign.

Zavala’s first acts as monarch? Release her debut EP or album, hopefully this year, and continue the long-term project she’s already begun: energizing D.C.’s cumbia community. That’s where the “salvado” part, meaning “savior,” comes in.

“The idea is I’m like a little superhero, saving the party, one cumbia at a time,” says Zavala, 23.

It could be the role she was destined to play. A native of Alexandria, Virginia, Zavala grew up in a Salvadoran household steeped in music. Her carpenter father, Wilson Zavala, came to the U.S. in 1989 with the goal of sending money back to his family and community at home. He did that by starting ACOSAL-USA, a nonprofit that organizes cumbia concerts in the D.C. region. The shows’ proceeds have helped buy school supplies for kids in El Salvador and open a soccer academy and a rehab center there, Zavala says.

Her dad’s concerts left a deep impression on her.

“Every now and then I would wake up and there would be a cumbia band having breakfast with my parents,” Zavala says. “I grew up backstage and I just loved cumbia because I was around it.”

But while cumbia was always a part of Zavala’s life, it wasn’t until recently that her life became cumbia.

Finding La SalvadoReina

Zavala graduated from American University in 2014. When she started college, she thought she’d study to become an ambassador or diplomat. In many ways, she has done that. She just took a different path than she expected.

Well into her college career, Zavala started meeting musicians around campus. She joined Son Cosita Seria (“a serious little thing”): a collective of Mexican artists who were playing son jarocho — protest music — and teaching jarana, a stringed instrument akin to a Mexican ukulele.

“I started going because a friend was involved, and I fell in love with it,” Zavala says. “Then I realized, ‘OK, well, I’m glad that I’m tapped into this through the Mexican music, but I’m Salvadoran. I really want to do cumbia.’”

“I started thinking about it, and I was like, ‘You know what? I’m going to start a project where I’m so Salvadoran and in your face that you’ll have to know that I’m Salvadoran.’”

Cumbia is a genre that began in Colombia, a musical amalgam of indigenous Colombian, African and Spanish influences. It’s immediately identifiable by its jumping bass line, built for a loose two-step, but it’s taken dozens of forms as the music has fanned out across Latin America. The latest cumbia wave is digital cumbia, or cumbiatronica, which vocalists and producers often marry with hip-hop.

Zavala had been around more traditional cumbia her whole life, but during college she started exploring its hip-hop side. She began classes at Words Beats & Life Inc., a D.C. nonprofit founded by rappers and hip-hop artists, many of whom grew up with go-go. Her mentors encouraged her to mix cumbia and rap music. The result became Zavala’s trademark sound. In 2014, she broke out with a song that started as a Words Beats & Life assignment: “Cumbia Capital.”

But Zavala thought her culture was underrepresented in the D.C. arts scene, despite Salvadorans being the largest Latino community in the region.

“You go to Mt. Pleasant, you go to Columbia Heights, you go to Georgia Avenue — it’s predominantly Salvadoran,” Zavala says. “They’re playing their music and they’re sharing their culture, but nobody has someone to look up to when it comes to culture in our area.”

There is no Salvadoran Marc Anthony or J-Lo, Zavala says.

“I started thinking about it, and I was like, ‘You know what? I’m going to start a project where I’m so Salvadoran and in your face that you’ll have to know that I’m Salvadoran.”

She does that by proudly waving the Salvadoran flag and borrowing from classic cumbia, like on her song “De Mi Tierra,” which samples Salvadoran ensemble Sangre Morena. Combined with hip-hop — with help from D.C. rapper FenomeDon — Zavala’s music appeals across generations, too.

“Grandparents recognize the cumbia, and kids hear the hip-hop, and that was the idea behind it,” Zavala says.

But for Zavala, who still lives in Alexandria, crafting her own spin on cumbia isn’t only about the beat.

“It is about party and fun,” she says, but “the one thing that I could possibly give as an artist and with the music that I’m doing is cultural empowerment and a voice.”

“I literally just started”

Over the past year and a half, La SalvadoReina has taken her sound across the country. She has gained a lot of exposure — and in some ways, it’s happened too quickly, she admits.

“All of a sudden I was hanging out with Grammy Award-winning people and opening for Calle 13,” Zavala says. (She warmed up D.C.’s Echostage before the Puerto Rican duo played there last September.) “I started doing a lot all at once and didn’t really know how to handle it, so right now I’m kind of in pause mode.”

Zavala may be an open and gifted communicator with a passion for her work — but she’s also green, and not yet clear on the “it” she’s doing.

“I have a vision for what I want to happen, but I’m nowhere near it. I literally just started,” the artist says. She says she still wants to sound more Salvadoran, both by collaborating with Salvadoran artists and working more music from her family’s country into what she does.

“I’m figuring it out on the way, and I have a lot of good support with the amazing network that I have made,” she says.

One thing Zavala does know for certain: She’s staying in D.C. for the foreseeable future.

“What I’m doing is about D.C. It’s about the voice here. I want it to be for here and to come to here,” she says. “That’s what makes it special.”

WAMU 88.5 is licensed to American University.

The Empresarios release their newest album, The Vibes, on Sept. 25 — right before their appearance at the massive Landmark Music Festival in D.C. But the band is celebrating early. Friday, Aug. 21, The Empresarios play an album release gig at The Hamilton downtown, and they’ve got a new mix to get fans in the proper zone.

The mix is called “Tropicaliente Vibes,” and it includes songs from The Empresarios’ new record, plus a bunch of goodies spanning multiple decades, styles and nations including Cuba, Puerto Rico, Brazil, the U.K. and the U.S.

Peep the fiery track list and stream “Tropicaliente Vibes” below.

The Empresarios play Aug. 21 at The Hamilton with Black Masala. The group also performs at the Landmark Music Festival, taking place in West Potomac Park Sept. 26 to 27.

Track list:

Orlandivo, “Onde Anda A Meu Amor”
Cubanito, “Por Un Milagro”
Tego Calderon, “Cancion de Hamaca”
Empresarios, “The Vibes”
Ranking Toyan, “How The West Was Won”
Empresarios, “Rompan Fila (G-Flux Remix)”
Cachao, “A Gozar Con Mi Combo”
Roberto Roena, “Take Five”
Empresarios, “Rootsy Jam”
Empresarios, “Salsoul” featuring Salsaley Orquestra
Daddy Yankee, “Sígueme y Te Sigo”
Afro Cuban Band featuring Big Boi, “Something’s Gotta Give (Relative Funk Remix)”
Empresarios, “No Vamos A Parar”
Superpendejos, “La Princesa de la Cumbia (Fort Knox Five Remix)”
Wara, “Pretty Cliche (Makala Remix)”
Cut Chemist, “Mas Pan (DJ Day Remix)”
Empresarios, “Morena”
Empresarios, “Encanto”
Quantic and His Combo Barbaro, “Un Canto A Mi Terra (J Boogie Remix)”

Empresarios present Tropicaliente Vibes by Fort Knox on Mixcloud

O’Farrill took the ALJO there to record an album in the hopes of illustrating that, in spite of the divide between the two countries, the musical conversation had never stopped. With Obama’s announcement, they immediately found themselves in the middle of a historic moment that infused the recording with the kind of jubilation that mixes laughter with tears of happiness. The perfectly timed result, Cuba: The Conversation Continues, captures that cross-cultural collaboration, with cutting-edge works written by a carefully selected group of U.S. and Cuban composers.

O’Farrill has deep roots in Cuba: His father, Chico O’Farrill, was born there, and was becoming a well-known musician there before he moved to the U.S. and became part of this country’s Latin jazz revolution. The younger O’Farrill was invited to the Havana Jazz Fest back in 2013, and that set off the deeper dive into Cuban music which ultimately resulted in this record.

We will no doubt hear more about Cuban music as politicians work out the details of improved U.S.-Cuban relations. Don’t be surprised if some of the news coverage is superficial, ignoring the two countries’ long musical history together. You’d do well to start your listening with Cuba: The Conversation Continues and its lesson on how a respectful collaboration can defy politics and dictators.

Copyright 2015 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.