It started with a failed math course. “I failed the same class three times,” RaiNao says over Zoom. “The third time, I said, ‘No, this is not for me.’” So, around 2014, the singer-songwriter born Naomi Ramirez quit her biology major at the University of Puerto Rico and gave up on her plan to become a surgeon, instead pivoting to a new major in theater arts and audio-visual production. “Theater really helped me learn how to utilize my voice,” she says.
A decade later, RaiNao, 29, is one of the most exciting voices in urbano. Her music expertly folds jazz, R&B, and alternative-pop touches into sleek reggaeton, creating a refreshing blend of genres that’s all her own. It helps that she’s also a trained saxophonist with an ear for sounds that stand out and intrigue. “People take longer to understand if you’re not following a trend, but making your own,” she says.
Speaking on her lunch break while filming a music video, RaiNao looks otherworldly with winged eyeliner and sparkling lime-green eyeshadow. Her hair is perfectly tousled, a signature blond highlight streaking her dark locks. Two nose piercings punctured with silver hoop rings match the chunky necklace of linked circles across her neck.
She describes her life as being like a line of flicked dominoes falling into place. In fact, the name of her debut album, Capicú, refers to a play in the popular Caribbean game. “It’s like a win-win,” she explains. “No matter what you do, you’re winning.”
RaiNao has been on a roll since the release of her debut EP, Ahora A.K.A. Nao, in early 2022. The EP’s inventive approach caught the attention of countless new fans, including Bad Bunny, who shared her alt-perreo earworm “LUV” with his global following on social media — then brought her out for one of his homecoming shows in San Juan on the Un Verano Sin Ti tour that summer. In 2023, RaiNao had the audience in Austin begging for an encore at her first SXSW showcase. She gained even more fans last year with two appearances on Puerto Rican producer Mora’s album Estrella. One by one, the dominoes fell in place toward the much-anticipated release of Capicú this year. “Our expectations of [the album] don’t matter,” she says. “We’re going to win regardless, because the most important thing is the process, and the process has been beautiful.”
Moving across hyperpop, reggaeton, R&B, drum-and-bass, dancehall, and salsa, Capicú sounds like nothing else out right now. Horns trill throughout single “Gualero REFF12.31,” creating a smooth accent to the song’s insistent bongos. RaiNao loves experimenting with new sounds; lately, she says, she’s been into the “funky and weird” percussive rhythms heard at Brazilian Carnival celebrations. But her favorite part of making music is writing her clever, evocative lyrics. “I think there’s a magic in using words in a way that only you can,” she says.
Raised in Santurce, a San Juan neighborhood filled with murals and a booming arts and club scene, RaiNao grew up surrounded by music. Her father held side gigs singing in salsa bands like Pete “El Conde” Rodríguez’s. “My dad chased [a career] in music very passionately, all of his life,” she says.
RaiNao loved music, too, but she was a shy kid, to the point that she felt terrified of singing in public. The one exception was in front of the audience at her family’s church. “I knew I could sing because I would sing in the shower and at church,” she says. “I wasn’t scared because it was the same people every Sunday.” Even so, when she tried out for the Escuela Libre de Música, a prestigious music school, RaiNao opted for the saxophone instead of vocals. “I’m sure there’s a lot of my friends who are still like, ‘WTF, what is she doing?’ because I never opened myself up to explore my voice before,” she says.
Her anxiety was a serious issue in her teens. “I would get panic attacks,” she says, adding that she was once hospitalized during a mental-health crisis. Over time, she learned to quiet her fears of the future, but even then, a career in music seemed like an impossible dream. “I always wanted it, but I never dared to start, because it’s hard to make a living out of art,” she says. When she told her dad about her plan to switch majors in college, he offered a word of caution about going all in on music. (“You can do both things at the same time,” she remembers him saying.)
Just before the pandemic shut down the world in 2020, RaiNao said “Fuck it” and uploaded her first YouTube video: a reggae-infused cover of Puerto Rican salsa singer Víctor Manuelle’s “He Tratado.” She followed that up with a string of original singles, holding live sessions online occasionally as a way to connect with fans. Her 2021 song “Me Fui” made its way to Sonar, a new label founded by Puerto Rican powerhouse Rimas Music that year with the goal of platforming rising artists. A biting breakup anthem that traverses jazz, rock, and reggaeton, “Me Fui” showcased the best of RaiNao, and soon she had a deal.
Today, RaiNao sounds confident and sure of herself. “We have today to give it our all,” she says. “We have to do it right now” — which is, of course, a play on her stage name. She chose it by riffing off a nickname (“Nao,” for Naomi), which became an online username before taking on new meaning when she started what she calls her “life project.” In the Bad Bunny-approved “LUV,” RaiNao puts it perfectly: “¿A que esperar? Mejor RaiNao.” (“Why wait? It’s better RaiNao.”)
RaiNao doesn’t shy away from exploring vulnerable emotions on Capicú. With “Naomi’s Interlude,” she refers to her past mental-health struggles with the intent of reminding listeners that they’re not alone. “I’ve learned to control it,” she says of her anxiety. How exactly? “I really can’t do anything other than to make my music and create my reality the way I want to.”
Alongside fellow Puerto Rican up-and-comers like Villano Antillano and Young Miko, RaiNao has started a revolution in the male-dominated genre of urbano music — not just with her mix of genres, but with her loudly queer lyrics and unapologetic presence. “We are doing something unprecedented,” she says. Not only are she and her peers reinventing the scene on the island, they’re blazing a path for new generations to come. “It’s really mind-blowing to be a source of inspiration for others who want to dare themselves to do it,” RaiNao says.
And she’s not going to stop there. This year, RaiNao is out for world domination. “I want to eat the whole world,” she says, narrowing her black-rimmed eyes. “And bit by bit, I’ll do it.”
Production Credits
Hair and Makeup by KAMILA PINERO. Styling by DANIELA FABRIZI. Photography assistance by KARLA SÁNCHEZ.















Drake onstage in Toronto last year
Everybody Likes Drake Again. That Means We’re Healing
Not to be dramatic or anything, but not too long ago, listening to people talk about Drake, you’d think he would never top the charts again. But here we are: With Iceman, he’s broken his own record, earning a 13th week atop Billboard’s Top R&B/Hip-Hop Albums chart on Sept. 5, surpassing Take Care’s 12-week run more than a decade ago. The achievement comes after the great rap civil war of 2024, which was framed as everything from a referendum on Drake’s character as a human being to a cleansing of what popular radio host Ebro would describe, in February 2025, as “a sickness in the game.”
Again, not trying to be dramatic, but even if you were skeptical of the discourse circa 2024, it is a bit shocking to hear the public’s recent re-embrace of Drake. Consider how far the frenzy around the most salacious allegations on Kendrick Lamar‘s “Not Like Us” extended. There was Christopher Alvarez, a disabled journalist, being dragged into conspiracy theories. There was the woman from the resurfaced concert footage, now 31, having to publicly dispute the creepy significance strangers had assigned to an onstage kiss from when she was 17. Drake said in his lawsuit against UMG that the threats had forced him to pull his seven-year-old son out of school.
What now feels like the absurdity of the moment registered as something deathly serious at the time. By September 2024, Lamar was releasing the ominous “Watch the Party Die,” just days after his Super Bowl halftime performance was announced. Oh, also, a major talking point in American culture a year and a half ago was whether one of the biggest superstars in the world would be publicly branded a pedophile during the Super Bowl.
In what world would any celebrity recover from that?
Except, with time, the online frenzy surrounding the Drake and Lamar feud reads more like a mass-psychosis event than a cultural reckoning. The music, oddly enough, often seemed secondary to the certainty of everyone discussing it. “Not Like Us” was a veritable hit, absolutely. But its cultural dominance became bound up in a widespread vilification of Drake that curdled online, where the most damning interpretation of anything could quickly become the accepted one. For a while, even putting on a Drake song could feel like something you had to explain, as if listening amounted to taking a position on the allegations.
That this all happened in 2024 is meaningful. This was right in the peak of Elon Musk’s reconstruction of Twitter, privileging rage bait and engagement tactics that helped misinformation disseminate like fact. It was also the beginning of AI tools becoming sophisticated enough to produce convincing-sounding tracks. Even before Drake released his first response, “Push Ups,” AI-generated response tracks were circulating across social media. And so, in many ways, the well of public opinion was already poisoned.
Listeners’ recent embrace of Drake feels settled in a broader cultural shift brewing since 2024. The beef, in hindsight, feels like a dying vestige of whatever people want to call “Woke 1.0”: a particular faith that exposing the right person could amount to a cultural transformation. For a moment, defeating Drake seemed to promise something about the future of hip-hop, about who would belong in it and what it would tolerate.
There were obvious holes in the argument, namely who exactly these arbiters of culture were and why they were uniquely qualified to speak for the entirety of Black people, questions that Drake pokes at on “Ran to Atlanta” from Iceman. Still, these were never even supposed to be binding philosophical truths in the first place. To hear levelheaded commentators discuss it, this was all simply entertainment — two of the genre’s greats duking it out. Even one of the beef’s catalysts, Metro Boomin, echoed the sentiment, lamenting how online fans had turned the battle into something sinister. Hell, even Jay-Z said something similar before himself tossing a few jabs at Drizzy in a freestyle at the Roots Picnic this year. But the artists themselves supplied the allegations. The ability to raise those stakes and then retreat into “simply entertainment” was part of the dynamic, too.
Even so, how it all devolved into a pseudocultural reckoning says more about the environment fans exist in today than it does about either Drake or Lamar. In the years around the beef, shocking revelations about Diddy as well as the global elite’s ties to Jeffrey Epstein have become folded into the background, alongside a sense that accountability remains selective. This atmosphere of collective powerlessness offers one explanation for the conspiratorial thinking at the heart of Lamar versus Drake. A frustration with an increasingly degraded world and dwindling resources to change it means outrage can mobilize an enormous number of people very quickly, with little holding them together once the moment passes.
The language of exploitation and cultural extraction gave the battle a purpose that seemed to extend well beyond either rapper. But even if you took the least charitable opinion imaginable of our Canadian hitmaker, what was supposed to happen after Drake was defeated? The industry whose supposed wickedness Drake allegedly embodied carried on selling the spectacle itself.
What everyone was caught up in was an appetite with a longer history than the social media platforms now feeding it. Lance Oppenheim’s new film, Primetime, returns to Chris Hansen and To Catch a Predator, a television format that made public humiliation feel like a public service. The connection is in the experience offered to the audience. The viewer could enjoy the confrontation with the reassuring sense that watching served some larger good. Never mind if anything that was unfolding on screen amounted to justice.
In the historian Anton Jäger’s book-length essay Hyperpolitics, published earlier this year in English, he describes how the past decade’s surge of political feeling has coincided with a continuing withdrawal from communal life. More isolated digital environments can fuel extraordinary mobilization without the actual community organizations that might turn it into something tangible. Negating Drake, then, became a gesture in itself. A means of signaling a broader dissatisfaction with the direction of hip-hop culture. Where the problems extend to technology and the demoralizing margins of streaming music, for a while it felt good for people to just wrap it all up in one word: Drake.
But on Iceman, it’s hard to take the idea of Drake as an evil force within hip-hop very seriously, even as he himself makes an effort to lean into the role of the villain. Drake’s music is most potent when it’s aimed at the masses, even if he swears his nice-guy days are over. This is the Degrassi kid turned global superstar rivaling Taylor Swift, after all.
Now, with Fear of Missing Out, Drake’s cryptically announced project slated for release this week, we’ve entered a second kind of Drake Renaissance. However delusional it seems, there was a moment when it felt somehow wrong to play Drake. His return to the top of the charts suggests a good deal of people were eager to get back to listening.