t’s Wednesday night at the Box, the notorious erotic club in downtown New York, and Tokischa is stripping off her lingerie onstage. She cheekily steps behind a white, backlit curtain so that the crowd can only see the shadow of her body as she dances sensually. The room of devoted fans roar at each gyration.
A few moments later, Tokischa sports a skirt and cropped T-shirt as she lies face down and claws at the stage in painful desperation, channeling the heartbreak that overflows on her new album, Amor & Droga. She’s delivering this dramatic performance for an album listening event, and each theatrical move speaks to the duality at the heart of Latin music’s favorite provocateur.
“You guys think I’m just a horny bitch? I have a lot of feelings. I’ve gone through a lot,” the Dominican musician tells Rolling Stone. It’s the day after her listening event at the Box, and Tokischa is a quieter, more mild-mannered version of herself. It almost feels like she is a different person with her bare face and casual low-rise jeans, though the graphic T-shirt she wears does feature a naked woman with a bushy crotch and the slogan “Happiness is a tight pussy.”
“The world got to know this cute bellaca [wicked] girl that was just horny, writing songs in her room,” Tokischa says, referencing the past five years she’s spent in the spotlight, courting controversy and shaking up the music industry with her sexually explicit lyrics and provocative demeanor. Now, with her long-awaited debut album, the 30-year-old is showing a more emotionally-charged side of herself and her art. “I wanted to take the inspiration from what I lived at the time and bring it into this new space and show the world what really happened,” she says.
Tokischa first started releasing music in January 2021. By that summer, she’d gotten co-signs from major stars like J Balvin and Rosalia, jumping on tracks for each. The next year, her riotous, sexually liberated energy caught the attention of Madonna, and the pair collaborated on a remix of “Hung Up.” Since then, the fans that fell in love with Tokischa’s IDGAF attitude have been clamoring for her debut LP. So what took her so long to get her own full-length project out into the world? Partly, Tokischa blames management woes.
“The lack of experience in a project can mess up a lot of things,” she says. “The budget for this album was crazy because I was not experienced.” She claims that she spent nearly a million dollars of Warner Music Group’s money to make the project.
This past January, Tokischa sorted the business side of the album’s release and focused on how to bring it out into the world. Over 17 tracks, Amor & Droga chronicles her toxic relationship from a decade ago, when she struggled with substance abuse issues in the Dominican Republic, and how each moment led to her new, healthier reality. (She’s been sober since 2020.) Tokischa pulls no punches, showcasing her sexual desires alongside her family trauma and every dark thought in between. Below, Tokischa breaks down key tracks off the album, and just like on the album, she doesn’t spare any of the raw details.
“Mi Novio”
I was 20, 21 when I had the idea for this song. I first came to Miami and I met Diplo. I’m a big fan of drum and bass and I was like, “I want to make a drum-and-bass song for my album.” I had an idea of how I wanted to tell this story, to start from the beginning of when I met this guy [in the Dominican Republic]. Diplo put out that beat and I just started writing. I wanted to make sure everybody knew that’s when my life changed. That’s when I tried ecstasy for the first time. I started seeing the world differently.
I remember we were at the Malecón in front of the open sea. I was feeling high and the sea called to me: “Jump in, you’re a part of this. Come now, in the middle of the night.” That’s the beginning of the story. I loved the high. I loved having fun. I loved tripping, but I didn’t want to do it every day. [My boyfriend and I] had a lot of problems at that time and we used to physically fight.
“Vacía”
This song went through a lot of different sounds with the instrumentals because the vocals were so strong. Those are some of the best vocals I’ve ever done. I wrote it in such a different environment, too. It was a few years ago, in 2022. I was away in Jarabacoba on a mountain with my friends and my vocal coach and she was playing guitar. I think that’s the first time I ever wrote a song on a guitar. But then I was like, “I want this beat to be kind of alternative. I don’t want it to be a ballad.” We reworked it for the album and I added a little bit of reggaeton and it hit really nice and smooth. It took me a long time to finish it, but it was worth it.
ADVERTISEMENT“Banda”
This song is so old, I still have the demo. When I wrote that song, I was with the guy [that “Mi Novio”] is about. The relationship lasted like three, four years maybe. It was really hard [to write], because I was heartbroken because of him. He had this thing where he never left the house; I had to beg him to come over to my house 20 minutes away. When I recorded that song, I was screaming. But it was so hard to recreate that emotion because I’m so happy in my life now. I have a beautiful boyfriend that loves me and cares for me. It took me a few sessions to get into that emotion, specifically, and feel it.
“Perreo Llorando”
I love this album because a lot of the songs are so old. People might think, “Oh, now she wants to do this type of music after she got lit.” No, these songs are old. This was my first time doing a reggaeton song with an actual Puerto Rican producer [Súbelo Neo]. We worked on the beat and I was like, “I like raw dembow. I like raw reggaeton. I want to feel that drum hit. I want to feel the bass.”
I made this when I first came to Miami in 2021 and I saw how everything was sad. I had stopped doing drugs in 2020, so I was still super sensitive to everything. I saw all of these people outside in Miami, rich people with all the money in the world, all the Gucci, and everything is still sad. So I wrote the song and I recorded it and it was instant. I knew it was an amazing song. But my management back in the day was like, “We can’t put that out now… We have to keep doing dembow.” That’s bullshit. As an artist, we should be allowed to just go whatever direction we feel like. This song was kept from the world all that time.
“Diva y Depresiva”
This one comes right after me begging this guy to call me [on the track “7pm”]. So I’m like, “Wait, I’m that bitch. I’m the diva.” I’ve learned that. I was so obsessed with my first boyfriend. When I moved, my idea was to try to see him again and propose to him. I brought a ring to propose to this man. I was so delusional. The day that he was going to return to D.R. and we were going to meet up, he never showed up. I was so sad. That day, I did molly. And when I was high, it just hit me. I felt so stupid. I was like, “What is wrong with me? I’m so creative and amazing and I’m crying over this guy that I was with a few years ago.” I got back to myself. I walked down the park with my blunt and my beer and I was like, “I’m that bitch. Watch out everybody.”
“Lola”
She’s one of the only friends that I have from back in the day, like 10, 11 years ago when I was living what I’m talking about on the album. In the song, I’m talking about our relationship, her mood swings, her relationship with her sister and just how we used to be. We used to drink rum and listen to this song “Tear You Apart” that she showed me from the band She Wants Revenge. We used to listen to that song on the train all the time. The inspiration for the sound [of “Lola”] came from that song. We just reunited last night. She came [to the Box] and I showed her the song. She was like, “You’re making me blush!” When I make a song about somebody or show somebody a song, I like to do it in person.
“Mona”
On that song, I’m rapping hard. When I was working on the album in 2025, I was like, “Maybe I could invite [Spanish rapper] Kase.O because I already know him.” He matched the energy perfectly. I’m so proud of that one. That collaboration, it’s like part of my core. KaseO is a rapper that I appreciate and I love. I used to listen to him a lot when I was a teenager. Everything that he raps, it’s so personal, and he’s a Pisces, too. I just felt connected to his music. I know that people that are fans of hip-hop en español, they’re going to love it because he’s an icon.
“Su Frida”
You know what’s so funny about “Su Frida”? I held back a lot of things that I was saying there because I didn’t want to hurt people. It was too raw. When I wrote that song, I was mad at everybody around me. I had a lot of family trauma. I grew up around a crackhead. I grew up around a thief. I grew up seeing and saying a lot of crazy things and then it took me years to unlearn that behavior. I’ve suffered a lot and I wanted that song to be the second to last because I wanted to give context.
In the D.R., the word sufrido [sufferer] was popularized by [rapper] Trentisiete. Whenever somebody in their art is sad, it’s like, “Estoy sufrido hoy, me siento como un sufrido, yo estoy solo.” [Trientisiete] was going to be on the track, but then he told me, “I’m not suffering enough to be here. I need to go and suffer some more because of what you’re saying here.” The official Dominican sufrido was like, “It’s too sad.”
“Nani”
The last song of the album I decided to call “Nani” because that’s the nickname my dad gave me. I wanted to give the album a happy ending by talking about my actual relationship right now. My boyfriend calls me “baby girl,” and I just love it because it gives me this peace and it’s so loving. He’s the sweetest and I’m very happy and grateful. Then, the song transitions into me saying “daddy issues.” Even though [he’s] perfect, I’m still going to have trust issues. It closes the album with a happy ending, but I still have that darkness running through.
Albini and Whinna in an undated Polaroid snapshotCourtesy of Heather Whinna
2nd grade Courtesy of the Albini Family
7th grade Courtesy of the Albini Family
11th grade Courtesy of the Albini Family
Big Black in 1986Gail Butensky
Albini built Electrical Audio to embody his recording philosophy in a physical space.© Monfourny Renaud/DAPR/ZUMA
Albini got seriously into poker in his later years, as seen in this photo from the 2008 All Tomorrow’s Parties festival.Roger Kisby/Getty Images
Albini and Whinna founded the Letters to Santa charity in 1996.Courtesy of Heather Whinna
Whinna (center), Kim Deal (right), and Electrical Audio staff unveil the Steve Albini Way street sign in November 2024.Althea Legaspi
Althea Legaspi
Althea Legaspi
Whipped Cream*
Pop Albums Are Getting More Ambitious. Can Audiences Keep Up?
This Music May Contain Hope, the second album from British songstress Raye, makes great demands of its audience. The record nearly runs the length of a feature film and most of the 17 songs sound like they could soundtrack one. When the credits roll at the end — she thanks each and every person who helped create the record for six and a half minutes on “Fin.,” — they conclude a gloriously disorienting listening experience. For most of the album, Raye is asking you to come along as she fights and prays through despair and self-criticism to keep hope alive.
Sometimes that battle is filtered through songs that sound like show tunes or gospel hymns. In the case of “Click Clack Symphony,” they crescendo into a dizzying Hans Zimmer composition. There’s a level of patience and reciprocity the album requires from its listeners: At once confrontational and confessional, This Music May Contain Hope is not designed for detached consumption — and it’s part of a surge of recent releases that find artists creating ambitious records that encourage intentional engagement.
Last year, Hayley Williams released Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party as 17 individual singles. Fans created their own sequencing and narratives guided solely by the themes and sounds they chose. A few months later, Rosalía released Lux, a captivating 18-track record performed in 13 languages. It shares a musical complexity with This Music May Contain Hope and an interrogative spirit with The Apple Tree Under the Sea, the debut album from Hemlocke Springs released earlier this year. Each record is as all-consuming as the ideas they’re engaging with — mental anguish, faith and religion, internal and interpersonal implosion.
Raye often describes music as medicinal. Backed by the London Symphony Orchestra and Flames Collective choir on “I Know You’re Hurting,” her melodies and harmonies are bandages and sutures. When she instructs the listener to “close your eyes and let this music get to working,” she exudes the wisdom of an elder passing home remedies through generations. At a time when easier access to music often means increasingly passive listening, these albums replace momentary distraction with connection and compassion. They give the audience something to return to.
Raye included the voices of her grandparents at the start of “Life Boat.” The portion her grandfather contributes, where he says, “I’m living, not giving up,” was recorded just days before his death. More voices flood in across the next four minutes. They all repeat some variation of “I’m not giving up, yet,” some with more desperation than others. “Say it,” Raye says, stern and direct. “Say, ‘I’m not giving up, yet.’” The mantra is set against the kind of thudding club beat that defined the earliest phases of her career. Drums and synthesizers are interspersed with delicately arranged strings, but there’s something transcendent about the contours and echoes of Raye’s voice.
That kind of vocal power is something Rosalía speaks about often: Duende. The flamenco term refers to a type of enchantment delivered through an especially evocative vocal performance. It’s not necessarily about technical prowess, or precision. “There’s something so ethereal and divine about el duende,” Rosalía told The New York Times last year. “El duende is something that visits you. It’s something that comes to you.” It makes the listening experience feel targeted and personal. This funneled into Rosalía on Lux. The record unravels in a way that transcends the barrier of language.
Rosalía begins “Mundo Nuevo” in Spanish. Its translation reveals she’s searching for a hint of truth. She finishes “De Madrugá” in Ukrainian with something searching for her this time. “I’m not looking for revenge,” she sings. “Revenge is looking for me.” The London Symphony Orchestra and the Escolania de Montserrat i Cor Cambra Palau de la Música Catalana choir bolster the album, their arrangements ranging from anxious and erratic to soothing and hypnotic.
Rosalía introduced Lux with the first single “Bergain,” which splinters across German, Spanish, and English. When Yves Tumor’s voice cuts through on the song’s outro, the persistent repetition of “I’ll fuck you till you love me” is harsh and abrasive against the preceding moments. Rosalía chases that friction across Lux. Like her mix of languages, she challenges the listener with existentialism and ruminations on the afterlife. It might turn some listeners away, but the ones who stay are rewarded.
Most of the record was inspired by saints, like Teresa of Ávila or Joan of Arc. Their history adds a third layer to the depth of Lux; Hemlocke Springs similarly fixates on religious motifs on The Apple Tree Under the Sea. She weaves in medieval tales and impulsive adventures made for a storybook. Positioning herself as a character in her fantastical stories gives her audience someone to root for while creating some distance between fiction and reality.
In that sense, The Apple Tree Under the Sea shares a theatrical ease of access with This Music May Contain Hope. Raye’s cautionary tales about traitorous South London men who should be banned from WhatsApp play into the same spectacle as Springs’ “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Ankles” and “Moses.” There’s a prelude towards the end of The Apple Tree Under the Sea that features the voice of a man who sounds far away as he preaches about sin and final judgements. It gets even harder to hear him when the sounds of running horses and marching feet cut through. The suspense builds into an orchestral outro that leads into “Sense (Is),” a booming, optimistic song about making the most of a clean slate and a glass half full.
Springs’ journey is the shortest within this set of albums. It spans 10 songs in just over half an hour, but retains its complexities with winding plot twists. Where she leans into communicating through stories and allegories, Raye through a version of theater, and Rosalía essentially through multinational cathedrals, Williams’ Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party brings listeners into an excruciatingly vivid reality. The achingly haunted “True Believer” walks the streets of Nashville. It moves down Broadway and past repurposed clubs. It attends the churches and questions the rhetoric presented in them. It runs parallel to the moments across the album that brings listeners into a home with fragile glass walls.
The album’s most shattering moment arrives towards the end: “Good ‘Ol Days.” It’s not as distressing as “Negative Self Talk,” or as sobering as “Whim.” It glides along a warm groove and drops burning one-liners with pointed specificity. What fortifies it the most is an appearance from Williams’ grandfather midway through the song. “You are so tacky/I think that’s why I love you so much,” he says in a voicemail message. “I just had to call you first on my new phone/I love you, y’all have a blast, bye.” The interlude emphasizes just how interior the content of the record is, made up of real moments, people, and feelings.
There’s a false perception in pop music that the best way to connect with the masses is to keep things broad — that vague generalizations are easier for people to latch onto. But the hyper-specificity and confrontation on these albums form real connection, creating the feeling that the listener is being trusted with someone else’s secrets and struggles — and safe to embrace their own, too.
There’s bravery in how these artists are driven by conviction. They understand the reach their platforms provide, but have little interest in idolatry. They each use different formats to craft a sense of togetherness even in their most intimate moments, like it means more to show someone they aren’t alone than to tell them. They ask for patience as they remind listeners it’s commendable to try. Some people don’t come to music looking for this; it can be challenging to have an artist in your ear telling you to bring your most shattering emotions and memories to the surface. But those are the kind of records that endure over time.