It’s been a few days since Bad Bunny’s DeBÍ TIRAR MÁS FOToS (DtMF), and while I am not an active and avid listener of reggaeton, trap, or its other subgenres, it is a disservice not to notice and listen to what is going on today.
Since its launch, DtMF has reached #1 in several countries, making its debut with over 36 million streams, surpassing the artist who holds the No. 1 spot, Taylor Swift. This is not surprising coming from an artist like Bad Bunny, whose last couple of albums have grown quickly, turning him into the most streamed artist several years in a row.
For the past few months, I’ve been alerted to what is to come from this artist. I understood that salsa is back, but in a different form. It is emerging from an unexpected source, but one backed by research and a roster of musicians to support it. In non-typical fashion, most artists who suddenly venture into Salsa, Bomba, and Plena genres often abandon their original styles and even alienate their fans. Bad Bunny, on the other hand, has brought a mix that is undeniably balanced and at times sufficiently experimental. This new work signals what’s to come for his future artistry and his solidarity with the Puerto Rican community.
Between my alerts and constant observation of musical trends, I’ve noticed that the generation of those 35 and under is finally ready for neo-salsa. This new wave will not replace the traditional hits that are endlessly replayed, covered by many artists, and continue to dominate the charts. Instead, it evolves with new lyrics and rhythms that bring the classic salsa swing into conversation with the unique words and experiences our generation is known for.
With DtMF’s launch, this trend was confirmed. Just as in Un Verano Sin Ti, Bad Bunny brings Puerto Rican roots to this album—but this time, they’re even more prominent. It’s more than a subtle rhythm change in a single track; these influences take over most of the songs, either in fragments or in their entirety. Bunny collaborates with legendary and rising talents, such as Andy Montañez for NUEVAYoL, Los Pleneros de la Cresta for CAFé CON RON, Chuwi for WELTiTA, Omar Courtz and Dei V for VeLDÁ, RaiNao for PERFuMITO NUEVO, Tito “El Bambino” for EoO, and even includes words from actor Jacobo Morales in BAILE INoLVIDABLE.
This album isn’t for the older generation. It isn’t for other countries. It’s for our island, for our generation—the ones who have fought, been defeated, been forced to leave, or stayed behind wishing they don’t have to leave. It’s for the ones who painfully can’t return. It’s a love letter not just to the island, but to all of us, regardless of our individual experiences. Why? It is filled with references and words that only those who know and have lived our culture will understand.
As with any traditional love letter, this album plays on nostalgia—the memories of time spent with family, of our traditions surrounding parties and gatherings. For instance, in his song PIToRRO DE CoCO, Bunny elaborates on cultural elements through lyrics that hold deep significance:
Con el doble seis y doble cinco me trancaste el juego
This lyric makes the game of dominoes central—a pastime so culturally significant in our little Caribbean island. I can easily remember all the games I played with parents, cousins, friends, and strangers. That doesn’t mean I was good at it, but it was about the connection. Throughout Puerto Rico, you can find permanent domino tables at beaches, parks, and plazas. In the United States, such spaces might be reserved for chess tables, but for us, dominoes reign supreme. You don’t need to know your opponents; by the end of the game, it’s almost guaranteed that you’ll have laughed and made a new friend to meet again next week.
Llorando y bebiendo pitorro de coco Que me trajo abuelo pa’ que vacilara No pa’ que por un cuero a las 12 llorara
Puerto Ricans are all about the party. Even our protests feel like celebrations at times. At the center of any relevant family event is always a bottle of pitorro. Known as Puerto Rican moonshine, it hits much harder than its American counterpart. Distilled in the island’s mountains, it’s often called “Tears of the Mountain” and became a symbol of resistance during America’s Prohibition era. Produced clandestinely, it remains a tradition today, with families crafting their own unique flavors. Often exceeding 100 proof, pitorro is not just a drink but a reminder of resilience. Puerto Ricans take pride in keeping our culture alive, even in the face of mass production. There’s nothing like that shot of pitorro handed to you by your grandparents to lift your spirits and guarantee a good time.
Uh, uh, uh, tú ere’ mala, te fuiste como la luz
How could a song about Puerto Rico be complete without mentioning the horrendous conditions of its electrical grid? It couldn’t. Often tied to the aftermath of Hurricane Maria, it’s important to clarify that rolling blackouts were widespread on the island long before 2017. These outages have plagued Puerto Rico since at least 2015, a decade of failing infrastructure. Hurricane Maria only exacerbated an already dire situation. A long-running joke in Puerto Rico claims that the power will go out hours before a storm hits or even when no storm is coming at all. This lyric captures the deep frustration and humor we’ve developed in response to this ongoing crisis.
Despite all this, Bad Bunny doesn’t abandon what made him the global sensation he is today. He pulls back from his typical trap beats and instead leans into the rhythms of classic reggaeton. This decision enhances the nostalgic feel, evoking memories of dancing in garages and old clubs during the early 2000s. He pays homage to the pioneers of reggaeton who paved the way for him, referencing artists like Héctor “El Father,” Tito “El Bambino,” Jowell y Randy, and Zion y Lennox. At the same time, he acknowledges contemporary urban artists like Tokischa and Rosalía.
On the other hand, the title track DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS as well as WELTiTA are love songs that, for many in the diaspora, aren’t about that typical breakup or that one person you used to spend so much time with. The imagery of the latter’s lyrics—“vuelta en la playita,” “Vamo’ a besarno’ frente a las olas,” “Sudaíta’, el sol te da y eso brilla como blin-blin”—sets the scene of a summer romance, which, in Puerto Rico, is a year-round affair. It paints a vivid picture of the beach, its waves, and the ever-present radiant sun. Yet, for those of us in the Puerto Rican diaspora, listening to these lyrics often shifts the focus. The romance takes a back seat, while the love of the island itself and the experience of feeling its lush environment take center stage. It’s almost impossible not to imagine the waves and the sand while reminiscing, only to then be hit by the emotional weight of the title track.
DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS stands for the realization that what you have is not enough. While it is another love song, it resonates differently. It makes us miss our friends and the ones who are no longer here. For those of us in the diaspora, it’s a painful reminder of the hurt we’ve caused by leaving—how those we left behind likely wished they had kissed us more, hugged us more, shared more drunken laughs, or watched more movies together. The reality is that we feel that pain too. We wish we had more time. It hurts to see those still on the island enjoying life, not having to long for what we miss so deeply, and it hurts even more to know that we are missed in return.
This track encapsulates the complex, bittersweet emotions of being in limbo as part of the diaspora: the sense of not belonging where we are, the impossibility of feeling close even to those who have also left, and the pain of being scattered across states or even countries. We’re left with photos from years ago, of moments that feel like they happened in another lifetime, longing to create new memories, yearning to feel the island again. The opening lyric pierces right to the heart: “Otro sunset bonito que ver en San Juan,” another sunset I see in San Juan. A sunset is always unique, always vibrant, always impossible to fully capture with a camera. Then comes that familiar joke we often throw around when we hear a sudden pop and can’t tell if it’s a gunshot or a firework. We remind ourselves, “No sé si son petardo o si son tiro.” For those of us who lived near the caseríos or projects, it’s a line we know all too well.
At the song’s end, Bad Bunny wistfully pleads for those close to him to not have to leave like so many others have. It’s a heartbreaking acknowledgment of the collective loss we feel as a community. Nearly impossible to think about without shedding a tear—even for me, as I write this.
I could go on to write an entire thesis about this album, its seemingly endless references, and the rich history it embodies. Each song could have nad should have, its own separate and deeper analysis, but I feel this is the right place to stop. I cannot fully put into words the way this album makes me feel—not only for a genre I don’t typically connect with but also for an artist I deeply respect. Bad Bunny has created more than music; he has created a cultural testament to our artists, our musicians, our local businesses, our roots, and our identity, wherever it may have spread.
