On a Wednesday evening in Iztapalapa, a working-class neighborhood in Mexico City, a block party began to form at sunset near the metro station. It was a typical sonidero event: no stage, no food vendors, no headliner — just two towering speakers, a microphone and a sonidero DJ whose voice echoed down the street.
As commuters emerged from the subway, heading home after work, some heard the music — and stopped to join. Some danced, while others rested on plastic chairs, saving their energy for the next track.
Francisco Chávez, a regular at these events, said he dropped by “just to unwind.”
“You get home relaxed, danced-out, sweaty and tired,” he said. “It’s good therapy — physical and mental.”
Sonidero parties have become a part of Mexico City’s cultural identity, after long being dismissed as working-class “noise.”
The people behind the mic are street DJs who don’t just play music, but narrate the party in real time. They announce who’s arriving, call out dedications to friends and send greetings to entire families.
“The mic becomes a tool of connection,” said Ramón Rojo Villa, a DJ known across the city as Sonido La Changa. “People love being acknowledged in front of the crowd. We’re from the barrio. We represent the people.”
Sonidero culture began in the 1950s, when residents in neighborhoods like Tepito and Iztapalapa began hosting outdoor parties with homemade sound systems. They played salsa and cumbia records imported from Colombia, Puerto Rico, Cuba or New York that were popular in Mexico at that time.
By the 1970s, Sonidero DJs had their own name, following and signature style.
But as the parties grew louder, so did the pushback.
Sonideros were often seen as disruptive and low-class — gatherings for “nacos,” a derogatory term aimed at working-class communities.
“These parties had a stigma of being loud, too public and probably too working-class,” said Arlett Charlot, a sonidero DJ in Mexico City.
Police routinely shut events down, confiscated equipment and fined organizers.
Cultural workers started advocating for sonideros as part of Mexico’s cultural heritage. Among them was Mariana Delgado, who helped connect the scene with public institutions and art spaces that had long ignored it.
“We came from the arts world and started bridging that gap,” she said. “Eventually, we multiplied.” After years of activism, sonideros began performing in museums, city festivals and even on international stages.
But the stigma remained. In 2023, a long-standing sonidero gathering in the central neighborhood of Santa María la Ribera faced an abrupt shutdown by local authorities, reportedly due to noise complaints.
But this time attendees, many of whom were elderly dancers who had been attending these weekly events for over a decade, resisted. They continued to occupy the plaza, asserting their right to public space and cultural expression. The standoff drew citywide attention, highlighting tensions between grassroots cultural traditions and urban regulations.
A year after that incident, the Mexico City government recognized sonideros as part of the city’s Intangible Cultural Heritage, marking a significant victory for the community.
Women take the mic
More recently, women have begun to reclaim space on the sonidero scene — challenging the long-held image of the DJ as a man with a deep voice, a crate full of vinyl and a command of the mic.
The world of sonideros has historically been dominated by men, not just as performers, but as the ones who owned the gear, controlled the spaces and set the rules.
“That is starting to change,” said Marisol Mendoza, the daughter of a sonidero and the founder of Musas Sonideras, a collective of female DJs.
When the collective launched in 2017, it brought together around 30 women. Today, it includes over a hundred females from Mexico and the United States, performing everywhere from street parties to cultural festivals and art spaces.
“We’re not just showing that we can do this too, we’re bringing our own perspective,” Mendoza said. “We add emotion, we tell stories, we connect differently with the crowd.”
Some of the women use minimal equipment — just a mic, a small mixer and their presence. The approach contrasts with the traditionally masculine image of the DJ behind massive equipment, shouting over thunderous bass.
“It’s not about who has the biggest sound system,” Mendoza explained. “It’s about who connects with the people.”
But some barriers remain — not only social, but economic.
“We often get paid less than male sonideros for doing the exact same job,” said Arlette Charlot, Mendoza’s daughter who is also a sonidera DJ. On top of that, some event organizers still hesitate to book women at all, she said, assuming they won’t draw the same crowds.
“People ask if your husband gave you permission to be here,” she said. “They tell you to go home and wash dishes, take care of your kids.”
Still, Mendoza and other sonideras see these moments as chances to reshape the scene and push it forward.
“We’re not just playing music,” said Marisol Mendoza of Musas Sonideras. “We’re creating a space and opening doors for others who come behind us.”
The sonidera DJ insists that the street belongs to the people — and that the people deserve to dance, no matter who’s behind the mic.