Fiesta en el vacío is the title of a poem by Alejandra Pizarnik, and also the name of Luna María Cedrón’s solo project. Initially purely instrumental, her music is constantly evolving. Lately, Luna has been integrating more and more flamenco elements into her music. Acoustic guitar, minimal rhythms, noisy samples—the whole is stripped back, leaving plenty of room for the vocals. She released a first album on the Simple Music Experience label and a second on Teenage Menopause.
How are you? Are you working on new music, or related stuff?
I’m working on my third album with a label called All Night Flight, and also collaborating with Chrüsimüsi Records of Switzerland. I’m shifting the direction of my project a bit—it’s got more electric guitar now, it’s less electronic, more minimalistic, maybe a bit more rock. I also need to play a lot because, well, I need to make a living.
On top of that, along with my friend Sara Lehad, who’s an amazing experimental noise musician, I host a radio show on LYL Radio called Filastin Alhura, in which we aim to make the Palestinian genocide and colonisation visible within the experimental music scene.
Where are you right now?
I’m in France, in Brittany, where I live with my mother, my son and sometimes my brother.
Did you grow up where you are right now?
No, I’m not from here. I was born in Zaragoza, lived in Galicia, and then in Mexico with my mom and my brother Lazaro, who’s Mexican. When I was nine, we moved to the Basque country on the French side. Later, at 17, I lived in Argentina, where I gave birth to my son. After that, I came back to France.
Do you feel that it has influenced you in what you do?
Absolutely. It’s also because my mom is French and my dad was Argentinian. There’s also the theme of exile—I’m the daughter of someone who was exiled during the Argentine dictatorship. My father left Argentina and never went back. It was such a trauma that he never returned, and at the same time, he was never able to get French nationality. A big part of my family had to leave, and the dictatorship caused a lot of family conflicts and separations, which made it difficult for the culture to be transmitted. My uncle is a well-known tango musician, but strangely, none of that musical heritage was passed down to me. So, it’s not just about the culture that was passed down, but also the context in which it was shared. In a way my work talks about identity, how it’s shaped by history, and how it’s constantly being questioned.
You also draw from various genres from Spanish and Latin American culture, like flamenco and reggaeton.
When I started Fiesta en el Vacío, I wasn’t singing—I was just making electronic music. At the same time, I began making rap with my nephew. For me, it made sense to rap in Spanish. My friend, reggaeton and cumbia dj, La Diabla, who is also French and Argentinian, and grew up on the French side of the Basque Country, just like I did, used to listen to a lot of reggaeton in clubs just across the border in Spain. Reggaeton has always been more popular there than in France. Reggaeton is huge worldwide now, but it wasn’t as widely known 10 or 15 years ago. These cultural elements resonate with the fact that we’re both half-Latina, and they became part of the way we express ourselves now. It’s similar to how flamenco became part of my world through the Spanish influence in the south of France. We both take from what we have around us, from our respective surroundings.
When it comes to flamenco, I incorporate it into my solo project, but I actually prefer to sing with a guitarist and, when it’s possible, for the dance. Flamenco is a music that connects you to other people in a very intense way.
I watched two films about the older generation of flamenco musicians, and both of them told rather sad stories.
The story of flamenco has many origins, and it is impossible to separate it from the persecution of the Gypsies, who faced racism in the past and continue to do so today. Flamenco scholar Faustino Núñez explains that flamenco emerged in the mid-19th century and developed in the theatres of Cádiz, where it became closely intertwined with dance. These early performances provide the first historical records of the palos flamencos (the distinct forms or styles of flamenco music).
According to Núñez, flamenco then became the music of the people—especially the Gypsies living in Cádiz. They would attend these performances, absorb the music, and then develop their own styles. There are many theories about the origins of flamenco, but one thing is particularly striking about this one: for once, it’s not the elite appropriating popular cultures to create a new successful style, but rather the people taking the culture produced by the elite (theatre culture) and make it their own, transforming it into something much more significant.
By the early 20th century, people who sang flamenco often did so simply to survive. Gypsies and payos (non-Gypsies) performed in peñas (flamenco clubs) and cafés to make a living. We tend to forget this survival aspect and focus only on the image of la fiesta flamenca, which, of course, is also part of the reality. While flamenco is often seen as traditional music, it’s important to note that it didn’t really exist in its current form until the mid-19th century.
I worked hard to be able to study in Andalucía for a year, and during that year, I had the chance to play with incredible musicians. It was a really enriching experience. But when I got back to France, I found myself asking, ‘What should I do with everything I learned now?’ because in Brittany, where I live, flamenco isn’t really present—it’s the north of France.
At first, I thought that maybe I could find some people to play with regularly, but I’m in the countryside, very isolated, and it’s also hard to find the time, especially since I tour a lot. So I decided, okay, let’s just sing. I started making guitar loops and solo compás samples to sing over in a very simple way, respecting what I learned in Andalucía.
I’ve been deeply inspired by the singer Inès Bacán, and I was lucky enough to see her perform live in the Peña Torres Macarena. In an interview, she said that she doesn’t understand why people feel the need to add something to flamenco—like mixing it with jazz or electronic music. In fact, she’s worked with very experimental artists like Israel Galván, so she’s not against changes, but she believes that interpreting a cante as it is, already makes it unique and different. So I decided just to sing, and the samples and loops are just a way to help me when there’s no one to play with.
Even though I studied with teachers, the cantaores who passed this on to me expect me to sing it in public. For me, that’s part of my response to the issue of appropriation. I’ve had a real connection with the people who taught me, and as long as I don’t distort it, I think it remains flamenco. And, of course, as long as I’m not making a fortune from it…
That’s also why I don’t want to base my solo project entirely on flamenco – I don’t feel I have the legitimacy to do that. There are so many professional cantaores in Andalucía who struggle to make a living from their music… well, like me at the moment with experimental music. Even though we have the opportunity to have artist status in France, things are really hard at the moment because our proto-fascist government is cutting all the budgets for culture. People in Europe often think it’s easier in France, because we’re supposed to have plenty of social welfare, but the reality is far from that. Social welfare is gradually shrinking and disappearing, leading to social control.
There is also a distinctive atmosphere and a melancholy that are embedded in flamenco, but your music also has that vibe somehow.
Well, in flamenco, there’s melancholy, but there’s also joy, and humour. When I make my music, I try not to take myself too seriously, even though there’s always a bit of melancholy. I can’t take it away—it’s part of the catharsis I guess. I’ve been singing the Seguiriya, a song that speaks of the pain of losing loved ones, but it also conveys anger, dignity, and resilience.
As for my compositions, the topics I explore aren’t that varied. In the end, I always return to the same subject: social violence and gender-based violence. When I started my project, I thought I was writing love songs and breakup songs, but I eventually realised that most of them are about gender-based violence. Melancholy is part of the experience of violence—it’s part of the complexity of feeling something for an aggressor, for example.
And it’s also interesting because a lot of people assume that in more traditional music, the gender roles were more, let’s say, traditional too. But the alternative scenes we’re in are often not so much better.
Yes, that’s true. There are many versions of patriarchy, and it evolves throughout history. I’ve been reading a lot about domestic violence, and in Western countries, for instance, physical violence was only criminalised in the 1970s (with laws like the 1978 ordonnance in France), while rape wasn’t recognised as a crime until 1980, when it was reclassified as a serious criminal offense. In high society—experimental music included, because it’s also quite a bourgeois scene—physical violence is now widely condemned. But there are still other ways to maintain patriarchy that don’t rely on physical violence. For example, women continue to do unpaid work for men, what we call “reproductive labour,” which can include sex, affection, domestic tasks, and many other things. In the 90s, a US social worker, Evan Stark, coined the term “coercive control” to describe a form of domestic violence that doesn’t rely on physical violence but still involves manipulation, intimidation, and control. This form of abuse has only been criminalised recently. It’s a modern, subtler way of performing capitalist patriarchy. And I know many educated guys, even ones who read bell hooks, who still use coercive control with their girlfriends.
What tools are available to protect ourselves on the scene?
I’m not sure we should be looking for tools for ourselves – we should be asking for justice, and the right to dignity. It’s a political question and the answer needs to be political as well.
Last year, I shared a post on social media about the gender-based violence I’ve experienced in the music industry, particularly at shows and festivals. Since it happened while I was working, I felt I couldn’t stay silent about it. Since then, I’ve spoken to many women musicians who have faced similar experiences. What I’ve realised is that when we choose to speak out, we put ourselves at risk because we never know how people will react.
Of course, now we can speak up more easily, and more people are willing to believe us, but it’s still incredibly overwhelming. You feel insecure, guilty for speaking out, some people support you, yes, while others insult you, most of the time they ignore you… There are still those who think we do it just to attract attention. Honestly, I would have preferred not to have to speak publicly. Once you do, you realise that there’s no real support system in place. It’s just us, as individuals, trying to get justice for ourselves. The only thing we can do for now is connect with each other as women musicians and speak out.
As a musician, I really don’t feel I have the power to change anything on a structural level. Having all-female lineups is good, but it’s not enough. The problem is structural, and it needs to be taken seriously by promoters and institutions. It’s not about men having to deconstruct themselves to become better human beings.
We can’t separate gender violence in the music scene from the broader issue of musicians’ precarious working conditions and exploitation by the industry. These issues are deeply interconnected, and capitalist dynamics are present even in the experimental and DIY scenes.
Even if the situation has changed from before, when it felt impossible to say anything, the reality is, not everyone has the same opportunity to speak up about rape and gender-based violence. White, bourgeois women have more chances of being heard and believed — and they can afford therapy afterwards. What if you’re poor, undocumented, have children, or if you are a kid who’s been through incest? What if you are a person of colour? Speaking out in these cases is much riskier. Even if you do speak out, you might not be heard at all, simply because you’re not in a position of power. You’ll face more racism and misogyny, lose your job, or lose custody of your children — something that happens frequently in France in cases of father-child incest.
In France, victims of sexual and domestic violence are not properly supported. The state offers little to no help, and with the recent and future cuts to health and social budgets, it’s not going to improve anytime soon. Women and kids who speak out, who try to find the help they need, face a system that is failing them. It’s a huge issue that needs real political and social change. In this sense, European neoliberal and austerity policies play a significant role in exacerbating domestic and sexual violence.
Interview Lucia Udvardyova