Producers are the backbone of every song listeners grow to love—especially amid the lilts and thumps of Latin genres like reggaetón, dembow, Latin trap, and R&B en Español—but too often this musical vertebra is constructed by cis men. In fact, according to the USC Annenberg Inclusion Initiative, only 2% of producers in the music industry are women—a figure that drops even lower for Latinas and non-white women. 

It’s not that women are disinterested or even new to audio. For decades, Black women producers like Sylvia Rose Moy, Sylvia Robinson, and Missy Elliott have been behind major commercial hits. More recently, Latinas like Ali Stone, Claudia Brant, and Ella Bric have worked with artists like Camila Cabello, CNCO, Ximena Sariñana, and Kat Dahlia. But despite producing classics like The Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” or Mariah Carey’s “Babydoll,” non-white women continue to face challenges entering the world of production, creating a name for themselves in the industry, and building lucrative careers that match their male colleagues. For those who do make full-time careers or find part-time passion projects in music production, it’s often a lonely road, riddled with microagressions, sexual harassment, and pay inequality.

“I want to meet more women producers and collaborate on music, especially Latina producers,” Perfxn, a Bronx, New York-based Dominican-American experimental producer, tells Refinery29 Somos. “Being one myself, I think it’s important for the culture to be a part of that creative space.”

Like Perfxn, a growing number of frustrated women producers and industry folks have a keen interest in seeing more gender inclusivity in audio. But real change will require all players—including labels, artists, music journalists, studio spaces, music programs, award shows, and brands—to strip themselves of bias and use their power to uplift marginalized talent.

“I think male producers and artists have a huge role in making the music industry more inclusive,” Grammy award-winning producer Boi-1da tells Refinery29 Somos. “I know what it means to have genuine allies within this industry—it’s hard for any artist to break through, and no doubt even tougher for women to break through the male-dominated portions of the industry like producing.”

Boi-1da’s walk matches his talk. This year, the Jamaican-Canadian producer, who has worked with the likes of Drake, Beyoncé, Kendrick Lamar, Leslie Grace, and countless others, teamed up with Bacardí in San Juan, Puerto Rico, for Music Liberates Music, a program the rum company designed to champion underrepresented voices in the music industry. Its latest iteration specifically focuses on women. Through the initiative, Boi-1da hand-selected three women artists that he coached over the course of the summer. 

“I want to continue giving opportunities to talent,” says 1da, who also famously mentored and co-signed award-winning hip-hop producer WondaGurl. “Their music needs to be heard.”

Among 1da’s latest mentees is Perfxn, an artist he first came across on Clubhouse during a beat battle in 2020. Through the Music Liberates Music program, they produced tracks, like “On the Way” with vocalist Niqa Mor, that were later minted into non-fungible tokens (NFTs). That a musical powerhouse like 1da would partner with a company that has the resources to invest in emerging women talent is critical. According to Denise “Nice” De’ion, a Black Canadian producer who was also selected to participate in the program, the scale is tipped in men’s favor. “So when someone like Boi-1da, who is a leader in the industry, gives the co-sign, people see that [and] are automatically like, ‘Oh, she’s dope. She’s cool,’” De’ion says. “It helps because it’s a huge brand standing behind women saying, ‘we see what you’re doing, and we want to be an ally and help to increase that number.”

But even when women producers of color get their foot in the door, there’s often a slew of microaggressions, paternalism, ego, and other barriers waiting for them on the other side. During a Zoom call from her home in Los Angeles, Stone, a 29-year-old Colombian producer, recalls the moment a music journalist asked her if she was sure no one helped her produce a yet-to-be-released Mary J. Blige track that she let him preview. “I was like, ‘Oh, wow.’ And I had my laptop there, so I literally showed him the session,” Stone recalls.

Throughout Stone’s 10-year career, she has fought to remain true to her aesthetic and sound, despite the unsolicited suggestions of men. Spewing wild anecdotes with a smile from cheek to cheek, the independent artist explains why she has decidedly remained so after a label attempted to sign her. “They were like, ‘What if we signed you, but like, maybe you did reggaetón,’” she says, laughing. “That’s [not] the music I make.” As an independent producer, Stone has worked with Mexican actress and pop star Danna Paola on “Valientes,” legends of the aughts RBD during their reunion concert, Grammy-nominated artist Cami, and, most recently, beloved Chilean multi-instrumentalist and singer Francisca Valenzuela. 

With self-taught lessons in mixing, DJing, and song making, and a handful of women mentors along the way, Stone is guided by the motto: “Expect the unexpected.”

Distinctly, as twin sisters, DJs, and eyewear designers Coco & Breezy transition into music production, they have decided to go the label route. This year, the dynamic Puerto Rican duo from Minnesota signed a deal with WME. Now, the pair is getting ready to release an EP in 2022. Even though their path is different from that of Stone’s, they agree that women-to-women mentorship and collaboration have been key to their success. 

“If you’re the only person or if you’re the only woman [in a space], some people don’t like to share the knowledge because they feel like they work so hard to get there, and there’s a little ego,” Breezy says. “You can’t have an ego. Just [own] the space that you want to be in and figure out ways to put in those hours so that you can continue to be greater.”

The shared experience of being the single woman in the room, or in some cases one in a handful at best, has not squashed any of the ladies’ hopes for the future. Women like Stone are passionate about making themselves seen and heard in those rooms as well as leaving the door open for others. The producer has worked with Working for Women and Grammy-winning mastering engineer Emily Lazar’s nonprofit We Are Moving the Needle. 

“I feel like the ideal future would be having that equality—total equality in participation, seeing that inclusiveness in the credits, [and] the making of music,” Stone says. “Also, equal pay and making sure it’s a safe space for women in general.” 

Another necessity: recognition. In 2018, Venezuelan producer, songwriter, and musician Linda Briceño became the first woman to take home the Latin Grammy for Producer of the Year. (The first woman ever nominated in the category was Italian singer-songwriter Laura Pausini.) In the U.S., a few women have received Grammy nominations for Producer of the Year, but none has taken home the coveted prize. In 2021, Toronto-based hip-hop producer WondaGurl made history when she became the first Black woman to win Producer of the Year in Canada’s Juno Awards.

The lack of women producers of color winning awards, gaining recognition for their work, or becoming household names like Tainy, Sky Rompiendo, or Swizz Beatz paints an image that only men are or can be music producers, further facilitating the gender disparity in the industry. 

“When it comes to anything where you don’t see a lot of people who look like you in the space, you feel like, ‘should I do this,’ ‘am I able to do this,’ and ‘am I supposed to be here,” Coco says. She replies to herself, and all emerging women producers: “Yes, you are supposed to be here.”

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“Our music, regardless that we have more feminine presence, is still ruled by the guys,” Ivy Queen, beloved Puerto Rican reggaetón pioneer and host of new record-keeping Spotify Original podcast LOUD, tells Refinery29 Somos. “La balanza, it goes to the guys side.” That balance, as she calls it, can be tipped to easily trip up women reggaetón artists in more ways than one. According to those in the industry, what we need to move forward is clear: a dramatic increase of investment and faith in women, particularly Black women, to equilibrate the system and elevate the sound.

Part of this is understanding what reggaetón is and where it comes from. Characterized by a sound that blends reggae, hip-hop, and salsa, the genre’s history starts in underground parties in Panama and Puerto Rico. “Everything we are touching is, essentially, música Afro — music from the African diaspora,” Tostão from hip-hop group ChocQuibTown says in reference to the layered sonic backbone of El Movimiento at large, an umbrella term for so-called urbano genres like reggaetón, reggae en español, playero, dembow, Latin trap, R&B en español, and more. “There’s a new school that is hitting hard, but we’re not seeing where the Afro is … and the question ‘Is the history of structural racism repeating itself in this new generation of artists’ surges.”

This surge has put reggaetón on the mainstream map in a global way. Tostão himself comes from Colombia, a country known for music like champeta and vallenatos, and a recent hotbed for poppy reggaetón acts like J Balvin, Karol G, and promising new talent like Feid. These musicians have made sure the South American country has a permanent seat at the rapidly expanding table. And, especially now that there’s more room, it’s past time to make sure everybody eats.

Urbano is and always has been rooted in African and Jamaican rhythms. Artists like Tostão and Goyo, who are two members of ChoQuibTown, alongside Slow Mike, are working to ensure that this history is preserved. In addition to being a part of the Black Lives Matter conversation in 2020 and partaking in various forward-thinking industry conversations that that movement fueled, Goyo and the guys are working with brands like Amazon to educate listeners on the genre’s Black roots.

“We’re all part of this global Latin family … and that’s why it’s necessary to talk about the globality of racism and the situations and conduct that, in one way or another, make doors close,” Goyo tells Refinery29 about the experience that many Black artists have had when seeking credit success in reggaetón.

When the three of us think back on the great inspirations of the past, the stark difference in the depth of the pocket Tostão has to pull from and tiny front pocket Goyo does is clear. Tostão lights up at the thought of artists who have inspired him, other men like Renato, Nando Boom, Joe Arroyo, Grupo Niche, and Tego Calderón. Meanwhile, Goyo struggles for crumbs.

“There are a lot of women who aren’t part of the story, but were there at the start,” Goyo says. She recalls Janet Usa, a household name in Buenaventura, Colombia, as a personal favorite, and understands that there are many more women of color like Usa in the shadows — then and now.

As is the case with many flourishing genres, a Black woman is behind the bustling machine that is reggaetón. La Atrevida, a Panamanian nurse and artist who is also known as Rude Girl, holds that line in history. In the early ‘90s, Atrevida toured alongside El General, pioneering and popularizing reggae en español. In doing so, she made space for other early figures to experiment. 

“That woman deserves her flowers,” says Katelina “La Gata” Eccleston, an artist, historian, and associate producer of LOUD. “It’s because of her that Panamanians and Jamaicans, and Panamanians and Bajans, could grow a culture all in one space. She held sessions in her basement in Brooklyn. … She literally cultivated culture in her basement.”

Other women — like the merengue-rap connoisseur and “queen of Spanish rap” Lisa M, delightfully familiar voice Glory, and undeniably hard-hitting rapper La Sista — also cement the genre’s foundation. But their names are too often left out of reggaetón history. For example, Puerto Rican artist Glory was the voice behind songs like Don Omar’s “Dale Don Dale” and Daddy Yankee’s little track you’ve surely never heard of, “Gasolina.” However, she wasn’t credited in either hit. Last year, Bad Bunny followed in both men’s footsteps by failing to name Nesi in the credits of “Yo Perreo Sola.” Crediting women for their contributions in the first go-around is a painless first step. The next? For gatekeepers in the industry to grapple with their sexist and racist tendencies and add color to the tapestry.

Reggaetón’s next phase will require fierce creative experimentation and the courage to turn away from its current highly commercialized formulas, but it will also demand intentional introspection and self-awareness. Women — specifically Black women — must carry the baton for this next chapter in which everyone can win if we play our cards right. 

In historically Black genres, like hip-hop and rap, Black Caribbean women lead the way (think Rihanna and Cardi B) and form everything from business decisions to video presence. It would be silly and culturally stifling to not have them in the room. Their authority has led to the birth of some of the best and most popular music in that space, and allowed for women to reap some of the financial rewards the men have. In reggaetón, the few non-Black women who make it to the top have thus far seen not even half of the success of their male counterparts. For Black women artists, the gap is even bigger. 

“This market is dedicated to reciprocating everything from the Anglo market except Black women,” Gata concludes about how reggaetón tends to reflect the mainstream U.S. music industry. “Every single thing — Black male artists, Black aesthetics, Black sound. Black women? ‘On our terms.’” 

“In perreo, there are no Black women outside of Tokischa, really. And she’s light-skinned. So, in regards to Black women and [music about] our plight and what it means to love a Black woman?” she pauses, baffled at that gap. “That’s bizarre.” The Panamanian historian behind Reggaeton Con La Gata is getting ready to kick start her own artistic path, and includes addressing anti-Blackness head-on. “My first song is called ‘Negra,’” she shares. “I’m going there. I’m going all the way there.”

Ivy Queen has high hopes for this next generation and believes it starts with putting out good work. “As a woman jumping [into] the music scene, you need to decide what your legacy is going to be,” she says.

She’s keenly aware of her place in history as a “bad bitch.” Ivy Queen has long centered women and women’s rights in her work: “It’s important for the next generation to understand that you’re going to blossom into a beautiful woman that has the right to say what you want, and what you feel.”

Unapologetically sexually liberated artists like emerging Dominican rapper Tokischa are keeping that essence alive in ways of their own, but this freedom comes with a price. Tokischa’s flavor of feminist reggaetón has prompted outrage, fines, and commendation from a municipal Dominican government. Meanwhile, Venezuelan singer-songwriter Danny Ocean and Spanish artist Rosalía have gained unthreatening street cred for hopping on the “Desacato Escolar” singer’s discography. It’s a tale older than reggaetón: white artists jumping on the cool bandwagon of Black artists on the rise and reaping the rewards while Black originators face criticism. Reparations for Black women in reggeatón will require gatekeepers, on the media and record label side of the fence, as well as the white artists who are already in the room to start carrying the workload and redirect funds and publicity where they’re due. 

Reports show that Latin music is only becoming more and more lucrative, growing faster than the industry at large. As such, there is no doubt that reggaetón — one of the most-streamed genres globally — is a rich well, too. Reggaetón may be safe from the crushing economical force that has affected the rest of the music industry this year — but who will save its soul?

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