Milo J: How a 19-year-old Argentinian rap star found redemption in folk

Two years ago, Milo J was hit by an existential crisis.

The Argentinian rapper, known for his deep voice and equally deep, introspective verses, had already topped streaming charts, released albums, earned a Latin Grammy nomination and completed a sell-out tour across Latin America and Spain. He’d given up any chance of a conventional childhood in exchange for pursuing music: he started recording music at 13 and, backed by his tight-knit family unit, put everything into his career. 

Even though he’d achieved more at 17 than most artists do across their entire careers, he felt numb. “It was the most depressed I had ever been in my life,” he reflects from London’s Sony Music offices where we meet before his debut London concert. At his lowest, he recorded “El Invisible”, a track that transplants the words of folk and tango composer Nicolás Urquiza (“I dream a dream, that is prohibited to me, I am the invisible, the one who has never been”) onto the rhythmic 6/8 guitar strums of the characera folk of Cuti and Roberto Carabajal. After a session at the former studio of late rock legend Gustavo Cerati in Buenos Aires, the 79-year-old Cuti invited him to his Santiago del Estero in northwest Argentina, to experience folk culture firsthand.

That trip changed everything. Milo met local musicians and connected to music in a different way, on the ground, away from the industry, the algorithm and the platforms. He donned a balaclava to maintain his anonymity during the city’s anniversary celebrations. Blending into the throngs of carnival-goers, he was struck by a feeling that had felt so acutely absent in his life: joy. “It was incredible - blocks and blocks of people, never ending, live music, carnival, folk, food, parties” he recalls. “It revived me. It made me want to make music again.”

Milo, full name Camilo Joaquín Villarruel, was born in October 2006 in Morón, an industrial city in the greater Buenos Aires region. His sombre, weary reflections on existence have positioned him as a generational voice; and, while few of his age group have lived his levels of fame and ensuing lifestyle, his music captures a shared experience. “Generationally, there is a necessity to go back to one’s roots, to connect with yourself in your purest state,” he says. “Unconsciously, you resort to nostalgia, to go back to the moments you were happiest, and in many cases that’s music you listened to as a child, and in many cases that’s in the folklore of your country.”

His 2025 album La Vida Era Más Corta, which has just been nominated for seven Latin Grammys, navigates the loss of identity and the ungraspable nature of time, narrated through a series of characters tied into the everyday existence of la gente común, the common person. “Niño” is a lullaby to a child, spoken from the view of an absent father, while “Llora, Llora”, takes the perspective of his mother, decades later, addressing her now grown-up child. In each song the voices of the past are present: the former is based on the staccato strums rasguido doble of a 1950s folk song interpreted by Horacio Guarany, while the latter samples the valz chileno of Violeta Parra. 

Elsewhere, “Solifican12” grasps at what it means to be human, while pasting the vocals of acoustic pop singer Yami Safdie onto charango strums and quena flutes of Andean folk, while the harmonies of Uruguayan candombe carnival troupe Agarrate Catalina chime across the album. Altogether, the album is a beautiful homage to the folk genres across Latin America, respectfully attributed to the artists at heart of each of them.

“When I was younger I used to think folk music was for old people, so I didn’t really give it much attention, but now it’s my favourite music,” Milo says smiling. “Ironically, even if it’s music from so many years ago, to me it’s a breath of fresh air from what I was listening to; the lyrics, the harmonies, the melodies.”

And while the album reckons with and channels the past, its genius lies in the fact it is very much of the present. Working with classically trained musician Santi Alvarado and producer Tatool, he sought to respect each root genre while freeing himself of their traditional rules and rhythms, imprinting the production tricks from his urban grounding to give the record a contemporary twist. In “Lucía”, Tatool cuts and loops the guitar strums to percussive effect, in “Ama de mi Sol”, they pitch the vocals of Nicki Nicole to sound – in Milo’s words – like a sped up TikTok voiceover. 

Despite the somewhat Proustian and poetic nature of his lyrics - “let’s go back to being children without fear to dream of happiness” and “I know you want to sleep, to not wake up again” – Milo has never read a book in his life. “I don’t read books, but in other ways I stay informed,” he says. “I analyse everything; I don’t let anything pass by, I’m constantly thinking about things that happen.” 

It’s become a press-standard to label him as ‘wise beyond his years’, yet this patronising observation belittles the experience of his generation. “There’s an emotional fatigue, of listening to the same thing, seeing the same thing, social media showing you a reality that isn’t [real]” he muses. 

On La Vida Era Más Corta, Milo sees folk as a way to challenge that reality; to literally touch the earth to feel its roots. It is a gesture he does with impassioned frenzy in the music video for “Bajo De La Piel”, “I don’t feel myself, looking at the sunset, I want to go slower, but there’s no time” he sings, while thumping on the arid ground of Santiago del Estero, his voice interrupted by Indigenous chants that hit like a wake up call. 

Milo compares himself to the likes of A.CHAL and Silvana Estrada – a new generation of Latin American artists finding solace in the old, answers in the past, and refuge in the people. “Many times, as artists, we are overwhelmed, and [treated like] products. When I went to Santiago del Estero, I found a humanity that I needed.”

La Vida Era Más Corta is out now.