The word is out. There’s no secret, if there ever was one, that Mexico City is an incredible city featuring world-class food, architecture, art and nightlife. Travelers from US, Canada, and beyond are now turning their eyes away from the well-trodden tourist hubs of Cancun and Cabo San Lucas and setting their sights on the vibrant Mexican capital. 

Enabled by remote work, many foreign visitors are staying long-term in Mexico City to enjoy the appealing qualities of the city and the advantages of their foreign incomes. However, the result is not all good food and fun. The influx of foreigners is causing rapid gentrification. Conflict between the newcomers and the local population has surfaced around a familiar flashpoint: Noise.

Breanna Claye, an American model who was living and working in Mexico City, set off a social media outrage after making offensive comments on TikTok about “noise pollution” and Mexican street musicians. The episode not only highlights the issues of gentrification and modern-day “gringoism” in Mexico City, but points to a broader historical and contemporary theme where privileged outsiders seek to suppress cultural expression in native spaces by complaining about noise.

“Do you hear that?” Ms. Claye says in the now-deleted video, with an incredulous face reacting to the sounds of the organilleros outside her window. 

“Giving money to these people tells them it's okay to pollute with noise pollution, so I’ll never. It doesn’t even sound good. The #1 most annoying sound in Mexico City, and there’s a lot. I can’t stand these people who turn this music box of horrible sound.“

U.S. model Breanna Claye criticizes Mexican street musicians in viral video (Photo Credit: Instagram @breannaclaye | Cuartoscuro, via N+, March 16, 2024)

She was talking about the sound of the organilleros (literally translated as “organ grinders"), the Mexican street musicians who play music in public spaces with the harmonipan, an organ-like instrument with traditional roots in Mexico. Organilleros gained notoriety in the early 20th century by playing their 100-pound music boxes in public squares and earning tips for their entertainment.

During the Mexican Revolution of the early 1900s, organilleros grew into cultural icons as the traditional Mexican sound of the harmonpian became popularly favored over the Eurocentric sounds preferred by the ruling class of the Porfirio Diaz dictatorship.

The tradition continued in the years to come, and today, organilleros continue to don their captain’s attire and haul their music boxes to public spaces. As organilleros have become entrenched in the culture of the city and the nation, their work serves an important cause: They are culture sustainers.

Mexicans on social media responded to Ms. Claye’s video in outrage. Translated to English:

Paty: “For my part, I applaud the organilleros and ask Mrs. Breana Claye to leave Mexico”

Dthkb1456: “Foreigners are gradually taking over Mexico and when we least realize there will be more and more foreigners, let's not let there be gentrification.”

SusanaSugeil: “If you don't like the country, then go gentrify somewhere else.”

Angel Miguel 520: “What if we all organize so that the organilleros can go to the places of gentrification?”

The controversy spread quickly across social media and rose to such a level that prompted Queta Rojas, Ms. Claye’s modeling agency, to cut ties: “Because it does not reflect the position or values ​​of our agency, we have decided not to continue with her representation.”

Ms. Claye’s statement is a viral example of American gringos who come to Mexico to live an elevated lifestyle with little interest in engaging with the local culture, traditions, or language. Instead, they transplant their views, values, and expectations onto the local community. The boom in international visitors and foreign pseudo-residents in Mexico City has harmed the local population in similar ways as the gentrification occurring in many American cities.

Due to the economic influence of the new residents in a neighborhood or city, market forces incentivize business and housing markets to cater to the affluent newcomers, and in turn, the urban space changes too. The pressures of a rising cost of living often leads to displacement of the city’s native inhabitants. As people are displaced from their community, so too is their culture. 

Conflict around noise is a function of gentrification. New neighbors who are unaccustomed to the audible features of their environment might complain about what they consider undesirable and attempt to shut down the expression of their neighbors. No regard is given to the culture and customs of the community which they join.

It’s not simply record-scratching sound of English words on a Mexican street corner that prompts the outrage from the community, not even the American-accented conversations whose volume rises over the band in an intimate jazz room. The outrage is a reaction to a familiar pattern of cultural erasure: When foreigners’ outside ears are irritated by native sounds in the environment, they attempt to silence the noise.

What foreign ears consider noise is actually an audible expression of a community’s pride, joy, and history. Foreign ears should not pass judgment, nor suppress this expression in the pursuit of silence. Cultural suppression is violence. It is a denial and erasure of the spirit of the community. 

El Tormento de Cuauhtemoc, David Alfaro Siquieres, 1950-1951. Palacio de Bellas Artes, Mexico City, MX.

History shows us that music, or noise, has long been a flashpoint of cultural suppression. 

Palacio de Bellas Artes, one of Mexico City’s most famous art museums, features a sprawling mural that depicts the torture of Cuauhtemoc, the last Aztec ruler of Tenochtitlan. Cuauhtemoc was kidnapped by Spanish invaders, who set his feet to hot coals in an attempt to force Cuauhtemoc to reveal information about the location of hidden gold and treasure. 

The Spanish brutality is illustrated by the blood-stained women on the left side of the scene. Beside Cuahtemoc’s stoic face is a girl whose hands have been cut off. How did that happen? According to local historian Ismael Rivera, “The girl was a musician. The Spanish would cut off musicians’ hands to prevent them from playing music.” 

While this mural depicts a particularly gruesome act, colonial forces elsewhere in the Americas have similarly sought to suppress native people’s cultural expression by silencing their music. In many cases, the oppressed people have responded by using music as a form of resistance and cultural celebration. 

African people who were kidnapped and transported to European colonies in the Americas maintained their musical culture in their new environment, despite the brutal conditions. Drumming was a key mode of this practice. The tradition of playing drums like the Djembe continued to facilitate communal rituals, spiritual practices, and communication among the people. Rebellions could even be coordinated over distances through the sound of the drum. 

A historical marker commemorates the site of Stono Rebellion of 1739 (Photo Credit: Daniel Island Historical Society)

White enslavers deemed the drums not only irritating, but threatening as well. The Stono Rebellion by Africans in South Carolina struck fear in the ruling class, resulting in the Negro Act of 1740. The new law not only banned enslaved people from growing their own crops and learning to read, but also forbid assembly in groups and the use of drums, horns, or other loud objects. Similar ordinances were passed throughout the Caribbean and Brazil in order to sever the African people from their culture and tighten the mental chains of slavery. 

Despite the oppression, the enslaved Africans continued to resist and invent new ways to express their culture. Laws prohibiting their music were circumvented through innovations like body percussion, where one uses their body to produce sound, and the invention of the banjo, a stringed instrument with historical roots in West Africa.

These traditions persist in the present day. While the banjo is often featured in American folk music, the practice of body percussion underlies the performances of step routines popularized at America’s Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs). Further, Carnival continues the spirit of resistance across the African Diaspora with a joyful protest of drums, horns, dance and jubilation.

In present-day Mexico City, these stories rustle through my mind as I lean upon a taco stand for a lunchtime bite. As I reflect on these observations, my consciousness climbs into the cockpit of its fighter jet. The jet takes off, climbs to 30,000 feet, and transports me through time and space. 

I land in the year 2014 on the intersection of 7th Street and Florida Avenue in Washington, D.C. The Metro PCS store on the corner blasts GoGo music over its speakers just as it does every day during its open hours. GoGo, the homegrown music style of Washington, D.C., is an iconic feature of that corner, and the quintessential sound of the city. 

There I witnessed a gray-haired Washingtonian stop at the corner in front of the Metro PCS. Catching the funky beat, she puts a bend in her knees, bobs her head and sends her hips into motion. Her face shows serious expression, lips curled and eyebrows furrowed. The groove was potent. I thought to myself, “That GoGo is powerful.”

As a freshman at Howard University, I would often hear fellow students who had recently arrived in DC from their hometowns critique or dismiss GoGo. “It sounds like pots and pans,” some would say of the free flowing drums and congas. Just like the African drum in the Caribbean, GoGo was a native expression that outside ears would not understand.

In the following years, the neighborhood would change dramatically as the U.S. capital became a poster child of gentrification in American cities.

While GoGo was adored by D.C. natives, newcomers to the area found the music irritating. The owner of a new condo across the street threatened the owner of the Metro PCS with a lawsuit, demanding the music be turned off. The music was disturbing their peace, so it must be silenced.

The community resisted. This attempt of erasure insulted the heart of the city and aggravated simmering grievances of natives who felt pushed out of their city. Crowds of local Washingtonians gathered around the MetroPCS in protest. Word quickly spread, and the crowds grew. Even GRAMMY award-winning rapper and D.C. area native Wale joined the protest. Their message was loud and clear: #DontMuteDC. 

In the face of such resistance, the new neighbors eventually backed down from their complaints, and Metro PCS was allowed to continue playing the music. However, the movement to save GoGo did not stop. Soon, the intersection of U and 14th Street was shut down for “Moechella”, a celebration of GoGo music, D.C. culture, and a resounding statement against the economic and cultural gentrification of the city.

DC is not alone in its musical resistance. This year, similar protest tactics were successfully used in Mexico. In the northern state of Sinaloa, in the beach community of Mazatlan, new neighbors who had crossed the border from the U.S. and Canada complained about noise from the Mexican bandas who played music near waterfront properties. The foreigners appealed to authorities in an attempt to silence the bandas.

Their attempt backfired. Local musicians showed up en masse to resist through beautiful noise. The streets of Mazatlan were filled with the sound of brass, strings, drums, and accordions to loudly state that Mexican culture would not be silenced.

Ruben Rocha, the governor of Sinaloa, affirmed the musicians’ protest: “I do not share the idea of prohibiting the musicians of Mazatlan from carrying out their honest dignified work, that allows them to feed their families.”

Sitting on the rooftop patio of my Mexico City residence, I hear the sounds of the community day and night. To spend any amount of time in Ciudad de Mexico, you’ll hear the soundtracks belted out from speakers by local vendors. Some may find the sounds annoying, especially foreigners who complain that it makes it difficult to take their Zoom calls in peace. However, many locals embrace these sounds as a unique feature of their city.

While my personal favorite is the soundtrack of the tamale seller arriving in the neighborhood (“Traemos tamales oaxaqueños, tamales ricos de mole rojo, mole verde…”), the most well-known recording may be the wailing voice of a young girl shouting a request to buy your household junk: “Se compran colchones, tambores, refrigeradores, estufas, lavadoras, microondas, o algo de fierro viejo que vendan!”

This recording is used by enterprising chilangos who have carved out an economic niche by driving around the city offering to buy residents’ scrap metals, appliances and furniture, to fix them up for future resale. They have all come to use the same cult-classic soundtrack, playing it loudly to announce their presence in neighborhood streets.

U.S.-Mexican author Francisco Goldman perhaps said it best: “The creativity and wiles required, for a majority of chilangos, to stay alive and feed a family day after day: that’s what gives Mexico City its true character and energy.” 

Colonia Juarez, an eclectic and now-trendy neighborhood of chic cafes, bars, and boutique shops in which I’ve resided, features its own palette of flavorful sounds. However, with government buildings and immigration centers nearby, the neighborhood also offers a reality check to alert one to the issues facing this community. 

Unhoused people have built tent communities on several streets in Colonia Juárez, including hundreds of migrants from Haiti who are now seeking refuge in a local plaza. Outside the government office of the Secretaria de Gobierno, streets are blocked by a protest encampment erected by various groups who are campaigning against insufficient housing, rising cost of living, gentrification, and more

Their protest uses noise as a tactic to cause disruption and discomfort for those inside the government office. Through a loudspeaker, chants of protest are played on a loop directly outside the office’s gates.

“Fue un error votar por Obrador'' shouts the recorded chant, referring to the sitting president of Mexico, Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador. The sound plays on repeat, day and night. Some days it starts at 9am, other days at noon, and sometimes into the night. But everyday, it plays.

While the protest sounds blare, I sit comfortably in my apartment at midday working remotely on my laptop. The gringo in me might wish to complain about the maddening noise. I wonder if it can be heard by others in my meeting. Ironically, the noise from two blocks away is especially audible from this penthouse on a high floor. At times, my ears tune it out, but soon they wake back up to the grating sound.  

My curiosity prodded me to visit the encampment to see and understand the situation. I approached a man who held a loudspeaker to the gates of the government building and asked him about the protest. 

“We are not one group, we are several different groups of people who have suffered under this government. We are tired of the killing. The military killed my father and three of my brothers. So, I protest.”

Whatever objection my inner gringo might have had was silenced. Sure, I would prefer a more quiet environment from which to take my meetings, but this neighborhood is not, and should not, be oriented toward privileged foreigners like me. To wish the protest away would be to dismiss the appeal of this man and countless others who had suffered and were yet to see justice. Indeed, protest is the sound of the unheard.

Before one fixes their lips to complain about noise, they must educate their outside ears and understand that behind each noise is an expression, an individual and communal will for survival. They must understand that any attempt to silence that noise perpetuates the painful history of cultural erasure from the privileged newcomer against the disempowered native. 

So yes, you better believe that a local entrepreneur will belt out that soundtrack to let you know they are out there with their tamales. That truck will absolutely roll around your neighborhood advertising to buy household junk. And yes, the musical festival crowd’s silent anticipation before James Blake belts out the iconic notes of “I will always love you” might be broken by a vendor shouting “Cervezas, cervezas!”

Sound is a feature of this city. I cannot force or expect the neighborhood to change to accommodate me. I am a guest here, and I’m thankful to be part of this community. If a quiet environment to take Zoom calls is really what I want, then perhaps I should heed the words of American music legend James Brown: “You ain’t gotta go home, but you gotta get the hell out of here.” 

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Alex Sands is an international writer, journalist, and technologist from Macon, Georgia, USA.