Until a few years ago, the true barometer of an artist’s or band’s popularity was recording an acoustic concert for the MTV Unplugged series. Today, that seal of approval has migrated to Tiny Desk — the short performances held behind an open desk at the U.S. National Public Radio (NPR) headquarters in Washington. Grupo Frontera reached that peculiar stage on April 24, 2025, performing five norteño ballads in 20 minutes, a set that allowed them to connect with a different audience. They rehearsed for six days to be ready for the appearance. “All the office workers see you,” recalls Alberto Acosta, the group’s guitarist.
That day, however, the most enthusiastic audience wasn’t in the newsroom — it was in NPR’s kitchen. The staff who prepare food and wash dishes couldn’t enjoy the performance because they were working. When the set ended, the six band members went back there to play El amor de su vida. It was a second Tiny Desk — improvised and intimate — that never appeared on NPR’s YouTube channel. “It was awesome,” Acosta says
This is a familiar scene for these musicians, who have become a phenomenon within regional Mexican music. At almost any restaurant they visit, whether in Mexico or the United States, the same thing tends to happen: a waiter will come over and ask them to step into the kitchen to greet the staff. “Our audience is working people — the folks out picking crops, the gardener,” says Juan Javier Cantú, the group’s accordionist. “In this industry, if you’re only in it for the money and the fame, it doesn’t work anymore, because you’re not connecting with your people,” he reflects.
A large share of their followers are workers who often go unnoticed by most people — those who labor in the back rooms of restaurants, raise buildings on construction sites, and keep gardens pristine in U.S. cities. It is also a community now living under pressure due to the tightening of immigration policies under the Donald Trump administration and the increase in raids by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).
The members of Grupo Frontera — a band formed in Texas, just a stone’s throw from the U.S.-Mexico border — say they are not immune to that reality. “We want all this fixed. Because what’s happening in our country is sad. We see it with our workers, with people close to us. It hurts us,” says Cantú.
They see the negative effects of Trump’s hard-line approach “closer than people think,” says the group’s singer, Adelaido Payo Solís III. The band’s drummer, Carlos Guerrero, agrees: “Those of us who live there [in the border city of McAllen] see it every day. It’s sad, but we’re fighting and standing strong.”
Days after releasing their new EP Con Dolor on May 28, the musicians spoke with EL PAÍS in a downtown Los Angeles skyscraper, where they were staying while taking part in World Cup-related events. They recorded a song tied to the tournament for a Spanish-language TV network.
Their time in the city was just a brief pause after a tour through Central America and Mexico. In a few days, they will head to Europe for shows in Paris, London, Zurich, Barcelona and Madrid, before wrapping up their Triste Pero Bien Cabrón tour at home in the United States. It is the most ambitious tour of their career and, for them, a sign of the global reach Mexican music has achieved — a phenomenon driven by artists such as Peso Pluma, Carín León, Natanael Cano and Fuerza Régida.
“Mexican music is at a point where it’s widely accepted in many places,” says Carlos Guerrero, the drummer. “Before, artists in this genre weren’t seen filling stadiums or arenas. The fact that our music has travelled this far — that we’re about to tour Europe — is something not everyone gets to experience. We take it with a lot of pride and a lot of respect.”
From local parties to massive concerts
Grupo Frontera’s rise has been nothing short of meteoric. In just six years, they went from playing at quinceañera parties in the Rio Grande Valley, Texas, to selling out large-scale concerts. Their breakthrough came in 2022, when their version of No se va went viral on social media.
But that was just the beginning. A year later, they made the definitive leap to stardom with UN X100TO, recorded as a duet with Puerto Rican superstar Bad Bunny. The scale of the hit is clear from the numbers beneath the video: more than 1.1 billion views on YouTube — and counting. “The collaboration with Bad Bunny helped the industry respect us more,” says Solís.
That same year, the Puerto Rican star invited them to share the stage at Coachella, one of the world’s biggest music festivals — another milestone in their career.
Despite their fame, they have remained close to McAllen, the border city where they grew up. They describe it as a place you can drive across in just 15 minutes — a far cry from the global cities they now tour. Back home, they are still surrounded by neighbors who speak Spanish and regularly cross into Mexico to shop, see doctors and enjoy the food. Rather than being a barrier, that environment shaped their artistic identity and led them to sing in their parents’ language, they say.
“Before, we used to say: for Mexicans, we’re not Mexican enough, and for Americans, we’re not American enough,” Solís recalls. “People would ask us: ‘How can you sing in Spanish if you don’t speak it?’ Well, that’s exactly what Selena did. She didn’t speak Spanish perfectly, but she sang in it. When we started, I kept improving my Spanish.”
The reference to Selena Quintanilla is no coincidence. In the 1990s, the so-called “Queen of Tex-Mex” paved the way from Texas for generations of artists raised between two cultures. She was one of the first figures to win over audiences on both sides of the border, at a time when much of the regional Mexican music consumed in the United States was coming from across the Rio Grande. Before her, Chalino Sánchez, from Los Angeles, had connected with migrant communities through corridos. Later came artists and groups such as Lupillo Rivera, Jenni Rivera, Intocable and Gerardo Ortiz.
Grupo Frontera’s rise coincides with a moment of uncertainty for the genre. In recent months, several artists — especially performers of narcocorridos — have seen their work visas revoked. The band members view the situation with concern, although they trust the outlook will soon shift for the better. “What happened to that famous ‘freedom of expression’?” asks percussionist Julián Peña, making air quotes with his fingers. “You’re supposed to be free to sing and talk about whatever you want in songs.”
Solís believes the worst is over. “At first it did feel heavier, both because of the visas and because people were afraid to go to concerts [because of ICE operations]. But I feel like things are improving.” In times marked by the immigration debate and political tensions, these musicians believe their cumbia songs serve a purpose beyond entertainment. “They’re giving strength to the whole community,” they say.
The group’s list of collaborations is long: Shakira, Maluma, Carlos Santana, Morat, Christian Nodal… They have moved between bachata, country, R&B, reggaeton and electronic music. Their next goal is to strengthen their own artistic identity, says accordionist Juan Javier Cantú: “We want to show little by little that we’re not just featuring artists.”
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