It’s just gone midnight in Brixton, and Ana Lua Caiano is standing behind the merchandise desk at Hootananny, having just signed the last copies of her debut LP, Vou Ficar Neste Quadrado. She glows with post-show adrenaline, still half inside the world she’s just built on stage. Earlier in the evening, the Swiss-Guatemalan artist Baby Volcano had opened the double-bill — part of this year’s La Linea Festival — with a high-voltage set full of theatrical energy and bilingual intensity. The room never quite settled after that. Now, backstage has emptied out, the house lights are up, and the last of the crowd has drifted into the night. It was Ana’s first-ever performance in London, and the audience — a heady mix of curious listeners and Lusophone expats — had given everything back to her.

“Tonight was very good,” she laughs, a little overwhelmed. “It’s very nice when I feel big energy from the crowd. And today I really felt it. People were singing and dancing, which makes my job easier. When I have more energy from the public, I can give more energy. We’re symbiotic, in a way. We exchange energy.”

Ana’s music sits at a fascinating intersection: rooted in the textures and rhythms of traditional Portuguese folk, yet shaped by electronic experimentation, loops, and found sound. It’s intimate and political, nostalgic and future-facing all at once. Her voice carries the soul of fado, but the tools she uses belong to a new generation.

Growing up, her household was filled with the sounds of revolution-era Portugal. “Since I was a little kid, I used to listen to a lot of singers connected to the Portuguese revolution,” she explains. “Many of them were influenced by traditional music that was transmitted orally. They sang songs they didn’t even write, but recorded – and so everyone started to know them.”

She lists them easily: José Afonso, Sérgio Godinho, Fausto, José Mário Branco, Amélia Muge. These artists weren’t just musicians, they were voices of resistance, using music as a way to slip meaning past censors during the dictatorship.

“They couldn’t be too open about what they were criticising,” Ana notes, “but I was really inspired by their sound and their ideas.” Their influence stuck. Weekend car trips to Aveiro with her family always had those voices in the background. It was part of her musical DNA before she ever picked up an instrument.

When she started writing songs herself, those influences naturally came through. But as she got older, she also found herself drawn into very different sonic territory.

“I started discovering artists like Björk, Portishead, Silver Apples, Laurie Anderson, Kraftwerk…” she remembers, each name sparking a small grin. “Music made with synthesisers. It was a whole new world for me.”

That world opened up just as the rest of the real world was closing down. In 2020, with the pandemic forcing isolation, Ana turned inward and started experimenting. She’d recently bought a synthesiser, had some Portuguese percussion instruments lying around, and started using whatever she could find: household objects, glasses, keys, anything that made sound.

“It all came together naturally,” she recalls. “I had time, and I needed to deal with that moment somehow.”

In 2021, she saw a call-out for a contest aimed at solo performers. Even though she’d never played alone on stage before, she submitted an idea, and was selected. “I had two months to prepare three songs,” she remembers. “I practised every day. I was obsessed with getting it right.”

That performance was her first recording, and the start of her life as a solo artist. Before she even had an official release, she was performing live. It started small — a short set of three songs, opening for someone else — but slowly grew. A fourth song, then five, then a full show.

Even now, every performance feels like a step forward. “I’m a little bit shy,” she admits. “But when I’m on stage, I try to transmit what the song is saying. So I’m no longer myself: I’m the character of the music. I’m really feeling what I’m saying. That makes it easier.”

She’d been in bands before this solo project, so the stage wasn’t entirely new territory. But being alone on stage meant a different kind of presence: more vulnerable, more focused. “Since I started in 2022, I feel like every time I play, I’m a little bit more at ease than the last time. It’s a constant learning path.”

For Ana Lua Caiano, that path is as much about memory as it is about innovation. She’s not trying to recreate the past, but she’s not trying to escape it either. Her music speaks in two directions — forward and back — looping fragments of tradition into something urgent and alive.

Next up, she hopes, is a return to the UK. “I’ve played a bit around Europe — France, Switzerland, Spain — but performing in the UK hasn’t been easy. I hope next time I can play more cities. London’s full of life, full of music.”

And, on this night at least, full of people who really listened. The crowd at La Linea had really moved her, but this moment — reflecting on how she got here — reveals the deeper tempo behind her work. Her career hasn’t exploded overnight. It has been built steadily, almost meditatively, step by step.

“Yes, exactly. In the beginning, it was step by step,” she notes. “Then I started doing full gigs. It was a choice, but at the same time, it happened because of Covid.”

Before the pandemic, Ana had already been busy with bands. One of them was Os Vertigem — “Vertigo” in English. “We have some songs online,” she notes with a small shrug, modest. There were other projects too: one with just a guitarist, another with a full band — double bass, drums, piano — with Ana singing and writing most of the material. “Not quite jazz,” she adds, “but with musicians from jazz backgrounds. We tried to make it more Portuguese.”

Composing has always been at the heart of it. It’s how she navigates the world. So when the lockdowns came and collaborative music-making ground to a halt, Ana didn’t stop, she shifted.

“During the pandemic, it was impossible to play with others. I needed to keep going, so I carried on alone. That’s when I discovered production and how to make music with a computer, which I hadn’t done before. I liked it.”

She had already been exploring other sonic worlds — not just through listening, but through active study. She’d trained in classical piano, then jazz, and just before Covid hit, she was diving into workshops on synthesisers and experimental sound practices. “I even did one with Åke Parmerud,” she recalls, referring to the pioneering Swedish electroacoustic composer. “He gave us sounds to create a composition from. I was really opening my mind to new ways of making music, and then Covid hit.”

That strange moment of isolation became fertile ground. She had new tools, new ideas, and now the space to bring them together. “Everything came together at that moment,” she recollects. “I was discovering all this music and then had the time and solitude to explore it properly. That’s how it happened.”

Ana’s sound doesn’t just reference Portuguese tradition, it reshapes it. But how is it received back home, where those traditions are part of the collective cultural fabric?

“I think the response has been really good,” she says thoughtfully. “In fado, for example, there are more traditional rules. But with other types of traditional Portuguese music — especially oral traditions — there aren’t strict rules. These songs have always changed over time.”

She points to Sérgio Godinho, one of the central figures of post-revolutionary Portuguese music. “He’s said in interviews that he likes how music is being reinvented. People who work with traditional Portuguese music tend to see it as something that naturally evolves. Times change, so the music should, too.”

Her audiences reflect that openness. “I often play to young people who come to dance,” she tells us, “but also in theatres where older audiences attend. Some say, ‘This rhythm reminds me of an old song.’ That’s beautiful. It shows it resonates across generations.”

There’s something rare about that intergenerational bridge, and the fact that she’s not simply covering traditional songs, but building new ones from their DNA. “Even though I’m not covering existing songs, I’m deeply influenced by them, and people seem interested in that reinterpretation.”

So far, the response has been overwhelmingly positive. “Fortunately, I haven’t had any negative reactions. People working in Portuguese folk have been very open. For younger generations, it’s a way to reconnect with traditional music.”

That contrast — between generations, between Portugal and elsewhere — becomes even sharper when Ana reflects on how different things feel when she performs abroad.

“Each country has its particularities,” she explains. “I think it’s amazing how some other countries invest so much in culture. In Portugal, we still have some problems, especially for emerging artists.”

The challenges are structural. Opportunities outside Lisbon are scarce, and early-career support is thin. “There’s a point when you’re a bit more known, where it becomes easier,” she notices. “But when you’re starting out, there aren’t many venues. Mostly, it’s just Lisbon. There are very few smaller places to play outside of it.”

When she performs in France or Switzerland, she notices the difference immediately. The grassroots networks are stronger. The infrastructure is there. “I feel there’s a lot more investment in small clubs and grassroots scenes. The conditions for musicians are much better.”

She tells us about meeting French musicians who felt barely affected by the pandemic, thanks to state support. “In Portugal, Covid was a tragedy for the arts,” she states plainly. “There was hardly any protection or funding. Small venues can’t survive. Musicians can’t practise or perform unless they’re based in Lisbon or Porto.”

There’s no bitterness in her voice, just clarity. Ana’s love for Portuguese culture runs deep, but so does her awareness of its limitations. “Outside Portugal, there’s clearly more investment in culture. It’s something we really need to work on. Culture is so important.”

That urgency, that belief in culture as a living, necessary force, pulses through her music. Whether it’s the echo of a village rhythm, the hum of a synth, or the strike of a glass bottle, Ana Lua Caiano isn’t interested in nostalgia for its own sake. She animates tradition, bends it, gives it new shapes to speak through.

And she’s not doing it alone. For all her solitary beginnings, her work is increasingly part of something collective: a scene, a network, a shifting musical movement full of voices in conversation with the past and each other.

“Yes, the traditional ones I mentioned before – I really love them,” she muses, referring to José Afonso, Sérgio Godinho, Fausto, and others from Portugal’s revolutionary canon. “But also Criatura, Bandua… and Rossana. She’s a very interesting musician.”

Rossana, it turns out, had been at the show that night. “We actually did a collaboration together – the first song I released was with her. She lives here in London,” she adds. “She’s really interesting. Her songs are inspired by Portuguese music too, though she sometimes sings in other languages. Very original.”

For Ana, the Portuguese scene is in a moment of transformation, one shaped by the emergence of new voices, especially women.

“Right now, there’s a really strong music scene – and especially among women,” she highlights. “During the dictatorship, most of the recognised artists were men. Women weren’t writing much, or if they did, they couldn’t claim authorship.”

She brought up Amália Rodrigues, the undisputed queen of fado. “She wrote lyrics, but didn’t sign them as her own. It took a long time for female songwriters to emerge.”

That’s changing now. Ana’s generation is part of a wave. “You see so many women writing, producing, creating. Bia Maria is another one. It’s really good to see.”

Despite the structural difficulties for emerging artists in Portugal, there’s an optimism in her voice when she talks about the music itself.

“So yes, there are a lot of positive things. I think Portuguese music is in good health. Many new projects are appearing – and they’re very, very good.”

When asked what she’s been listening to lately, her reach extends far beyond the Lusophone world.

“A band I really love is Cocanha – they’re from France, but they don’t sing in French. They sing in a regional dialect. Also, Marina Herlop from Spain – really interesting.” And she hasn’t lost touch with the old masters either. “I keep listening to those Portuguese songwriters I mentioned earlier – some of them have released new things recently. I try to keep up with everything that’s going on. Rodrigo Cuevas too – he was also part of  this year’s La Linea line-up.”

Shifting focus from the stage to the studio, it’s now been almost a year since Ana’s debut album quietly landed. Released on 15 March via Glitterbeat Records, Vou Ficar Neste Quadrado turned heads with its blend of loops, oral history, and political charge.

“It’s been very interesting,” Ana reflects. “I think the main change is how I view the songs, especially the lyrics. People interpret them in ways I didn’t expect: their understanding often differs from mine. So the way I see my own songs is constantly shifting.”

The songs, she establishes, are still alive. “Sometimes, someone says something about a song, and suddenly it takes on a whole new meaning for me. It keeps the songs alive. They don’t have a fixed message, they keep evolving. That’s been really beautiful to experience, especially when performing live.”

Ana has started composing again. No deadlines, no pressure. Just motion.

“I’m producing, seeing where it leads. I don’t have a date for the next album, and I don’t want to pressure myself. But I do have a goal: I want to do more collaborations and bring other people’s sonorities into mine.”

That word again: collaboration. The idea of sharing. “I want to find allies and create something together. So yes, there are good things coming. I’m preparing, working, always composing. Whenever I’m not touring, I’m writing music. It’s what I love most.”

She even got to meet Sérgio Godinho, a formative figure. “He’s been really kind. Honestly, everyone I mentioned today… I’d love to collaborate with them.”

She names artists easily: some she’s seen in Portugal, others abroad, a few by chance, and several through this year’s La Linea programme, where she now finds herself centre stage. The festival, a fixture of London’s music calendar, is known for spotlighting bold, genre-crossing voices from across the Latin world and beyond. It’s a fitting context for Ana’s own boundary-blurring sound.

Baby Volcano, who opened for her tonight, stood out in particular — “full of energy and presence,” Ana notes. Eliades Ochoa, whose performances had left a lasting impression. And others like Sílvia Pérez Cruz and Rodrigo Cuevas, too. “There’s just so much good music, and so many incredible musicians. Any collaboration would be a privilege.”

What ties them all together, in Ana’s eyes, is their shared instinct for crossing boundaries. Electronic meets traditional. Past meets future. Call it what you like — plenty have tried.

“Some people call it folktronica, electro-folk,” she says. “In Portugal, there’s a term: Tuga Beats — from Tuga, meaning Portuguese. So maybe that’s a fitting label.”

She smiles: that familiar question, still without a fixed answer. “But honestly, it’s a mixture. It’s hard to pin down.”

And maybe that’s exactly where her power lies: in the refusal to be pinned down. Ana Lua Caiano doesn’t slot neatly into genres or expectations. She loops past and present, threads protest into melody, and finds rhythm in the unpredictable. Her music not only crosses boundaries, but lives in the spaces between them, always shifting, always becoming.

You can follow Ana Lua Caiano on Instagram and Bandcamp
Her debut album Vou Ficar Neste Quadrado is available to listen to and purchase HERE

Photo: © Vera Marmelo