The contentious line, “a mamacita since she was 14,” coupled with other explicit references to drugs and women’s bodies, has drawn sharp criticism from various sectors of Colombian society. Despite its 35 million streams and top spot on Spotify Colombia, the song has been accused of perpetuating harmful stereotypes about the country, particularly its association with sex tourism and the exploitation of women.

The backlash has reached the highest levels of government. Culture Minister Juan David Correa condemned the song as “banal, childish,” and “inconsequential,” arguing it reinforces negative perceptions of Colombia. The director of the country’s child welfare agency echoed these concerns, linking the lyrics to the “pattern of crime” associated with sex trafficking. Lawmakers have even proposed legislation to punish artists who promote explicit lyrics.

Caught in the crossfire, Karol G, a prominent female reggaeton artist known for her empowering lyrics, apologized for the song and the lyrics were changed to “since she was 18.” She acknowledged the lyrics were “taken out of context” but took responsibility, admitting she still had “a lot to learn.” However, other artists involved, like J Balvin and Blessd, have defended the song, arguing against what they perceive as an unfair attack on the reggaeton genre.  

Defenders of reggaeton argue that the criticism is selective, pointing out that other genres, like vallenato, also contain misogynistic lyrics without facing similar scrutiny. They claim the backlash is rooted in a broader disdain for reggaeton, a genre that emerged from marginalized communities and often reflects their social realities.

The controversy has also sparked a debate about cultural representation. Medellín, a city that has become a reggaeton hub, is also grappling with its reputation for drugs and sex tourism. Some argue that reggaeton is an integral part of Medellín’s culture and should be viewed within that context. Andrea Sañudo, a Medellín resident, argued that the criticism is “hypocritical” and ignores the realities of the communities from which the music originates.

The “+57” controversy has become a microcosm of larger tensions surrounding artistic expression, social responsibility, and cultural representation. While some see the lyrics as harmful and exploitative, others view them as a reflection of the genre’s raw, unfiltered origins. As the debate rages on, it raises crucial questions about the role of music in shaping cultural narratives and the delicate balance between artistic freedom and social impact.

In the living room of their mother’s modest cinderblock home, beneath the glare of two bare light bulbs, the Rodríguez brothers, Juan Emilio and Andrey, whirled into action, arms swinging, as they burst into a rap about Colombia’s drug-fueled guerrilla war.

”Blood in the fields, colonized lands, invisible bonds of slavery, in the Amazon,” they sang in rhyming Spanish in ”Criminal Hands,” a song about Washington’s war on drugs.

In another, ”Exodus,” about the refugees who have fled Colombia’s civil conflict, they say, ”as the war advances, there’s only a ticket out.”

”The exodus continues, burden of the violence,” they chant, ”The war is uncertain, incomprehensible, absurd science.”

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Juan Emilio and Andrey, rappers in a threesome called Cescru Enlace, are hardly household names. But they have released two CD’s, their first in 1999, and their politically charged songs are catching on among young Colombians.

Today rap is produced and heard virtually the world over, as young people nearly everywhere mimic the lyrical styles and fashion of America’s hottest selling music. Rap has spread across the Spanish-speaking world, too, but in few other countries are rappers as political in their lyrics as they are in Colombia.

”They’ve become like poet reporters for their neighborhoods,” said Ruth Kathryn Henry, who studied Colombian hip-hop as a Fulbright scholar. ”They’re speaking for the people around them who don’t necessarily have a voice.”

They have seized on rap to vent about a world filled with Marxist rebels, right-wing death squads, poverty and a greedy elite — the kind of material rappers elsewhere could only dream of.

”Here in Colombia, there is so much to say,” said Kany, 33, the leader of one of Colombia’s oldest rap groups, La Etnnia, which translates roughly as the Ethnics. ”You go out and you find inspiration. You do not need to go out and make things up.”

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Though their style is sometimes comically imitative of American artists, Colombia’s rappers take special pride in the authenticity of their adopted art, to the point of professing disdain for their more famous counterparts to the north, who they say have sold out to get big record deals.

”This is real rap, not fake,” said Juan Emilio Rodríguez, Cescru Enlace’s 30-something leader, who goes by the name 3X. ”It is contrarian. It is political. It is not about cars and women. They do not do this in the U.S. anymore. We are doing it.”

Rap has not quite reached the mainstream here but is part of a diverse Colombian music scene that has come to dominate in Latin America. Juanes, the mournful rocker, won five Latin Grammys last year. The music of Carlos Vives, known for its jubilant accordion-laced vallenato songs, is spreading across borders. And the swivel-hipped singer Shakira has become one of the most successful Latin American crossover artists in recent years.

But increasingly, rap is what young Colombians want to hear. What they see as hip-hop culture, with its baggy jeans and big jewelry, is high urban fashion. Rap has taken over at parties where salsa or boleros once ruled. Even major radio stations are offering hip-hop oriented shows.

”I like the rhythm, the beat, the boom, boom, boom,” said Waira Zamora, 19, a university student. ”I can listen to rap all night long.”

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The biggest sellers remain Americans, artists like 50 Cent and the group NWA. Some American rappers, like Eminem, have had phenomenal success here, selling even more albums than better-known stars of more traditional popular music, like cumbia.

Colombian hip-hop artists, whose music is frequently suffused with anger against their government or the United States, have so far ignored the big record labels and made their own CDs, selling them at neighborhood record shops or sprawling street markets. But the musical establishment is taking notice.