Luca Durán’s Killing Mariposas brings together Colombian cumbia, reggaetón and dembow with experimental electronics, field recordings and analogue synthesis. The album draws on the different places, cultures and languages that have shaped him, but also on more personal fragments: a childhood cassette from his uncle, sounds recorded while working with kids in Colombia, and memories that return through rhythm.
At the centre of the record is the image that gave it its name: the softness of a butterfly set against the violence of a death blow. Durán first came across the two words together in a Pablo Neruda poem, and the contrast stayed with him. Rather than choosing between the two, Killing Mariposas lets softness and violence exist in the same world. It is a tension that runs through the record, and through the way Durán makes music.
You describe Killing Mariposas as existing between two sides of your aesthetic life: the softness of a mariposa and the violence of a death blow. When did you realise these two forces belonged in the same world?
I think I’ve always been interested in contrasts and the way different things can exist next to each other. Growing up around different cultures, places and languages, I was surrounded by different perspectives and ways of seeing things. A few years ago, I came across a poem by Pablo Neruda where those two words appeared together, and something about that combination stayed with me. It made me think about how softness and violence can exist in the same world, and that became one of the ideas behind the album.
Cumbia, reggaetón and dembow sit alongside European experimentalism throughout the album. Rather than resolving those influences into one sound, you seem to let them remain in tension. What interests you about that friction?
I like finding ways for those musical worlds to connect, but I don’t always feel the need to bring them together. Sometimes it’s nice to let them exist next to each other. I think that tension can be really interesting, especially within an album, and it feels honest to me.
Diaspora is at the heart of the record. How does living between cultures change the way you experience rhythm, memory and belonging?
Living between different cultures gives you a different perspective on things, but it can also make your relationship to home a little more complicated. Sometimes being away from a place helps you see things differently and realise what stays with you and what you miss. I think that feeling has become a big part of how I experience rhythm, memory and belonging.
You describe the album as being submerged in a “windy and fragmented memory”. What does a fragmented memory sound like to you?
Things you carry with you, and then, for some reason, a small part of them suddenly reappears — a sound, a smell, a feeling — and you remember. Sometimes it’s something very small, like hearing a rhythm or a sound colour you haven’t heard in years and suddenly being transported back to the moment or place where you first heard it.
When I was a kid, my uncle came back from Colombia and gave me a cassette with older Colombian cumbias. That particular kind of cumbia still brings me back to that moment and place whenever I hear it. Lisandro Meza is one of the most important artists from that period, and when I started working on the intro and thinking about the themes of the album, the idea of ‘lejanía’ — the feeling of being far away from a place or from something that belongs to you — really caught my attention. Lejanía is also the title of one of my favourite songs by Meza, and that song became a reference when I was working on the intro.
At that point, we already had the instrumental with Kelman Duran. I told Gavsborg about the idea during a call, and he immediately connected with it and wrote the lyrics around it. I think that’s what a fragmented memory sounds like to me: not a complete story, but little pieces that come back at unexpected moments and somehow still carry the feeling of the whole.
When I was a kid, my uncle came back from Colombia and gave me a cassette with older Colombian cumbias. That particular kind of cumbia still brings me back to that moment and place whenever I hear it. Lisandro Meza is one of the most important artists from that period, and when I started working on the intro and thinking about the themes of the album, the idea of ‘lejanía’ — the feeling of being far away from a place or from something that belongs to you — really caught my attention. Lejanía is also the title of one of my favourite songs by Meza, and that song became a reference when I was working on the intro.
At that point, we already had the instrumental with Kelman Duran. I told Gavsborg about the idea during a call, and he immediately connected with it and wrote the lyrics around it. I think that’s what a fragmented memory sounds like to me: not a complete story, but little pieces that come back at unexpected moments and somehow still carry the feeling of the whole.
“I came across a poem by Pablo Neruda that made me think about how softness and violence can exist in the same world, and that became one of the ideas behind the album.”
The album moves from contemplation to euphoria, sometimes within the same track. Are you interested in the moment when listening stops being reflective and becomes physical?
Thinking about it when I’m writing music or playing a show helps me see it from another perspective. There are songs that make you think, others that make you want to move, and sometimes both happen at the same time. I find that transition really interesting — when something starts as a thought or a feeling and suddenly becomes physical.
You work with field recordings, acoustic instruments, analogue synthesis and contemporary digital tools. What happens when sounds with completely different histories occupy the same space?
It depends on the song and the mood. I don’t always use all of these sounds together but I like seeing what happens when sounds with very different sources and histories come together. Often, they bring something new to each other, and sometimes a sound can take on a completely different feeling depending on what you place it next to. I like that process of trying things out and seeing how they interact.
You have previously spoken about enjoying “happy accidents” and the feeling of not quite knowing what just happened. How much of Killing Mariposas was discovered rather than deliberately constructed?
I really enjoy it when things happen that you can’t quite explain. It’s not about waiting for things to happen by themselves, but about creating the conditions for them to happen, and then being able to recognise them when they do and capture them. Two years ago, I was working with kids on music workshops in Colombia. During that time, I recorded a lot of sounds — the classrooms, the cities, and nature. When I came back to my studio in Zurich, I was listening to some of my sketches while letting those field recordings play in the background. Then I put on the piano loop from Arusi. I’d had that loop for a while, but I didn’t really know where to take it. Hearing it over those field recordings, it felt like the right mood for the song. It became something calmer and more cinematic, and that moment changed the direction of the track.
There were a few moments like that throughout the album. They could come from the production, the composition, the lyrics or the collaborations. For me, part of making music is being open to recognising those moments when they happen.
There were a few moments like that throughout the album. They could come from the production, the composition, the lyrics or the collaborations. For me, part of making music is being open to recognising those moments when they happen.
A remarkable amount is happening inside these tracks, yet they never feel tied to a single genre. How do you know when adding another sound will deepen a track rather than simply make it louder?
I like to make music freely, without having to check boxes. It’s the same when I perform, and that was also a big part of the idea behind Killing Mariposas. When it comes to production, it’s often about trying things out, putting them aside, and coming back to them with fresh ears. I also have a few friends I really trust and exchange ideas with, which helps me get another point of view. Sometimes you need that distance to realise whether something is really adding to the track or not.
The title places tenderness and destruction next to each other. Does that contradiction reflect something you recognise in dance music itself: the possibility of finding freedom in something that can also overwhelm you?
Yes, definitely. I think that contradiction is also part of what I like about dance music. It can be physical and overwhelming, but at the same time give you a sense of freedom. You can lose yourself in it, while somehow feeling more connected to yourself and to the people around you. I think that tension between losing control and finding freedom is very interesting to me.
You assembled collaborators from very different corners of contemporary music, from Kelman Duran and Gavsborg to Iceboy Violet, Debit, Rosa Pistola, Bébe Yana, Kamohelo and kacha. What connects these artists in your mind?
They’re all artists I really admire, and they’re all very strong in what they do. But the connection was different with each of them. I think what they have in common is that I knew each of them would bring something of their own to the project, and I was interested in seeing how those different approaches could exist together.
I’ve always had a really strong connection to UK music — UK garage, bass, grime and related sounds. The sketch for Citizen Fire was one of the first ideas I had for the record. At that time, I was discovering Iceboy Violet’s music, and somehow I could already hear that specific voice on the instrumental. My team made the connection between us, and a few days later we were already sending ideas back and forth.
In early 2026, I moved to New York for a music residency, so I basically finished the record there. I was already collaborating with Debit, and we started playing with the idea of working with the rhythms of cumbia. Around that time, she had just finished working on an ambient cumbia LP, Desaceleradas. When we finally met for the first time, she recorded the vocals, and we basically finished the song that same day. It wasn’t about making everyone fit into the same sound, but about giving each of them the space to bring something different to the project.
I’ve always had a really strong connection to UK music — UK garage, bass, grime and related sounds. The sketch for Citizen Fire was one of the first ideas I had for the record. At that time, I was discovering Iceboy Violet’s music, and somehow I could already hear that specific voice on the instrumental. My team made the connection between us, and a few days later we were already sending ideas back and forth.
In early 2026, I moved to New York for a music residency, so I basically finished the record there. I was already collaborating with Debit, and we started playing with the idea of working with the rhythms of cumbia. Around that time, she had just finished working on an ambient cumbia LP, Desaceleradas. When we finally met for the first time, she recorded the vocals, and we basically finished the song that same day. It wasn’t about making everyone fit into the same sound, but about giving each of them the space to bring something different to the project.
When you invite another artist into a track, what are you looking for that you cannot produce alone? Was there a moment during the album when a collaborator fundamentally changed your understanding of a song?
I think it’s mostly about creating a point of encounter and being curious to see where it takes the song. When you invite someone into a track, you’re also giving them the chance to hear something in it that you might not have heard yourself.
In 2025, I worked with SAM-E for the first time in his studio in Brooklyn, where we recorded the sketch for 10002. At that point, I had the idea of playing with the sounds and diversity of the city — the train sounds in the intro were already there, for example. When I came back in 2026, I was still hearing something in that idea and wanted to explore it further through different voices and the contrast between them. As I knew I would be staying in New York for the whole summer, I wanted the track to have this kind of summer-with-friends feeling. Through SAM-E, I got in touch with Bébe Yana, and she brought her amazing voice to the track. Kamohelo, who sings in Tsotsitaal, became the perfect contrast I was somehow looking for.
That was especially interesting with the vocal-oriented tracks. I would send an instrumental and share some of the images I had in mind, and then hear what each artist found in it and how they translated that through their voice or lyrics. I think that’s one of the most exciting parts of collaborating. You can have an idea of what a song is, but another person can change your perspective on it simply by showing you how they hear it.
In 2025, I worked with SAM-E for the first time in his studio in Brooklyn, where we recorded the sketch for 10002. At that point, I had the idea of playing with the sounds and diversity of the city — the train sounds in the intro were already there, for example. When I came back in 2026, I was still hearing something in that idea and wanted to explore it further through different voices and the contrast between them. As I knew I would be staying in New York for the whole summer, I wanted the track to have this kind of summer-with-friends feeling. Through SAM-E, I got in touch with Bébe Yana, and she brought her amazing voice to the track. Kamohelo, who sings in Tsotsitaal, became the perfect contrast I was somehow looking for.
That was especially interesting with the vocal-oriented tracks. I would send an instrumental and share some of the images I had in mind, and then hear what each artist found in it and how they translated that through their voice or lyrics. I think that’s one of the most exciting parts of collaborating. You can have an idea of what a song is, but another person can change your perspective on it simply by showing you how they hear it.
“Sometimes being away from a place helps you see things differently and realise what stays with you and what you miss.”
Lejanía and Kumbia both draw from Latin and Caribbean musical languages, but in radically different ways. What does rhythm carry for you beyond its ability to make a body move?
Rhythm can carry stories, messages and memories. Rhythms also have their own connotations and associations. In that sense, rhythm can feel like a fragmented memory — something you recognise or feel, even if you can’t always explain why.
Your music often refuses the boundaries between club music, experimental electronics and more recognisable Latin rhythmic forms. Do you think genres are still useful to artists, or have they become more useful to the people trying to categorise them?
For me, making music is mostly about sounds, melodies, rhythms, tempo, and how they feel together. Genres can be useful for describing or finding music, but they don’t really feel like a framework for making music.
Killing Mariposas marks your full-length debut with TraTraTrax. What does the label’s particular musical universe give you the freedom to explore?
Dani, JP and Nico are long-time friends, and they’ve known my music since quite early on. I feel very lucky to have people around me who trust me enough to let me explore. They gave me a lot of freedom with the record, but at the same time, working with them made me think more about my Colombian roots and brought me closer to that part of myself.
Seraphine feels almost weightless compared with some of the album’s heavier rhythmic moments, particularly through kacha’s ethereal vocal presence. What were you trying to create in that space between euphoria, intimacy and dance?
I really wanted Seraphine to be the only real four-to-the-floor track on the album and to give it a pop-ish vibe through the vocals. The main melodies gave me this mix of something nostalgic and, at the same time, uplifting. I already knew kacha’s tone of voice from her work with her band Coals, and I sent her the idea directly. Her voice brought a very different colour to the song, and I think that contrast is what creates the feeling you mentioned. I was interested in having something that could still make you move, but also feel emotional and almost intimate at the same time.
After spending so long inside this record, what part of it still surprises you?
The happy accidents, probably.
If Killing Mariposas captures a particular moment in your life, what does it say about where you are now that you couldn’t have said through your earlier music?
I guess it captures a moment where I became much more open to letting other people and their perspectives become part of my music. Working with these ideas of different cultures, identity, distance and home, it became clear to me that collaborating with people from all around the world would give the album another dimension. It showed me again how beautiful it can be to make music with friends and with people you really admire. Seeing all these different personalities, ideas and ways of working come together made the record feel like something bigger than what I could have made alone.
