When Maribella Burgos saw the row of young Bomba drummers take center stage to open Bad Bunny’s July concert during the superstar’s summer residency in San Juan, Puerto Rico, she says her whole body reacted. At 59 years old, a lifelong Bomba dancer, she had witnessed countless moments of cultural pride, but this one was different. She described it as chills that traveled across her body, as if her ancestors themselves were in the stadium. To her, it wasn’t just about entertainment. It was about history, resistance, survival, and the reclaiming of an art form that had been marginalized for centuries. She wasn’t alone in feeling that surge of emotion. The crowd of thousands erupted in euphoric energy, and even Bad Bunny himself appeared to carry the weight of the moment as he gave center stage to Puerto Rico’s oldest rhythm. “Everybody felt it,” Burgos recalled. “Bad Bunny felt it, the thousands of people in the stadium felt it, and the euphoric youth playing our music told me they felt it too.”
For Burgos, this was proof that Bomba deserves to be elevated, not as a novelty or backdrop, but as a foundation. She described Bomba as Puerto Rico’s first musical expression, born out of resistance, created by enslaved Africans over 400 years ago, and preserved by generations of Black Puerto Ricans. To her, the global exposure was long overdue. “It precedes salsa, danzón, seis, plena, reggaetón,” she said. “And it’s authentically Puerto Rican.”
The origins of Bomba tell the story of resilience and creativity under unimaginable oppression. It was created by enslaved African musicians in Loíza and coastal towns like Mayagüez and Ponce, where sugar plantations dominated. For centuries, it was banned by colonial authorities who feared its power, because Bomba wasn’t just music. It was a code. It was a way for enslaved people to communicate, to plan uprisings, to preserve their humanity, to find joy in the midst of suffering. The very act of playing it was resistance. Over time, Bomba became stigmatized as “Black music,” dismissed as música negra, not given the same platform as imported European styles or even homegrown genres like salsa that were more palatable to mainstream audiences. It wasn’t played on the radio. It wasn’t studied in conservatories. Instead, it survived through community, passed down from master to student, from family to family, from elders to children, sustained through oral tradition.
Bomba is not just about sound; it’s about dialogue. It is a musical form built on call and response, not just between instruments but between bodies. At its heart is the interaction between the lead drum, known as the primo or subidor, and the dancer. Every flick of the skirt, every twist of the torso, every step on the earth is answered by the drum in real time. The buleador maintains the steady rhythm, while the subidor improvises and converses with the dancer, interpreting physical movement into percussive language. Maracas, usually played by singers, and the cua, two wooden sticks struck against a resonant surface, complete the traditional instrumentation. Women dancers, like Burgos, often wear long, tiered skirts with layers designed for movement, creating a visual explosion of color and rhythm that becomes part of the music itself.
For percussionist and composer Héctor “Coco” Bárez, leader of the genre-bending group El Laberinto del Coco, seeing Bomba embraced at the level of a Bad Bunny concert is nothing short of historic. Bárez has dedicated his career to pushing Bomba forward while honoring its roots, fusing it with jazz, funk, and hip-hop. He sees this moment as validation of decades of hard work by artists who never let Bomba die, even when it was dismissed or forgotten by the mainstream. “This effervescent moment is not only a great achievement but it’s also momentous for the resistance this music has persevered,” he explained. “There is no stopping this Bomba music train.”
Bárez points out that while Bad Bunny may have introduced new audiences to Bomba through his concerts and his album “Debí Tirar Más Fotos,” the genre has been experiencing a renaissance for nearly forty years. From community workshops in Loíza to experimental collectives in San Juan, young musicians have been reclaiming Bomba not just as heritage, but as a living art form that speaks to today’s struggles. Just as enslaved Africans once used it to defy their oppressors, modern Puerto Ricans are using Bomba and Plena to speak out against colonial status, political corruption, economic crises, displacement, and gentrification fueled by tax breaks for wealthy outsiders. At the same time, the music remains a vehicle for joy, love, and celebration.
Today, artists such as Chamir Bonano, Bomba Iya, Bomba Evolución, and Imbuye are carrying the torch. For them, Bomba is not an afterthought. It is central. It is the heartbeat of their projects. These are musicians who are not content to include one or two Bomba tracks on an album. Instead, they are placing it at the center of their creative expression and fusing it with global sounds. El Laberinto del Coco’s performances, for example, feature not just traditional drums but full horn sections, guitars, layered vocals, and of course dancers who keep the dialogue alive. Their Tiny Desk performance was a vivid illustration of how Bomba can expand while never losing its essence.
The tradition also continues through innovators like William Cepeda, a Grammy-nominated trombonist and protégé of jazz legend Dizzy Gillespie. Coming from one of the most respected Bomba families on the island, Cepeda was among the first to experiment with fusions more than twenty-five years ago. For him, Bomba’s richness lies in its adaptability. “Bomba’s versatility in melody and rhythms allows for its fusion,” he explained. “There’s Bomba from Mayagüez, from Santurce, from Ponce, from Guayama, from all corners of the land. It is rich, it is classy and it’s ours.”
Cepeda introduced something unusual to Bomba two decades ago: the conch shell. For him, it wasn’t a gimmick, but a way to bring together different strands of Puerto Rican identity. He remembered his Taino grandfather blowing the conch shell at the end of the day to call animals home, or to announce a harvest or a ceremony. Inspired by this memory, Cepeda began to experiment, playing shells of various sizes alongside the drums, creating a spiritual, otherworldly soundscape. In doing so, he bridged African and Indigenous traditions, expanding Bomba’s sonic possibilities.
The resurgence of Bomba is not happening in isolation. Its sister rhythm, Plena, is also experiencing renewed energy and visibility. Like Bomba, Plena is rooted in Afro-Boricua culture, though it emerged later, in the late 19th century, in Black and Brown working-class neighborhoods of Ponce and Guayama. Unlike Bomba, which has multiple rhythms and variations, Plena is built on a single rhythm played on three panderos, or hand drums. The tempo can shift, but the essence is steady. Plena has long been known as Puerto Rico’s “newspaper,” carrying stories, spreading news, and chronicling community life in song. Juan Gutiérrez, founder of the New York-based group Los Pleneros de la 21, describes it as the island’s original social media. “It’s the music we take to protests, to parties, to mourn, to celebrate — it’s mobile and it’s freedom music,” he explained.
Bad Bunny made a point of including Plena in his latest album, collaborating with the group Los Pleneros de la Cresta on the track “Café con ron.” The song became one of the most popular on the project, and during his residency, it even caught the attention of LeBron James, who was seen on stage joyfully dancing to it. The moment went viral, a striking image of global pop culture colliding with centuries-old traditions. Whether or not LeBron understood the full historical weight of what he was dancing to, the symbolism was powerful: an international superstar moving to the rhythm of Puerto Rican freedom music.
For Burgos, seeing the world finally pay attention to Bomba and Plena is a deeply emotional experience. In her dance classes, she has women from Egypt, Colombia, Hungary, Ukraine, and beyond, all eager to learn. What was once stigmatized as música negra, dismissed as too “local” or too “ethnic” for mass consumption, is now transcending borders. “People from all over the world are enjoying and wanting to know about our music,” she said with pride. For her, this is not just a trend. It is a cultural awakening, one that connects history, identity, and global appreciation.
Bad Bunny’s choice to highlight Bomba and Plena at the height of his career says something important about where Puerto Rican music is headed. At a time when reggaetón dominates global charts, he has shown that the roots of that music — the Afro-Boricua rhythms that predate and inform it — deserve recognition. In doing so, he has not only honored his island’s history but also created a platform for younger generations to continue innovating. The message is clear: Puerto Rico’s music is not one-dimensional. It is layered, complex, born of resistance and joy, and it continues to evolve.
Bomba, once silenced, once banned, once relegated to the margins, is now center stage, carried by the energy of young drummers, the power of dancers, and the vision of artists unafraid to fuse past and present. It is the sound of survival, the sound of protest, the sound of celebration. It is, as Burgos said, Puerto Rico’s first musical expression — and thanks to a new wave of musicians and the platform of global icons, it is finding its place in the future as well.