Learn Spanish With Maluma with these 23 Song Recommendations (Full Translations Included!)
Felices los 4 is a playful reggaeton anthem where Colombian superstar Maluma shrugs off jealousy and celebrates an open-minded approach to love. The singer watches his lover come and go with other partners, yet remains unfazed because he is sure she will always circle back to him. Instead of heartbreak, he proposes a carefree deal: “If you spend time with someone else, let’s all just be happy — the four of us.” In other words, everyone can share the fun and still end up smiling.
Behind the catchy beat, the lyrics toast to freedom, confidence and pleasure without labels. Maluma rejects rigid “contracts” and social judgment, focusing on the irresistible chemistry that keeps the couple magnetized. The repeated promise of volverás (“you’ll return”) shows his swagger, while the idea of agrandar el cuarto (“we’ll make the room bigger”) turns potential drama into a party invitation. It is a bold, tongue-in-cheek reminder that love can be flexible, and that sometimes the best response to possessiveness is to dance it away.
“Créeme” drops us right into the aftermath of a breakup, where regret is loud and hope is stubborn. Over a smooth reggaeton groove, Maluma and KAROL G trade heartfelt lines that say, in essence, I messed up, I still love you, and life feels pointless without your kiss. The title’s plea - “Créeme” (“Believe me”) - is a desperate request for one more chance, while every lyric highlights the chilly emptiness that replaces a love once thought to be invincible.
Between catchy hooks and rhythmic beats, the song becomes a masterclass in vulnerability. Both artists own their mistakes, wonder why pure affection was not enough, and wrestle with the heavy process of letting go. Listeners hear two sides at once: the aching heart begging to be trusted and the silent ex who is already gone. In the end, “Créeme” reminds us that saying sorry is easy, but convincing someone to believe in that apology can feel impossible.
Hawái is Maluma’s slick postcard from a breakup gone digital. The Colombian superstar sings to an ex who posts dreamy vacation shots from Hawaii, flaunting a picture-perfect new romance on Instagram. He knows the photos are really staged to spark his jealousy, so he calls her out: “Deja de mentirte… sé que fue para darme celos.” Behind the palm-tree filters and congratulatory comments, he senses her tears and remembers their fiery past, insisting that no gentleman can love her the way he once did.
Hawái is a catchy lesson in modern heartbreak, where social media filters can’t hide real emotions. Maluma mixes playful confidence with vulnerable confessions while exploring themes like:
- Love vs. Appearances: Online perfection looks great, but true feelings surface off-camera.
- Jealousy & Pride: Both exes try to win the breakup, yet neither truly wins.
- Self-Reflection: He admits his own faults and asks for forgiveness, proving that likes and followers cannot replace genuine love. So, when the beat pulses and Maluma’s smooth voice tells the story, remember: paradise photos may sparkle, but “el amor no se compra con nada.”
“Qué Pena” is a playful reggaeton duet where Maluma and J Balvin bump into an attractive woman at a party and suffer a classic nightlife dilemma: her face looks familiar, but her name is a mystery. The singers confess, with a bit of embarrassment, that they cannot place her in their memory—yet that does not stop the flirtation. Instead, they invite her to come closer, turn up the music, and create fresh memories right on the dance floor.
Throughout the song, the phrase qué pena (what a shame) captures both the awkwardness of forgetting someone and the light-hearted attitude that reigns in Colombian party culture. The lyrics celebrate living in the moment, letting go of worries, and focusing on the chemistry that sparks in the here-and-now. In other words, names might fade, but the beat, the attraction, and the fun are impossible to forget.
“Corazón” is a playful breakup anthem where Maluma and Brazilian guest Nego do Borel turn heartache into a party. The story is simple: someone shattered their hearts, yet instead of drowning in sadness, the singers decide to “give a little piece” of that broken heart to every new girl they meet. By sprinkling Spanish with flashes of Portuguese, they show that love — and fun — can cross borders.
Behind the catchy reggaeton beat lies a message of freedom and fresh starts. Rather than clinging to resentment, the artists say goodbye, muito obrigado (thanks a lot), and head out to enjoy life with gatas nuevas (new girls). It is a confident, tongue-in-cheek reminder that when one relationship ends, you can reclaim your happiness, share your energy with others, and keep dancing forward.
El Préstamo turns love into a business deal, and Maluma is the savvy yet wounded banker. Over an infectious reggaeton beat, the Colombian superstar tells his partner that his corazón was never a gift - it was only on loan. He keeps repeating "yo no lo di, yo lo presté" to underline that he expects his feelings back with interest. The playful metaphor hides real vulnerability: past heartbreaks have made him cautious, so he speaks upfront about limits, payments, and emotional late fees.
Between confident swagger and honest confession, the song explores modern relationships where affection can feel transactional. Maluma warns his lover that if she will not honor the "loan agreement," plenty of other suitors are waiting in line. The result is a catchy mix of flirtation, financial imagery, and raw transparency that invites listeners to dance while thinking twice about how they invest their hearts.
Sobrio turns a late-night “drunk call” into a catchy Reggaeton confession. Maluma plays the role of a love-struck ex who can only spill his true feelings after a few too many drinks. Between rhythmic beats, he admits that liquor lowers his guard, letting him apologize, ask if his old flame still loves him, and even hint that he once imagined marriage. The song balances swagger with vulnerability as he wrestles with pride, regret, and a buzzing phone screen that shows her online.
Instead of the usual club braggadocio, this track spotlights a relatable moment: gathering liquid courage to say what sobriety blocks. With its addictive chorus and honest lyrics, “Sobrio” invites listeners to dance while reflecting on those impulsive messages we all consider sending when the night is late, the heart is heavy, and the glass is half full.
Maluma joins forces with regional Mexican powerhouse Carin León to deliver “Según Quién,” a spirited fusion of Colombian swagger and norteño grit. Over twangy guitars and brassy riffs, the duo turn the classic breakup song on its head, trading rumors for real talk and laughing off any notion that they are drowning in sorrow.
The lyrics follow a confident narrator who keeps hearing gossip that he is still hung up on an ex—but according to whom? Far from nursing a broken heart, he’s moved on to a new flame, enjoying life in Mexico and ready to hand his former lover a roll of toilet paper for all the trash she keeps talking. With witty one-liners and playful bravado, “Según Quién” becomes a catchy reminder to never let false stories define you and to celebrate the freedom that comes from truly letting go.
“La Reina” crowns self-confidence with a reggaeton beat that makes you want to dance while admiring your reflection. In the lyrics, Maluma tells a woman that she is already flawless – no makeup, no filters, no flashy jewelry required. He flips the script on anyone who ever made her doubt herself, calling out society’s shallow beauty standards and applauding her natural glow. The message is clear: you are royalty just as you are.
Beyond praise, the song is a gentle reminder of what real love should look like. Maluma insists this “queen” deserves a partner who brings flowers, not blows, and who lifts her up instead of tearing her down. With catchy hooks and uplifting lines, “La Reina” becomes both a confidence anthem and a call for respect, celebrating the eighth wonder of the world – authentic, unapologetic you.
Picture the scene: you are at a buzzing Latin club when Maluma’s unmistakable voice cuts through the speakers. In “Cosas Pendientes,” the Colombian superstar tells the story of two ex-lovers who bump into each other on the dance floor. She is grinding with someone new, but the DJ accidentally plays their old song. One electric glance, a sly smile, and suddenly all those late-night memories come rushing back. The lyrics reveal that, no matter how hard she tries to act indifferent, the chemistry is impossible to hide—“la tensión se ve, se siente.”
Maluma paints their unfinished business like a tattoo: permanent, vivid, and impossible to erase. He’s convinced she still checks his photos, still compares every new fling to him, and still feels that magnetic pull whenever they lock eyes. Behind the reggaetón beat and club lights lies a playful yet bittersweet message—moving on is tough when love leaves cosas pendientes, loose ends waiting to be tied.
Contrato invites us into a neon-lit night in Medellín where Maluma wrestles with the aftershocks of a breakup. Drinks are flowing, the club is packed, yet his mind is stuck on the one who got away. Every toast, every beat, every pair of lips becomes a failed attempt to replace her. The Colombian superstar flips between swagger and vulnerability: he brags, he drinks, he pretends to party, but the truth slips out whenever he dials her number “sin querer queriendo.”
Under the catchy reggaetón rhythm, the song paints love as a contract Maluma is desperate to renegotiate. “Bajemos la tensión y subamos el balcón” is his playful proposal to restart, wipe the slate clean, and sign up for round two. Street slang like “parceras,” “pirobos,” and “está cabrón” keeps the lyrics rooted in his paisa culture, while the chorus turns heartache into a dance-floor anthem. In short, Contrato is both a confession and a comeback attempt: a smooth mix of Colombian vernacular, late-night longing, and Maluma’s signature charm.
A.D.M.V. = Amor De Mi Vida. In this tender ballad, Colombian superstar Maluma swaps his usual reggaetón swagger for a heartfelt confession of lifelong devotion. From the very first line he admits he already misses his partner even though she is still by his side, hinting at just how deeply attached he is. Time stretches whenever he imagines losing her, and he pledges to go “hasta la muerte” – all the way to death – highlighting a love so powerful it turns seconds into eternities.
As the song unfolds, Maluma paints a vivid picture of growing old together: shaky legs, wrinkled skin, fading memories preserved only in photographs. Yet he insists that nothing – not age, not forgetfulness – will erase the truth that she is “el amor de mi vida.” Between these tender vows he slips in playful, sensual lines, admitting that her beauty still leaves him breathless and joking that this once-lone “perro” has been happily “tied up.” The result is a touching mix of romance and realism, reminding listeners to treasure love in both the fiery present and the quiet future that awaits us all.
“La Fórmula” shakes up classic salsa with a modern twist, as Maluma teams up with Marc Anthony to turn heartbreak into a dance-floor confession. The lyrics paint a vivid picture of someone who just cannot solve the “equation” of moving on. No matter how he adds, subtracts, or multiplies his feelings, the result is always the same – he misses the taste of her kisses and keeps her spot reserved in his life. Behind the lively horns and percussion, there is a stubborn hope: he begs her not to wander too far because his heart (and even his phone number) will stay exactly where she left them.
This song blends playful wordplay with raw emotion. We hear longing in lines about New York winters warmed by their embrace, jealousy when he calls her new man a “payaso,” and determination as he dreams of calling Marc to sing at their future wedding. “La Fórmula” reminds us that sometimes love, just like math, refuses to be neatly solved – but at least salsa gives us a rhythm to keep dancing while we figure it out.
Borro Cassette drops us right into the aftermath of an unforgettable (and apparently forgettable) night out. Maluma paints the scene: a crowded dance floor, flirtatious moves, passionate kisses, and enough drinks to make the memory reel go fuzzy. By morning, the girl insists she’s “erased the tape” — in other words, she claims not to remember a thing. Maluma, amused and intrigued, can’t believe she has wiped the slate clean when every detail still loops in his mind.
The song plays like a cheeky cat-and-mouse game. While the girl shields herself behind selective amnesia, Maluma turns on his charm, reminding her of the sparks that flew and coaxing her to admit she felt them too. Under the reggaeton beat, “Borro Cassette” becomes a playful anthem about modern hookup culture, liquid courage, and the blurry line between I don’t remember and I don’t want to admit it. It’s flirty, catchy, and a little mischievous — perfect for anyone who’s ever woken up wondering just how much of last night the other person actually remembers!
“Mala Mía” means “My Bad,” and Maluma turns this catchy reggaetón confession into a celebration of unapologetic swagger. He lists his so-called sins—kissing someone else’s girlfriend, drinking too much, crashing the party—then casually shrugs it off with a playful “mala mía.” The phrase works like a non-apology: he admits the facts, but he refuses to feel guilty, insisting así es mi vida, es sólo mía (“that’s my life, it’s only mine”).
Behind the mischief, Maluma delivers a bigger message about confidence and individuality. Critics may frown, yet he knows they secretly admire him enough to imitate him. The song invites listeners to own their slip-ups, live on their own terms, and keep dancing. If someone complains, just flash a grin and say “mala mía.”
El Perdedor (Spanish for The Loser) finds Colombian superstar Maluma caught in a whirlwind of jealousy and regret. The moment he realizes his ex is already kissing someone else, his confidence shatters. He bombards her with questions—“Why are you calling me? What did I do wrong?”—while admitting that seeing her with another man is killing him inside. The song swings between swagger and vulnerability: he brags that no one can love her like he did, yet pleads for another chance and even begs her to tell the new guy she still sighs for Maluma.
Behind the catchy reggaeton beat lies a relatable story about losing love and wrestling with pride. Maluma paints himself as both the victim and the culprit: his “only crime was loving her,” but now he has to face the bitter title of perdedor. He alternates between nostalgia—recalling their wild nights together—and hope, promising he will always be “available” if she ever wants to return. Ultimately, the song captures that raw mix of heartbreak, ego, and lingering passion that makes moving on so hard—and dancing to it so irresistible.
Maluma’s “Procura” is a Reggaeton tale of digital-era longing where social-media bravado collides with raw emotion. The Colombian superstar scrolls through his ex’s profile and spots flashy captions about a new romance that is supposedly perfect. Yet every boast—“he loves me, he values me”—sounds like a not-so-subtle jab aimed at him. Maluma responds with equal parts swagger and vulnerability: he admits he still thinks of her, warns her not to picture him when she lies in someone else’s bed, and reminds her of the unforgettable moments they once shared.
At its heart, the song explores the tug-of-war between appearance and truth. Both ex-lovers parade new relationships online, but the chemistry they had—“loquita por mí, loquito por ti”—refuses to fade. Underneath the playful beat, “Procura” questions why we pretend to be over someone when our minds, memories, and midnight scrolls say otherwise. It is a catchy reminder that likes and captions can’t mask lingering desire, especially when the rhythm keeps pulling you back to the past.
Mojando Asientos is a sensual, nostalgia-soaked postcard to a past relationship. Maluma and Feid trade memories of Medellín nights filled with guaro (aguardiente), shared smoke, and steamy make-outs in the car that literally left the seats “mojados.” The singers admit that the love story hit some bumps, yet every line shows how vividly those carefree adventures still live in their minds. From cruising down to the 301, hanging out in Envigado, to sneaking off after concerts, each local reference paints a picture of two young lovers who mixed passion with mischief and made the city their playground.
Behind the swagger, the track is really about longing and what-ifs. Maluma keeps asking if his ex will think of him when someone else touches her skin, while Feid insists they “find a way” to fix what went wrong. The chorus is a playful invitation to rewind time and relive those unforgettable nights—proof that even worldwide superstars can’t outrun the pull of a first, electrifying love. The title sums it up perfectly: it’s messily romantic, a little risqué, and impossible to forget.
11 PM drops us into a late-night drama where the clock keeps ticking, but one thing stays the same: a woman’s boyfriend never picks up the phone. From 11:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m., Maluma narrates each unanswered call, turning the silence on the other end into his perfect chance to step in. With smooth confidence, he tells her she looks better by his side, cruising in his car that smells of Christian Dior, and definitely too gorgeous to waste tears on someone who does not value her.
Beneath the flirtatious reggaetón vibe, the song carries an empowering message: do not settle for neglect. Maluma portrays the absent boyfriend as a dark cloud hiding her bright sun, while positioning himself as the one ready to show her worth and keep the night exciting. “11 PM” is part irresistible pick-up anthem, part self-love reminder—wrapped in catchy hooks that make you want to dance as you rethink who deserves your time and your heart.
“Felices Los 4 [Salsa]” turns a classic tale of love and jealousy on its head and swaps it for a carefree, open-door romance powered by sizzling salsa rhythms. Maluma and Marc Anthony playfully sing about a relationship where everyone is free to come and go, certain that the chemistry is strong enough to bring them back together. Instead of heartbreak, the singers choose celebration: “Let’s all be happy, the four of us.” The lyrics show a bold confidence—no stress, no drama—just the assurance that passion will keep cycling back like a catchy chorus.
Behind the upbeat horns and infectious percussion, the song carries a message of non-traditional love, trust, and zero possessiveness. Whether the partner stays, leaves, or shares time with someone else, the mood stays festive. Maluma’s laid-back swagger blends with Marc Anthony’s salsa fire to proclaim that love can be flexible, fun, and full of dance-floor heat. In this world, expanding the room (“te agrandamos el cuarto”) is easier than shrinking the heart, and everyone is invited to keep the party—and the romance—going round after round.
“Qué Chimba” is Maluma’s shout-out to the unbeatable vibe of a night out in his hometown, Medellín. In Colombian slang qué chimba means “how cool,” and the song lives up to that phrase by painting a lively picture of friends gathering for a guaranteed good time. Maluma calls on parceros (buddies) and chimbitas (pretty girls) to get ready for a guaracha-style party sound-tracked by pounding beats, shots of guaro (aguardiente), sips of rum, and even a ride on horseback to the hills of Sabaneta. Every detail — from hanging in the park to gazing over the city at El Mirador with a bluntcito — celebrates Medellín’s street culture and its carefree, festive spirit.
At its core, the song is a joyful anthem of friendship, local pride, and living in the moment. Maluma isn’t just describing a party; he’s inviting the listener to feel the rhythm, learn the slang, and taste the nightlife that makes Colombia tan chimba — so cool — to him.
Set sail on a sea of regret! In "Marinero," Colombian pop star Maluma trades his usual swagger for raw confession. He compares himself to a sailor who docked in many ports, chasing quick thrills instead of cherishing the one true love waiting for him at home. Each verse is a wave of remorse: he ignored her words, loved her only when she was “desnuda,” and now the silence between them roars louder than any storm.
As the chorus repeats, the metaphor deepens. The more ports he visited, the more he shipwrecked his own chances at real love. He drinks, he cries, he admits he was the culprit. In a bittersweet twist, he lets her go so she can find safer harbors, accepting that his wandering heart caused their breakup. "Marinero" is both a cautionary tale and a tear-soaked apology, reminding us that chasing endless adventures can leave us stranded far from the love we truly need.
Hola Señorita is a sun-drenched flirtation that jumps from the beaches of Colombia and L.A. to the boulevards of Paris. Maluma spots a mysterious beauty who is whispered to be “María” and is instantly smitten. Over swaggering reggaeton drums, he tries every charm he knows: a swirl of Spanish, English, and French, designer compliments, playful emojis, and a promise of adventure far from prying eyes. Each line is a breezy invitation to dance, to laugh, and to drop the small talk so they can get straight to the spark that’s crackling between them.
Maître Gims answers from the French side of the collaboration, mirroring Maluma’s fascination while revealing his own doubts about love, fame, and trust. He calls her a ninja who appears and disappears, someone as silent and elusive as a cat, yet too magnetic to resist. Together they spin a story of two cultures colliding on the dance floor, where language barriers melt away and attraction becomes universal. Hola Señorita is ultimately about chasing that thrilling first connection—no matter the language, no matter the city—because the rhythm of the heart can speak for itself.