Learn Spanish with Rap Music with these 23 Song Recommendations (Full Translations Included!)

Young Miko’s “WASSUP” is a bold, bilingual club anthem bursting with swagger and flirtation. The Puerto Rican rapper walks into the room shining with diamonds, pockets full of U-S-D, and zero fear of stealing the spotlight — or someone’s girlfriend. Over a bass-heavy beat she fires off cheeky questions (“Baby, ¿qué es la que hay?” / “So, what’s up?”) while bragging that her looks, cash, and charisma never get declined. It is a playful celebration of luxe nightlife: throwing money like confetti, pole-dancing tips at the ready, and flexing two phones on Do Not Disturb because business and pleasure are both booming.

Under the glossy surface sits a message of liberation and confidence. Young Miko owns her queer identity, flips traditional gender roles, and lets the world know she is the MVP who refuses drama. The song invites listeners to embrace their desires, enjoy the ride, and keep their heads high while others talk. In short, “WASSUP” is a feel-good reminder that if you look good, feel good, and pay in full — the night is yours to command.

Quevedo: BZRP Music Sessions #52 is a fast-paced postcard from an unforgettable night out. The lyrics paint the scene: Quevedo spots someone captivating under club lights, their lipstick shining in a champagne glass. One flirtatious look turns into hours of dancing, singing, and cruising through the city until sunrise. Between reggaeton rhythms and heart-thumping beats, he invites her to explore Buenos Aires, the Canary Islands, and every spur-of-the-moment adventure that could follow.

More than a party anthem, the song celebrates that electric chemistry when two people click instantly. Every line—whether it’s toasting bottles, sneaking away in an Uber, or promising a private “concert” for a kiss—shows how one magical night can feel endless. By dawn they are exhausted yet still craving a repeat, praying for a round two because, as Quevedo confesses, the nights without her duelen (hurt). The message is clear: hold on to the spark, dance like nobody’s watching, and chase the moments you never want to end.

Columbia paints the story of a young woman who returns to her island after a demanding year at Columbia University, craving nothing but sun-soaked freedom and nightlife thrills. Her only plan is to toast the summer with friends and dodge anything that smells like commitment—until an unexpected spark flares on the dance floor. Quevedo slips into the role of the stranger who catches her eye, turning her “no-strings” agenda upside down with flirty glances, nervous smiles, and kisses that accidentally slip out an I love you.

The song captures that bittersweet magic of a vacation fling: late-night reggaetón drives, sunrise beach walks, and whispered promises that probably expire in August. Both lovers know the clock is ticking, yet they keep making memories to replay when distance and real life kick back in. Beneath the carefree beat lies a tug-of-war between independence and vulnerability—a reminder that even the most guarded hearts can trip over love when the rhythm is right.

“LA CAPI” is Myke Towers’ high-octane love letter to a woman so captivating that she becomes the “final level” of his game. The Puerto Rican rapper paints her as one-of-a-kind: intellectual without glasses, radiant without trying, and powerful enough to make him lose focus the second her name is mentioned. Between clinking bottles and a still-aching heart, he dreams of jet-setting to her capital city, tasting her country’s flavor, and turning travel into an intimate treasure hunt.

The song bounces between braggadocio and vulnerability. Towers flexes fame and luxury––stuffed animals, Ferrero chocolates, fulfilled fantasies––yet admits he would drop the spotlight if it meant winning her love. He imagines freezing time just to stay with her, vows not to lose faith, and turns every line into a mix of prayer and promise. In short, “LA CAPI” is a rhythmic thrill ride about obsession, adventure, and the hope that true love can outshine even the brightest stage lights.

“No Me Conoce [Remix]” is a late-night reggaetón confession where Jhayco, J Balvin, and Bad Bunny toast to a woman who lives a thrilling double life. By day she is the picture of composure—ace student, flawless style, private Instagram. As soon as the sun goes down, the beat drops and she calls the shots: sneaking past watchful friends, silencing phone alerts, showing up to the club ready to dance, flirt, and break every rule she set for herself. The artists celebrate her freedom and sensual power, describing secret rendezvous that feel as addictive as “la 5-12,” Puerto Rican slang for a smooth, irresistible rum.

The chorus’ playful denial—“Se hace la que no me conoce” (“She acts like she doesn’t know me”)—adds a cat-and-mouse sparkle to the story. Everyone around might see a “niña buena,” but the singers know the truth: she enjoys bending her own halo, and they are more than willing accomplices. With sultry verses and swaggering ad-libs, the track paints nightlife as a world where identities blur, temptation wins, and the fun lies in keeping it all hush-hush until the next text after midnight.

Amnesia is La Santa Grifa’s unapologetic break-up anthem. Over a hypnotic beat, the Mexican rapper tells his ex that her betrayal cured his desire for her. He brags about late-night parties, new flings, and recording videos with other girls, insisting he is “bendito entre tantas mujeres.” The swagger hides old wounds, but he refuses to pretend: she lied, the relationship died, and now she must face the same pain he once felt. The hook “vas a llorar como yo lloré” flips heartbreak into payback, turning tears into a badge of pride.

Beneath the tough talk, the song explores the messy stages of moving on: anger, denial, self-indulgence, and reluctant acceptance. He patches his broken heart with chelas (beers), smoke, and nightlife, declaring that he no longer believes in love. Yet a bittersweet line, “te quiero, pero lejos,” reveals lingering affection kept at a safe distance. Packed with everyday Mexican slang and raw emotion, “Amnesia” offers learners a vivid snapshot of street Spanish while reminding us that healing often comes wrapped in swagger and a heavy bass line.

Hop on Duko’s unstoppable train! In “Nueva Era,” Argentina’s trap superstar Duki teams up with Puerto Rican heavyweight Myke Towers to celebrate a hard-earned rise from neighborhood battler to global chart-topper. Over a menacing beat they flaunt cheques, diamond chains that shine like Haribo gummies, and first-class flights that never seem to land. It is pure victory-lap energy: they remember doubters who expected them to fall, thank the fans whose prayers turned into platinum plaques, and compare their dominance to legends like Mohammed Ali and even Dragon Ball’s Super Saiyans. The message is clear—this is a new era where talent, grind, and self-belief silence every critic.

Beneath the flexing, the song also highlights the journey behind the glory. Duki salutes the “process,” reminds listeners he once rapped on street corners, and buys a house for his mother before splurging on himself. Myke adds spicy bravado, warning pretenders that his pen is élite while staying “humildón.” Together they turn personal success into a rallying cry for anyone chasing dreams: invest in yourself, back your people, and never hit the brakes. The result is an adrenaline-charged anthem that crowns Duki and Myke as voices of a generation and invites listeners to join the movement—no ticket required.

Un Veneno feels like C. Tangana’s public confession: a raw rap-flamenco blend where he admits that fame, money, and desire have become a slow-acting poison. Over hypnotic guitars and Niño de Elche’s mournful cante, he tells the press he can fill Spain’s airwaves “sin cantar ni afinar,” yet every spotlight costs him a piece of his soul. The repeated hook “Lo hice por ti” shifts between lovers, fans, and his own ego, showing how ambition tricks him into believing all sacrifices are for someone else.

Beneath the swagger sits a wounded outsider who remembers being ignored at school dances, then fast-forwards to wild nights of excess used to drown those memories. He was born a romantic bohemian, but the pursuit of glory has turned toxic, “un veneno cruel y violento” pulsing in his blood. The song warns that society’s appetite for celebrity drama can destroy the very artists it celebrates, all while everyone keeps watching.

La Bruja whisks us into the misty, moonlit world of Mexican folklore, where witches roam the skies at two in the morning and the line between fear and fascination blurs. Instead of a sinister villain, this witch is playful and alluring. She sweeps the singer off his feet, showers him with flowers, bathes him in fragrant smoke, and turns him into a colorful bouquet. Every image pulses with the vibrant spirit of Veracruz’s son jarocho tradition, blending the thrill of the supernatural with the romance of a late-night serenade.

At its heart, the song is a teasing dance between danger and desire. The famous question “¿Cuántas criaturitas se ha chupado usted?” nods to old legends of witches who drain life from the innocent, yet the answer flips the myth on its head: “None… but I have my eyes on you.” Rather than warning listeners away, La Bruja invites them to surrender to mystery, celebrate feminine power, and revel in the magic that sparks when fear turns into flirtation.

C. Tangana takes us on a trip back to his old Madrid neighborhood, the metro stops Estrecho and Alvarado, to ask a blunt question: “Would you die for me?” The song is a tug-of-war between glittering success and the gritty beginnings that shaped him. He lists the perks of fame—GRAMMYs, first-class flights, parties in Miami—then casually says he could leave it all behind, squeeze into a thirty-square-meter apartment, and write another poem like he used to. It is a playful yet sincere reminder that trophies mean nothing if you forget the friends who rode the subway with you before the limos showed up.

By repeating the question “Morirías por mí?” he flips the spotlight onto loyalty, legacy, and authenticity. In the middle of industry pressure, seating charts, and flashy suits, Tangana wonders who would resurrect his legend if everything fell apart. His answer? He would rather end up as ashes in the sea than race ahead and abandon the people coming up behind him. The track is both a boast and a confession, wrapped in sharp rhymes that celebrate staying real while the world rolls out the red carpet.

Bizarrap Music Sessions Vol. 59 throws Mexican trailblazer Natanael Cano into the legendary BZRP booth, creating a cross-border rap that blends corridos tumbados swagger with trap-heavy beats. From the very first line, Cano paints himself endiamantado (covered in diamonds) and volado (sky-high), parading luxury cars, dry rosé, custom AR-15s, and worldwide jet getaways. The verses feel like an action-packed montage: Rafa Caro name-drops, Lil Wayne-style tattoos, Frank Sinatra charm on Buenos Aires’ 9 de Julio Avenue, and the ghost of tango icon Gardel all flash by at high speed. The message is loud and glittering – the artist has climbed to the top and he is enjoying every expensive second of it.

Beneath the bling, though, lies a gritty backstory. Cano reminds listeners of betrayals, government heat, and money burned faster than it was earned. The diamond-studded crucifix on his chest hints at faith as both protection and ornament, symbolizing how survival and excess coexist in his world. In short, Session 59 is a victory lap that celebrates hustle, resilience, and the unapologetic thrill of living recios – fast, fearless, and forever shining.

Luck Ra invites us into a raw, late-night confession room where rap meets heartbreak. Ya No Vuelvas feels like reading the last pages of a love story that refuses to end: the beat is steady, but the emotions are spiraling. With a voice that carries both exhaustion and defiance, the Argentine artist repeats a simple order, “Ya no vuelvas” — “Don’t come back.” Every line drips with the frustration of someone who has counted their apologies and finally run out.

The song flips between fragile hope and cold resignation. He admits he would pretend everything is fine, even let himself be hurt again, yet in the same breath he demands the return of all the time and love he invested. This contradiction captures the messy truth of toxic relationships: wanting distance but craving closure, swearing you have moved on while secretly replaying memories. Luck Ra’s verses turn that tug-of-war into a catchy, cathartic anthem for anyone who has ever loved someone who couldn’t love them back.

“Nada” is a fiery back-and-forth that turns a broken relationship into a musical tug-of-war. Cazzu and her all-star guests slip into the roles of ex-lovers who swear they feel “nada” — nothing at all — yet every lyric drips with leftover passion. Between pulsing reggaetón beats, each vocalist tries to convince the other (and themselves) that they have moved on: Cazzu flaunts her favorite dress, Rauw and Dalex trade bruised bragging rights, and Lyanno fans the jealousy by promising to give her what the last guy couldn’t. The song paints a neon-lit scene of clubs, social-media stalking, late-night calls, and risky rebounds, showing how pride and desire keep exes orbiting each other even after love is “buried.”

At its core, “Nada” captures the messy stage after a breakup when both sides pretend to be indifferent while secretly aching — a mix of resentment, temptation, and wounded ego. Each verse is a playful jab, each chorus a catchy reminder that saying you feel nothing doesn’t make it true. The result is an addictive anthem for anyone who has ever tried to dance away their feelings, only to realize that nada can still mean everything.

Maquillaje is an empowering breakup anthem where Jay Wheeler and Noreh flip the usual sad-love story on its head. The singers remind us that when you act with a good heart, you have nothing to regret, while those who play games eventually feel the sting of their own mistakes. The ex keeps calling, saying he’s lonely “cada vez que llueve” (every time it rains), yet the woman in the song has already moved on. She no longer hides her pain with makeup; she has tossed out the earrings, the bracelet, and the toxic memories along with them.

Instead of wallowing, she reclaims her worth: “Tú eres un hogar, mami, tú no eres un hotel” (You’re a home, not a hotel). In other words, she’s not a temporary stop for someone who can’t commit. The track celebrates self-respect, healing, and the sweet satisfaction of knowing you’re better off without someone who didn’t value you. By the end, Jay Wheeler and Noreh turn a rainy-day phone call into a catchy reminder that confidence and inner peace are the best kind of glow-up—and no amount of makeup can compare.

Delivery is a high-octane rap tale in which Mexican MC Alemán, joined by breakout star Peso Pluma, pulls you straight into the adrenaline-charged world of drug trafficking. Bar after bar, they brag about moving kilos “para Estados Unidos,” dodging bullets with a ski mask, and rocking designer brands while the cash keeps flowing. The repeated hook “Mucho criminal, todo es coludido” paints a picture of an underworld where everyone is in on the game, from street hustlers to those in power, and quitting is never an option.

Behind the flashy watches and private jets, the song also hints at harsh realities: danger is constant, trust is rare, and success often means risking it all. Yet, the rappers celebrate their ability to deliver—no matter the obstacles—portraying themselves as modern outlaw entrepreneurs who thrive on nerve, loyalty, and swagger. "Delivery" is both a boastful victory lap and a gritty snapshot of a lucrative but perilous hustle that never sleeps.

Welcome to one of Bizarrap’s most explosive sessions. In this track, Puerto Rican rapper Villano Antillano grabs the mic and turns self-confidence into a firework show. Line after line she declares, “mala mía” — an ironic “sorry, not sorry” — while flaunting her flow, her body, and her island roots (Santa Rosa, Bayamón, Minillas). The lyrics are a celebration of queer power and female swagger: Villano positions herself as the boss, the top model, the vampire, even the “GOAT,” leaving haters stuck in the waiting line “but not on the list.” Pop-culture nods to Gabriela Mistral, Jennifer Aniston’s Rachel, Bratz dolls, and Rihanna tattoos paint her as a chameleon who can fit any role and still own the room.

The message? Be unapologetically bold. Villano rejects every stereotype thrown at her, flips machismo on its head, and invites listeners to do the same. She races “a to’ motor” from the Malecón, shooting verbal “balas” over Bizarrap’s pounding beat, proving that identity is a superpower and confidence is the ultimate anthem. Give it a listen and get ready to feel unstoppable.

Bori is 6ix9ine’s most personal confessional yet: over a dramatic rap beat laced with Lenier’s soulful voice, the rainbow-haired star rewinds to a childhood when Santa never came, shoes were a luxury, and a stick served as a microphone. Each lyric feels like a page torn from his diary, painting vivid scenes of family breakdown, empty breakfast tables, and a young dreamer determined to turn silence into song.

Fast forward to today and that “chamaquito del barrio” has become a “leyenda viva.” Fame and fortune arrive, but so do envy and doubt. Through it all, 6ix9ine keeps his feet on the ground, guided by a father who watches from above and fueled by a single prayer: health and blessings for his family. The track is ultimately a victory lap for resilience, showing listeners that with grit, gratitude, and a killer flow, pain can be remixed into power.

C. Tangana’s rap hit “Mala Mujer” is a fiery confession of heartbreak and obsession. Over a hypnotic beat, the Madrid-born artist recounts how a captivating dancer with uñas de gel (gel nails) swept him off his feet and left him scarred, both literally and emotionally. He paints himself as a “perro perdido en la calle,” stumbling through nights of drunken dancing in a desperate attempt to forget her scent, her moves, and the damage she caused. The repeated cry of mala mujer (“bad woman”) is both accusation and admission: he knows she’s trouble, yet he can’t tear himself away.

Beneath the club lights and swaggering flow lies a raw story of toxic love. The woman he calls a “ladrona” has stolen his heart, pride, money, and peace, leaving him ruined but still spellbound. “Mala Mujer” captures that bittersweet mix of lust, regret, and self-destruction, turning a personal downfall into a dance-floor anthem where pain meets irresistible rhythm.

TENGO GANAS is a playful, urban love-anthem that kicks off with a daring midnight text. Luck Ra, Kidd Voodoo and Katteyes invite the listener into a fantasy where responsibilities disappear: they will call in sick, uncork good wine and turn every sunrise into breakfast in bed. The office is replaced by a far more tempting “job” — devouring each other’s kisses all day and collapsing into tangled sheets at night.

The song doubles as a cheeky manifesto for carefree passion. Between flirty nods to homemade videos, spicy workout “routines” and spontaneous hotel escapes, the trio paints a world where pleasure is the only currency. It is bold, mischievous and unapologetically sensual, celebrating the thrill of giving in to desire and turning everyday life into a never-ending vacation for two.

Tú Me Dejaste De Querer blends flamenco emotion with urban rap swagger to capture that gut-punch moment when the person you love suddenly stops loving you back. C. Tangana’s lyrics paint a raw picture of abandoned devotion: he dressed to impress, stayed up for days, bet everything on the relationship, only to be met with indifference. The chorus hits like a chant of disbelief, repeating how she turned her back on him just when he needed her most, driving home the shock and pain of unexpected heartbreak.

What makes this song irresistible is the clash between a tough exterior and a fragile heart. Tangana admits he thought he was “el más cabrón” (the baddest guy around), yet he feels every beat of his hurting heart. Niño de Elche and La Húngara add flamenco grit and soulful wails, amplifying the drama while the beat keeps it modern and club-ready. The result is an anthem for anyone who has ever tried to act unfazed while secretly falling apart, reminding listeners that under the bravado, everyone bleeds the same in love.

“La Última Canción” by Puerto Rican singer Jay Wheeler is the raw, no-filter closing chapter of a stormy love story. Over pounding reggaetón beats, the singer declares that he has finally “killed” his feelings, ditched the idea of destiny, and left the casino of love empty-handed. With razor-sharp wordplay he tells his ex that karma already patched up his wounds, so any late-night tears she sheds now are her own doing.

The track is a mix of heartbreak and sweet revenge. Wheeler wishes his former partner endless Mondays, suns that never rise, and new lovers who all smell like him—constant reminders of what she lost. Far from self-pity, the chorus is a triumphant kiss-off: if she ever wants to see him again, she can “go to hell” because he’s done. In short, it’s a cathartic anthem for anyone ready to slam the door, walk away, and never look back.

BEBE is a steamy, Spanglish rap-meets-reggaetón tale in which 6ix9ine and Anuel AA play seductive antiheroes luring a bold woman away from her unappreciative boyfriend; throughout the track they brand her their diablita, a mischievous mix of beauty and devilish instinct who craves late-night drinks, wild intimacy, and the thrill of danger. With rapid-fire ra-ta-ta-ta refrains, references to guns, luxury brands, and Lucifer himself, the artists promise a life of passion, protection, and excessive pleasure while exposing the jealous, toxic edge beneath their bravado. The result is a provocative celebration of sexual freedom, power games, and Latin trap nightlife that blurs the line between love and obsession, casting loyalty aside in favor of raw desire and high-octane fantasy.

Gritty and unapologetic, "Un Dia Todo Se Termina Remix" drops you straight into the night streets of Mexico where sirens mingle with booming bass. Tornillo teams up with Santa Fe Klan to paint a vivid picture of barrio life: guns flashing, motorcycles roaring and shadows trading glances with the reaper. The hook reminds us that one day everything ends and death never comes back, so the rappers charge forward, fearless and fully aware that each verse could be their last. Their lines bounce between bravado and vulnerability, celebrating loyalty to the crew while admitting that the reaper is always lurking around the corner.

Key ideas to listen for:

• The inevitability of death – nobody escapes “la calavera,” so the only option is to live loud and proud today.
• Neighborhood pride – the artists wear their city code like armor and warn outsiders not to meddle with their “locos del barrio.”
• Raw survival – drugs, betrayal and shoot-outs soundtrack their daily grind, yet they refuse to back down.
• Hidden wisdom – amid the chaos, a heartfelt reminder surfaces: love the people you care about, because one day we all turn to dust.

As the remix storms through its verses, you will feel both the danger and the defiant joy of choosing to dance with death rather than run from it.