Salsa Bugil: The Uncovered Dance Movement Stirring Cultural Conversations In 2024

In the sultry glow of a Bogotá nightclub in early March 2024, a new form of expression has emerged from the shadows of Latin dance culture—salsa bugil, or “naked salsa.” Not to be confused with literal nudity, the term is a metaphorical declaration of authenticity, stripping away the polished choreography and commercial glamor that has come to define mainstream salsa. Instead, it embraces raw emotion, improvisation, and a return to the genre’s Afro-Caribbean roots, where movement was less about performance and more about survival, resistance, and community. The movement has quietly gained momentum across underground dance circles in Colombia, Puerto Rico, and even in Brooklyn’s Latinx enclaves, resonating with a generation disillusioned by performative perfection and digital artifice.

At its core, salsa bugil is a rebellion. It rejects the hyper-stylized, Instagram-ready routines popularized by dance influencers and instead champions spontaneity, vulnerability, and the imperfections that make human connection possible. Dancers move without mirrors, often in dimly lit rooms with no audience, focusing solely on the interplay between bodies and rhythm. The term was coined by Colombian dancer and cultural theorist Mateo Rojas during a panel discussion at the 2023 Cali Salsa Festival, where he criticized the “Disneyfication” of Latin dance. “We’ve turned salsa into a costume,” Rojas said. “Salsa bugil is about taking the costume off.” The phrase went viral in underground dance forums and has since been adopted by a growing network of collectives from Medellín to Madrid.

The rise of salsa bugil parallels broader cultural shifts seen in music and art, where artists like Rosalía have faced scrutiny for appropriating flamenco’s emotional depth while diluting its social context. Similarly, reggaeton’s global explosion has sparked debates about who profits from Black and working-class Latin expression. Salsa bugil, then, is not just a dance form—it’s a critique. It echoes the ethos of figures like Puerto Rican poet Julia de Burgos, who wrote, “I am not who you think I am,” or the raw honesty of Nina Simone’s live performances, where technical flaws only amplified emotional truth.

In an age where TikTok dictates dance trends and virality trumps meaning, salsa bugil offers a counter-narrative. It’s found resonance among young dancers weary of algorithmic validation and older practitioners nostalgic for the days when salsa was danced in backyards, not studios. The movement has also sparked academic interest, with Columbia University launching a 2024 seminar titled “Naked Rhythms: Embodiment and Resistance in Latin Dance.”

More than just a trend, salsa bugil reflects a growing demand for authenticity across creative industries. From Phoebe Bridgers’ stripped-down ballads to the quiet luxury fashion wave, audiences are gravitating toward the unadorned. In dance, this means returning to the heartbeat of the music—the syncopated clave, the shared breath between partners, the unscripted moment when two people truly listen. Salsa bugil doesn’t seek mass appeal; it seeks meaning. And in 2024, that may be the most radical act of all.