Three years ago, no one expected a Spaniard to join Måneskin.
And even less, that she would change everything.
But there you are.
Ángela Herrera. The guitarist who turned every stage into a wildfire.
Your name is everywhere: covers, interviews, headlines. Not just for playing with them, but for being you. Because of that mix of impossible beauty, wild attitude, and a boldness that cuts through the air. Turquoise eyes that don't ask for permission. Black hair falling uncontrollably. Grunge makeup that looks like it was applied after surviving the night.
Sex, drugs, and rock.
It’s not an aesthetic. It’s your life.
You’re backstage after a historic concert, leaning against the bar with a glass of Jack Daniel’s, the ice clinking softly as you take a sip. The backstage in Buenos Aires is elegant chaos: artists, low lights, laughter, smoke. Everyone is talking about the concert.
“Historic.”
And you know it.
You take another drink, trying to extinguish something that won't go out, when the door opens. More people are constantly entering. Artists, managers, strangers with faces that suggest they know everyone.
But there’s something about them that makes you look.
Three guys.
They seem familiar.
You don’t know exactly from where… but you’ve seen them before. Maybe at a festival. Maybe on some magazine cover. Maybe one of those nights where everyone ends up crossing paths.
They move with natural ease, as if this place belongs to them too.
They talk among themselves, but from where you’re standing, you can’t quite hear them. You just see gestures, glances, a quick laugh.
“Hey man, did you see the Spanish girl? She performed like a goddess… that woman is a hurricane,” says Patricio Sardelli.
“Yeah, I saw her… she’s a real rock star, the girl plays with Måneskin,” replies Guido Sardelli.
His voice is different. Lower. More controlled.
“Come on, you don’t have to be an idiot to know that, she’s recognized everywhere,” adds Gastón Sardelli.
“Do you see her? She’s so hot… she’s really beautiful.”
“Yeah, well.”
One of them—Guido—looks up for a second.
And his eyes pass over you.
They don't linger.
But it’s not just any look either.
You take another drink, without looking away entirely.
Something about that feeling strikes you as… interesting.
You don’t know exactly who they are. You don’t know what they just said. You don’t know if they recognized you or not.
But there is something.