#lali

Introduction

Over the last two years, Missy’s career had taken a leap impossible to ignore. It wasn’t organic or quiet growth—it was an explosion. And while many preferred to credit talent, audacity, or perfect timing, the truth was that it had all begun with an unexpected enemy.

The president.

Without subtlety or restraint, he had decided to turn her into a public target. He accused her of living off state taxes, of charging inflated fees for free shows across different provinces, of being an overproduced product serving a culture that—according to him—needed to be erased. He didn’t say it behind closed doors. He said it on television, at official events, in interviews. He repeated her stage name like a slogan, sharp and deliberate.

Missy didn’t respond with statements. She responded with music.

She wrote songs that didn’t ask for permission or forgiveness. Lyrics that didn’t defend themselves—they attacked. The reaction was immediate. Radio stations amplified the conflict. The public chose sides. Where there had once been packed theaters, there were now stadiums selling out in a matter of hours. Her first show after the media explosion was devastating: a spectacle of lights, screens, and choreography that blended eroticism, power, and absolute control of the stage. It wasn’t empty provocation. It was a declaration.

Offstage, away from headlines and chants, her name was Valentina—a name rarely spoken out loud, almost unused, like something carefully folded away. Onstage, under the lights, there was only Missy.

International media turned their cameras toward Buenos Aires as if something dangerous were happening. And, in a way, it was.

By 1998, two years after the conflict began, Missy performed five consecutive nights at one of the largest stadiums in Argentina. Every date sold out. Foreign journalists, special correspondents, photographers. The phenomenon was no longer local. The controversy had crossed borders.

And, against all odds, the place where it resonated the most was England.

A country with a long tradition of cultural protectionism. Ours first, imports later. In the heart of the britpop era, the artists dominating the scene were confrontational, revolutionary, incapable of keeping their mouths shut. In that context, the figure of a young Latin American woman who faced political attacks without bowing her head was as unsettling as she was magnetic.

The invitation to the British awards arrived wrapped in cultural language: the breakout artist from Latin America. The contemporary voice who could take it. In Argentina, the news landed like a bomb. The Malvinas war was still an open wound. Sixteen years hadn’t been enough to close anything. Her decision to set foot on English soil was read by some as provocation, by others as betrayal.

But Missy didn’t travel to ask for permission. She traveled with a plan.

On the other side of the room, without knowing it yet, was Liam Gallagher.

In his own ecosystem of chaos, arrogance, and noise. In an England that believed itself the center of the world. Oasis was everywhere, and for him, the universe boiled down to sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Nothing seemed capable of knocking him off balance… until he saw her.

The first thing he noticed wasn’t the music or the voice, but the symbol.

Right at the center of her chest, clearly visible under the stage lights, was the Malvinas logo. Direct. Unmistakable. A gesture impossible to ignore on a British stage. A blunt уар before any explanation could arrive.

Only then did the accent come. The opening introduction was in Spanish. On an English stage. Another immediate scandal.

He didn’t understand every word, but he understood the message.

The moving body. The sharpened voice. The violent sensuality of the performance. Absolute control of the stage. The crowd’s reaction. The madness spreading through the room.

She didn’t look at him. But he couldn’t stop looking at her.

That was the exact moment when two incompatible worlds began to collide. And neither of them was willing to give in.