Chance Liko Portillo

He didn’t just arrive, bro: he dropped. Like a beat, like a reto, like something heavy slipping out the subwoofer. Born en San Sequoia with one ear to the mar and the other to the stereo, chance was rhythm before reason.

The baby of the Portillo clan: three brilliant hermanas, a papá larger-than-life, and a sulani mother who taught him to sway like the tide. He grew up drowning in ruido, cariño and expectation. Music wasn’t studied, it was swallowed, sweated, lived. His childhood mixtapes were part crush, part survival kit.

Now he’s DJ, producer and retail warrior when the rent hits. Nights split between club stargazer and his cabina casera, soundproofed con lo que alcanzó del Home Depot. His sets are reverent and raw at once: Selvadoradian drums riding the himene, Moana chants threading under the bass, every beat carrying longing and light. It's not fame he wants, but frequency, making space for misfits who can’t help but feel too much when the drop hits. A home for the loud, the messy, the over eager, the heart full.

Al bajar el volumen there’s vulnerability: borderline, hearing fading poquito a poquito, loves that burn quick and vanish quicker. Chance doesn’t want to be liked. he wants to be felt. Full. Out loud. Inolvidable.