ALBUM REVIEWS
The path to aespa’s debut album has been chaotic, to say the least. Whispers about their first full-length have been circulating since 2021 – the year after they debuted with ‘Black Mamba’ – but were continuously silenced in favour of a series of up-and-down mini-albums instead. Last year, when they were apparently set to put out an LP for real, internal drama at SM Entertainment saw aespa’s album seemingly become collateral damage.
At last, though, the time has finally arrived for the girl group to share a more fleshed-out statement than their previous releases have afforded them (although, with 2022’s ‘Girls’ clocking in at nine tracks, there’s only a difference of one song). ‘Armageddon’ has high expectations to beat, both because of the time it’s taken to get here and the quality aespa have shown they can achieve. Thankfully, for the most part, it doesn’t let the group down.
Across the album, the four-piece follow a narrative of once being insecure and uncertain in themselves, only to blossom into unwavering new levels of confidence. ‘Mine’ has the women reflecting on growing up with fear and feeling like the “fake portrait” that was their reflection in a “broken mirror” was “going to swallow me up”. By the time the song’s layers of bass-y cool have wrapped up, though, they’re standing tall. “Won’t bow my head anymore / No I won’t,” they vow.
‘Armageddon’ begins with a group of supremely confident tracks that more than scratch the itch for the experimental pop aespa do so well. ‘Supernova’ feels both high fashion and grimy and gritty at the same time, thanks to its revving sound effects and poised swathes of synths. The title track continues that low-slung, high-attitude approach, seamlessly weaving out of softer moments, while ‘Set The Tone’ could be the group’s intro music for a big fight, full of boasts like, “We set the tone / Music on where we go / Crazy beat drum”.
Elsewhere, the album dips into sonic territory that is more widely accessible but a little more hit-and-miss. ‘Bahama’ is a breezy and bright summer pop song that details taking a friend on a trip to the titular island. “Take me, take me / Take me on an / Ocean blue / Bahama, ba ba / Bahama, hama,” the group coo cheerfully over handclaps and sunkissed, sparkling melodies, forming an instantly infectious new addition to your summer playlist. ‘Licorice’ sits in the middle ground between accessible and experimental, still packing in the energy of aespa’s artistry but making it more universally palatable.
On the other hand, though, there are some less successful tracks. ‘Live My Life’’s stomping pop-punk influence and the poignant glitter of ‘Melody’ are fun and sweet respectively, but both feel a little pedestrian compared to the rest of the album. ‘Long Chat (#♥)’, too, is a cute moment on the record, diving into the all-night conversations of friends. It’s a shame, then, that it struggles to make an impression that lasts as long as those streams of messages.
Over the last four years, aespa’s release history has been a little checkered, with the group often sharing a record that knocks your socks off and then, on the next, losing that quality again. Happily, much of ‘Armageddon’ falls into the former camp and reinforces what we already knew – that when aespa are allowed to run free in the sounds and sonics they’ve made their trademark, they’re nothing short of exquisite.
Let’s start with the Edgar mullet: the haircut that has kids all across Mexico walking into barbershops and demanding the “Peso Pluma.” This is just one of the idiosyncrasies that has made Hassan Emilio Kabande Laija the man of the moment in mainstream Spanish-language music. There is the expensive jewelry and designer clothing—Richard Mille watches, Christian Dior shoes, Maison Margiela jackets—that he regularly namechecks in his songs. There is his lanky physique. And then there is his voice: a scratchy, sometimes grating croak or rasp, depending on his mood. That singular voice sings about lots of things: popping bottles of Dom, carrying bricks of coke, assassinating enemies, hooking up with Russian models. You know, an average Tuesday.
Over the last year, the 25-year-old Mexican singer of Lebanese descent has racked up a list of chart and streaming records as long as a CVS receipt, ushering música mexicana to unprecedented commercial heights. ÉXODO, his fourth studio album, is a victory lap of sorts; the LP celebrates how far the movement has come, with Pluma taking homies, cousins, and fellow trailblazers like Natanael Cano, Junior H, Tito Double P, and Eslabon Armado along for the ride. But the album is also a bona fide attempt to cement Peso Pluma’s versatility—and the longevity it promises—in the industry. ÉXODO confirms he’s one of the most charismatic corrido performers of our time, but as for his ability to shapeshift across genres and flows, Peso Pluma the pop star still has some convincing to do.
The crackle of Peso’s voice is the molten core of ÉXODO. Its peculiarity is a blessing, but in some moments, it can also be a curse. His coarse growl is especially effective on the bare-knuckle norteño “La People II,” which seems to be written from the perspective of Joel Enrique “El 19” Sandoval Romero, a sicario and security chief for the Sinaloa cartel who was arrested by the Mexican government in 2014. Pluma and his guests snarl viciously as they recount tales of battling police officers, the national guard, and the military to protect their bosses (ostensibly Ovidio Guzmán López, a high-ranking leader of the Sinaloa cartel and the son of El Chapo) from capture. Peso assumes the voice of El 19, asking his associates to take care of his “land, his family, and his parents,” presumably while he’s locked up.
The debate about artists’ roles in glamorizing narco culture didn’t start with—and won’t end with—Peso Pluma. Too often, narcocorrido stars have become ideological scapegoats for the federal government’s failure to curb violence; other times, artists have denied they have any sociocultural impact at all. The discourse is fraught, but one thing is certain: Pluma excels when he performs the mythos of narco culture, no holds barred. It places him firmly within the genealogy of his forebears, like his late idols Chalino Sánchez and Ariel Camacho, who showed a similar talent for passionate storytelling, even as they romanticized narratives of murder and revenge. La Doble P reimagines that tradition on “Put Em in the Fridge,” a cold corrido-trap beat built on a blaring horn loop. He tries on a squeaky but bellicose cadence for size, bragging with Cardi B about moving kilos and calling on shooters to put their enemies on ice. Cardi’s gift for rapping athletically in both Dominican Spanish and English makes her a natural collaborator here; the pair goes bar for bar in a thrilling, peacocking display. It’s also a sublime example of Pluma’s talent for redefining his musical heritage for the present day.
Sometimes, Peso’s vocal left turns are electrifying; other times, he struggles to hit the mark. On the eminently catchy “Bruce Wayne,” he likens himself to the superhero billionaire with gravelly self-assurance, only to switch into biting, Pusha T-style raps two minutes in. On “Me Activo,” he shifts his voice into a serenade-like tone reminiscent of his performance on Kali Uchis’ “Igual Que un Ángel.” But elsewhere, the elasticity of Peso’s voice is less convincing. Despite a superb Ric Flair sample, the ballad “Ice” suffers from the more abrasive, nasally textures of Peso’s voice when he strains to reach a higher register.
It’s particularly tough to hear La Doble P struggle in his ventures outside of corridos tumbados. That’s not to say he isn’t capable of adapting successfully. Take the single “Bellakeo,” a sexy reggaeton entanglement with a drilling dembow riddim that contains spiritual echoes of Plan B. But ÉXODO is littered with unfortunate miscalculations. “Gimme a Second,” with Rich the Kid, feels like a throwaway B-side from the already middling Future and Metro Boomin album; Pluma’s appearance starts off strong with a low, sinister bridge, but then he forcefully tries to squeeze his squeaky voice into one of Atlanta’s distinctive flows. “Pa No Pensar,” an emo trap ballad with corrido undertones, boasts a grippingly morose vocal performance, but it’s marred by cookie-cutter lines about overindulging in alcohol and weed to escape reality (I’ll stay for Quavo saying “This good mota,” though). And, “Peso Completo,” with the reggaeton legend Arcángel, falls into the trap of pure mimesis. Though the artists share a trademark rasp, one of Arcángel’s creative tics is artful over-enunciation; Pluma straight up apes that technique here, resulting in a poorly executed facsimile.
The idea of flaunting his versatility is admirable. But that message might have been more efficiently conveyed if ÉXODO didn’t frequently feel like a slog. The first eight tracks are nearly indistinguishable, coalescing into a lyrical and melodic blur of tololoche strums, money, and women. Even if the album format has been downgraded in the streaming era, ÉXODO works neither as a coherent LP nor as a no-skips playlist. Like many other major pop albums of the 2020s, it would have benefited from a careful edit and a more varied track order.
But when Peso Pluma decides to shine, he’s radiant. “Vino Tinto,” with Natanael Cano and Gabito Ballesteros, is a graduate-level seminar in the corrido tumbado form. All three singers push their voices to the limit: They bellow, they growl, and they harmonize, transmitting the yearning and suffering that undergirds the best corridos—even if they are talking about drinking red wine and waiting for the molly to hit, not your local folk hero’s war battles. When Peso belts out “Ando relax,” he elongates and then punctuates the “a,” as if his vibeyness is some supernatural force rising from within. It’s the corrido prince at his most magnetic, capturing all the style’s thorny contradictions in a single breath.
