Aesop Rock, born Ian Bavitz, has been a singular voice in Hip Hop since the late ‘90s, known for his dense lyricism, surreal imagery, and a delivery that tumbles across beats like a runaway freight train with a dictionary duct-taped to the front. He emerged from the New York underground and made a name for himself with Labor Days (2001) on the now-defunct Definitive Jux label, a record that blurred the line between the poetic and the absurd. Since then, he’s released a string of acclaimed solo albums (None Shall Pass, Skelethon, The Impossible Kid), formed collaborative projects like Hail Mary Mallon, and proven himself one of the most consistent and creatively restless artists in the genre. His previous album, Integrated Tech Solutions, drilled into the anxiety of modern life through corporate satire. With Black Hole Superette, Aesop takes a step sideways into something quieter, stranger, and more intimate.

Entirely self-produced, the album sounds like it was built in a laboratory behind a supermarket freezer aisle. There’s a certain artificial hum running underneath many of the tracks—clinical and detached—but every beat has a hand-tweaked quality, like someone obsessively tuning knobs in a dusty basement filled with blinking machines and empty snack wrappers. Synths are warped and woozy, drums are sharp but never overpowering, and the textures change constantly. The music moves with the logic of a dream, guided by mood more than genre.

“Secret Knock” opens things up with stuttering percussion and a synthetic shimmer that feels equal parts sci-fi and lo-fi. It sounds like walking through an automated mall at 3 a.m., guided by ghostly intercom announcements. Aesop sounds in control but preoccupied, delivering lines like a man narrating from inside his own head. He swerves between paranoia and playfulness, and the beat follows him like a dog on a leash made of old ethernet cable.

“Checkers” shifts into a more aggressive rhythm, layering chopped vocal samples with muffled horns and a beat that rattles like loose change in a glovebox. The lyrics are dense with images, but you never feel buried. Aesop’s flow cuts through the clutter. He’s rapping about consumer traps, conspiracies, lost time, but he does it through oddball specifics: sun-warped signage, mismatched socks, defunct file formats.

The album’s middle section dips into reflective territory. “Movie Night” is a calm exhale, built around a classic boom bap drum pattern and warm keys. He raps about his pets with a kind of deadpan affection that’s hard to fake. It’s the sort of track that sounds like nothing important is happening, until you realize it’s been stuck in your head for days.

“EWR – Terminal A, Gate 20” buzzes like fluorescent lights in a half-empty airport terminal. The synths shift between cold detachment and low-key funk, and the drums hit in off-kilter patterns that echo foot traffic or delayed departures. It’s music that doesn’t demand attention but rewards it if you’re willing to follow the strange angles.

A highlight comes with “1010WINS,” where Aesop links up with Armand Hammer (billy woods and E L U C I D) over a jagged, anxious rhythm. The track is dense with static and tension, and each rapper brings their own brand of unease. It sounds like everyone recorded in a closet under threat of surveillance. The bars snap like dry twigs. It’s one of the few moments where the record gets loud, but the volume never feels gratuitous.

“So Be It” leans back again, floating over a pulsing groove and twinkling synth leads. Open Mike Eagle drops a hook that’s understated but sticky. It’s easy to imagine this playing quietly through a pair of old speakers in someone’s living room, the kind of track you hum without realizing.

“Send Help” is one of the weirder ones, a slightly jazzy beat with strange cartoon energy. Aesop lobs out references to science kits, sleepwalking, and snack foods with surgical rhythm. His voice rides the beat like a skateboarder on cracked pavement—skidding, steady, unpredictable.

The album’s most narrative moment arrives with “John Something,” a swirling lounge-laced beat and a long monologue about a visiting artist from the ’90s whose name Aesop can’t remember. There’s humor in the forgetfulness, but it’s laced with melancholy too—how memory fades even when meaning doesn’t.

“Ice Sold Here” is absurd and cold in the best way. He declares himself the coldest man alive and backs it up with strange details: igloos, goosebumps, subzero punchlines. The production has a synthetic funk feel, like old G-funk pushed through a freezer.

Then there’s “Snail Zero,” about an asexual freshwater snail accidentally introduced into his aquarium. It’s an oddball story, but the writing is crisp, and the beat slinks along behind him with twitchy energy. It’s funny without being jokey. Weird without trying too hard.

On “Charlie Horse,” Aesop brings in Homeboy Sandman and Lupe Fiasco. The beat is muted, but the verses are sharp and stretched out. Each rapper hits their mark with a different rhythm and cadence, like they’re passing the mic across dimensions. It’s long but focused.

“Steel Wool” and “The Red Phone” keep the mood weird and winding. The hooks are low-key earworms. The beats have a rickety quality, like homemade electronics, but they always snap into place when needed. Aesop sounds more relaxed here than on earlier records—still cerebral, but less manic.

“Black Plums” and “Himalayan Yak Chew” lean into more meditative grooves, circling back to small details and strange pleasures. There’s gardening, fishing, chewing yak treats. But every verse feels carefully constructed, every rhyme pressed into place.

The final track, “Unbelievable Shenanigans,” closes on a warm note. Hanni El Khatib adds a gentle, nostalgic feel to the outro, which plays like a weird summer memory stitched together from half-remembered sitcoms and local news segments. It’s the sound of looking back without getting lost.

Across Black Hole Superette, Aesop Rock builds a world that feels artificial and lived-in at once. It’s an album about memory, digital clutter, strange pets, obscure products, lost names. The beats are layered and unpredictable, the hooks sharper than usual, and the writing as intricate as ever. He doesn’t preach or posture. He describes. He lists. He confesses. He jokes. He remembers. He forgets.

There’s no big thesis here, and that’s what makes it so strong. Aesop Rock isn’t trying to explain anything. He’s making a record that sounds like his own brain—and inviting you to browse the aisles.

8.5/10

Download: Aesop Rock – Black Hole Superette 

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