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ALBUMS

ÉXODO
Peso Pluma
2024

6.9

By Isabelia Herrera

GENRE: Folk/Country

LABEL: Double P

REVIEWED: June 24, 2024

The corrido icon’s charisma shines on

this sprawling double album, but La
Doble P’s pop-star turn is less
convincing.

S AV E

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.

Born and raised in Chicago to Dominican parents,

Isabelia Herrera is now based in Brooklyn. In
January 2017, she was named on Forbes’ 30 Under 30
in Media list. Her work has also appeared in The New
York Times, GQ, Playboy, The FADER, Rolling Stone,
Billboard, and Remezcla.

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