One time at the meeting of the minds, aka backstage at Lyrical Lemonade Summer Smash, Yeat was asked by YouTube personality and guerilla reporter Andrew Callaghan what he would do with a time machine. His answer: Travel “six million years” into the future where there would be “spaceships” and “alien lean.” Pretty vague, but hey, no one is asking him to be Frank Herbert. If you’ve been following the formation of the Portland rapper’s devout cult over the last few years—from underground viral sensation with 2021’s pyrotechnic 4L to boxing out Drake on 2023’s For All the Dogs—then his ramblings about outer space and UFOs are nothing new. I never thought all that deeply about his obsession with futuristic imagery, though—I just figured that he’s frequently smacked and doesn’t have much else to talk about. So it’s a little surprising to see it becoming his thing. On his latest album, 2093—not quite six million years but far enough—he’s on top of a foggy city roof in a black leather duster straight out of Blade Runner, making galactic-scale music calibrated for interstellar communication. Welcome to Yeat’s vision of the future.
Too bad it’s not that interesting or original of a vision. The glitzy soundscapes, rapidly morphing tempos, and naked cyborgian wails, not to mention the audible generosity of the budget, make 2093 feel like a lightweight Travis Scott record. An underwhelming pivot, considering that these days one Travis is boring enough. Don’t believe me? You can hear the heavy (heavy) inspiration in “Power Trip,” especially in how his distant lilts and the gaudy beat combine for an effect as impersonal as contacting an airline chatbot. “U Should Know” is basically a UTOPIA demo, only worth it for the celestial extravagance of the instrumental. Even the glacial close-encounters ballad “1093” just seems like a Vultures 2 audition. Sure, the beats are flashy and very polished, but Yeat’s eccentricities as a rapper are flattened by the scope. He sounds less funny, less improvisational, less weird.
There’s still some fun to be had. (I would hope so at 22 tracks—or 28, if you include P2 and P3, add-ons designed to game his way to a No. 1 album.) For as showy and combustible as Yeat’s sound can be, it’s the small details that really hook you. All it takes is one silly bar or far-out melodic burst and suddenly you’re sending that one song to everyone in your contacts. 2093 has some of those moments: On “Tell më,” when he croons, “It’s easier to scream, I’ll send ya straight to hell,” and hits the final “hell” with a warped effect that makes his voice sound like it’s shattering. Or when the whirrs and bleeps of “Familia” dim for a second so he can evocatively spit, “I’m pissin’ on this beat, it’s like a bathroom stall.” One of the concepts on “Bought the Earth” is pretty funny: He gets so rich that he literally buys the planet, only to immediately sell it. He should be the CEO of a media corporation.
Speaking of CEOs, one of the most baffling parts of 2093 is Yeat’s new alter ego: the “Psycho CEO,” who debuts on the intro track and merits a few references throughout the album. Plenty of rappers have tagged themselves the boss, head honcho, or even CEO, but every time Yeat mentions the “Psycho CEO,” I can only think of how incredibly corny it is, like asking Elon Musk to host SNL. In so much dystopian science fiction, the CEOs are the slimy, greedy villains. Maybe that’s what Yeat is going for? Judging by all the sandpaper melodies he busts out (my favorite is on “Nothing Changë”) his lodestar remains Future, who is well-known for his rotten ways. But at his peak Future’s villainy was extremely complex, as if he were tortured by his own behavior. Yeat is just a “Psycho CEO” because it sounds cool. Whatever. I’m probably thinking about this idea way more than he ever did.
Don’t mistake this album’s half-assed concepts and themes for ambition. I blame the cult of Kanye, which has brainwashed us into believing that expensive and bloated spectacles signal depth, importance, and innovation. That’s how we got UTOPIA, and to a lesser extent, 2093. I’d argue that 4L and Up 2 Më are bolder than anything here: Yeat’s older projects threw you into the deep end of his magma flows and fuzzy world-building and asked that you either get it or don’t. An album this safe and familiar will be great for packing out bigger concert venues but only makes his musical identity more nebulous. On the bright side: At least Yeat isn’t trying to sell us a pair of sneakers yet. Now that’s a future I want no part of.
