Rockstar Rebellion: A Trip into Chromatic Chaos – Lil’ Baby Suplex

Rockstar Rebellion: A Trip into Chromatic Chaos – Lil’ Baby Suplex – by BradQuan Copeland.

Imprisoned in the thick of thoughtless nothing, metallic gels dissolve upon my tongue, slowly unraveling the iridescent frequencies of kaleidoscopic oscillations. The walls are heaving, as the floor presses to the ceiling. My skin shimmers, like gnawing piranhas snapping at my untethered reality. The only grounding force within this disfigured sphere lies in the cushioned comfort of my studio beats, as Lil Baby Suplex’s vocal hypnosis cradles me in oneiric mysticism.

Am I high? Absolutely! But I’m light-years from the version of myself who’d trip balls at random. Yet that’s the language I chose to color the atmosphere this artist creates, because it stirs that much of a force within me. It’s so much, similar to the relentless snapping of the id’s irrepressible bounce. Imagine a caffeinated Tigger on a psychedelic-laced brew, integrated with the flavors of Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Lil Uzi Vert, Travis Scott, and the Stooges.

There’s a galvanic, hyperactive defiance woven within the production of Suplex’s garage-style raucous. Through the slurring undulations of his vocal instrument, he roars and rips you from your path, burning you with a nagging whiplash that you won’t even notice because the music is that dope. He embodies the reckless, flesh-carving “Gimme a fix” spirit of Sid Vicious, had he lived long enough to hone his talent, yet like him, he swings his hammer with an unbridled flux, smashing through cartilage and bone like the Hulk, had he possessed the worthiness to wield the power of Thor.

The man is a machine, having released countless quality projects to satisfy cravings, but it’s one in particular—”Big Set”—that flexes the jagged soul of Jean-Michel Basquiat’s “Exu” (1988), and steps in the chromatic resonance of Mark Bradford’s “Looking at Me Funny” (2018). I could barely get through the project, because I couldn’t help but repeat every single song I encountered. My favorite of the 10-track album is “Half Step.” His performance plunges you into f***ing anarchy!

I feel like Arthur Fleck, having claimed my territory atop the mountain’s tip, and amidst the entranced fixation of my ocean of spectators, who, alongside me, chant, “These ni**as just make songs to talk about what they won’t be — and speak on what they don’t see — these ni**as think they know me…” they witness the trembling, yet controlled manipulation of collapse, as my blood paints the iconic smile of Gotham’s renegade.

This is punk rap that’s boldly left the asylum, and sh*ts where it pleases. It’s the unruly child who’s scolded by authority to be seen and not heard, and responds with an arm-sweeping downward rush that craters the earth with a seismic burst. This music spits in the face of order, and fearlessly glares into its soul, daring it to react. Such ferocious passion sears within me, that I feel an intense obligation to contain my energy through household chores. I found myself in deep focus, raking leaves in the front yard—something that I haven’t done since childhood, and more importantly, a task completely needless to me, that maintenance handles.

My only wish is for a chopped-up, double-cupped purple Sunkist playlist littered with Jolly Ranchers—the kind of package that’ll effortlessly ease me into restful reset mode. But that’s purely personal, with no slight against his work whatsoever. This is rebellion that needs to be recognized in a society rooted in the throes of synthetic virtue. Lil Baby Suplex spits for the counterculture that rejects the scraps spat by the gilded collective. I can easily rock out to his playlist on shuffle to slide through any day, but real justice wouldn’t be possible without an interview to showcase the core of the man beyond the mic.

Making the half-hour journey to Albany, I flick on my high beams and drift into his Spotify mix, exhaling terpene mist through my nostrils as I stream the stretch. I shoot him a text four minutes out. When I pull up, I’m greeted at the door with brotherly warmth. Inside, skateboards lean against the hallway wall beside double-cupped traffic cones, and a bicycle rests against the stair rail where sound bleeds from upstairs. We head left into the first-floor apartment. A pull-up bar hangs from the door frame, and a stack of vinyl—ranging from Wham!, New Edition, Barry Manilow, and The Isley Brothers—rests in eclectic excellence atop the credenza.

“We can go in my room, bro,” he says, leading me through the kitchen and an open storage space before we step into his room—its door tagged No Snitches Allowed in blue. Rocking through the speaker is an unreleased track that I’m instantly enamored by; I scrunch my face to its velvet chime, glittering echoes with mesmeric grace.

“Yo, bring that sh** back, bro,” I say as he happily complies.

Settling into the rap-rockasphere, I admire the sincerity of his lived-in collage—half-studio, half-sanctuary—its walls mapped with artistic consciousness: doodles, graffiti scrawls, to-do lists, and reminders of projects in motion. Here lives a worn-in chaos refracted through elegance.

“You wanna sign the wall, bro?” he asks, handing me a marker.

“Word?” I say with gentle surprise. “This is like f***in’ Rap City, dude,” I laugh, scribing BradQuan — Literary Artist about a foot from the headboard of his bed. What makes that even more honoring is the fact that he made it clear that he doesn’t let just anyone write above his bed. Unofficially declaring himself to be a bit of a metaphysicist, he believes that bad energy can travel and haunt the subconscious during sleep. I nodded in agreement and assured him with laughter that he’s not crazy for such a thought.

Though fun-loving, it’s clear Suplex is a man about his business within his kingdom, where he holds court. There’s a list of rules written on the wall beside a nailed WWE SummerSlam shirt:

Turn your f***ing phone down.
We can do anything with a song except delete it.
No laughing, ain’t shit funny.
Don’t be a dirty ass ni**a.
No bitching.
Sharing is caring.
There’s no “I” in team.
Try your best.
Challenge yourself.
Love yourself.
No broke ni**as.
And if you got an ego—GET THE *** OUT!

He carries himself with a punk-style professionalism when hosting the multitude of local artists he hangs with. Inspiration is not only felt but seen through his black-taped poster of “Beat It”-red leather-dripped Michael Jackson, along with nailed vinyl of Whitney Houston, Janet Jackson, and the Jackson 5. The door frame of his walk-in closet reads The Rec Room in bubble-block lettering, and chilling on the edge are two CDs: “The Evolution” by Ciara and “MTV Party to Go Vol. 3,” with Madonna donning the cover.

He takes his seat in front of his neon-lit laptop where he’s engineering a new project. “I recorded 10 tracks just last night, bro!” he says as I really start to take in his Suplex moniker. There’s an uproarious nature to it—but I suppose that goes without saying. Upon hearing his name for the first time, I instantly flashed back to the Brock Lesnar vs. Hardcore Holly storyline where Brock suplexes Holly and breaks his neck. From that, an expectation was born that I was certain he’d live up to.

A t-shirt honoring the late Eddie Guerrero hangs beside his laptop, and on a shelf sit two mannequin heads covered in Rey Mysterio and Mankind masks—representing the energetic showmanship shouted through his music. The icing on the cake came as I looked to my left and saw a Primeape Pokémon card visible through his translucent drawer. His personality heaves through every crack and crevice of his castle. It was magnificent.

Rolling a joint, he pushes me a seat, and I go down at the flick of his Bic. Ignited is emerald lush, and he deeply puffs before swiftly passing. Moments pass, and I’m slowly dissolving into the seat as I witness DIY at work. He doesn’t produce his beats, but he does literally everything else—not only for himself but for others. Hell, the man directs his own music videos through step-by-step scripts. Nothing is by accident. Every move is calculated.

Engaged in friendly banter, I notice multiple empty codeine and baby bottles. He’s swigging a White Claw Surge, and decorating the bottom shelf of his entertainment stand are empty Hennessy and Lunazul bottles.

It’s no secret he likes to be lit, and that fact is doubled down upon seeing his 16-inch glass bong tattooed with a Supreme sticker. From there, we get into a conversation about fashion, something he’s deeply immersed in. I could tell by the Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue see-through bag in his closet, further highlighted by the unique fit he’s dripped in: a white shirt with ink-sketched handcuffs, a yin-yang symbol, and an eagle among other things. His black jeans were epoxy-coated and shredded with grunge ruin, and completing his look were loosened white and red Jordan 4s.

“I get a lot of my shit from my guy Steel Toe Tim. He stay out in Amsterdam,” he says after showing me more of his designs—one being a super dope Carhartt-style brown jacket with raw denim stitched into the back as an eagle.

As the dialogue pursued further, I forgot this was a person I’d literally just met. I felt like I was talking to my brother. Interestingly enough, like me, he was raised an only child and found out about his siblings later in life. He filled me in on his roots, sharing the knowledge of his prominent literary ancestor, Zora Neale Hurston, a central figure in the Harlem Renaissance. It’s no secret where his power stems from, and that force was transferred more than effectively as he spoke from a humble yet pride-filled chest, along with the long lineage of generational hurt that he hopes ends with him.

An emotionally intelligent figure, he spoke about the strong desire to end a long lineage of generational hurt.

“I think we’re cut from the same cloth,” I said with light laughter.

The unique duality of comedic intelligence created a dialogue stream that swayed and looped with the erratic nature of a rollercoaster. In real life, I loathe the attraction of such cheap thrills, but this one I was honored to have signed up for. The unpredictability of our meeting granted me an experience I can only compare to a virgin Reiki excursion years ago—a glistening palette showcasing elegantly refined white pillars mighty enough to challenge Redwoods within a serene palace of marble.

Within that hyper-dense environment stood translucent cubes with sharply crisp edges, hallowed with solid gold tops pumping up and down in rapid slow motion—reflecting the prismatic allure that colored my mind with ethereal peculiarity. Just like then, with Suplex, I could feel the energy of my potential heavily brewing within me, and that same visionary haze hung over our conversation as we continued on.

Names like Dr. Sebi, Van Gogh, Shel Silverstein, and W.E.B. Du Bois were mentioned. Topics ranging from anime to environmental awareness, economics, and quantum physics lit up my mind. Here lies a highly intelligent man living within the paradox of a street stepper meshed with an immense desire to inspire revolutionary change. He lives to uplift others, going as far as telling me that he admires me as a Black man in journalism—yet he maintains a healthy level of confidence in knowing he is great and can stand toe to toe with anyone.

The artistic bar he sets for himself is to rival the elite works of Lil Wayne’s “Tha Carter III,” Lady Gaga’s “The Fame Monster,” and Kanye West’s “808s & Heartbreak.” He doesn’t believe he’ll ever surpass them, but setting that standard fuels a monstrous and highly creative output that I believe will lead him to brilliance beyond measure. He moves with an interesting unison of Tupac Shakur and legendary samurai Miyamoto Musashi, with light sprinkles of Dr. Manhattan and William Rodgers.

“Real artists don’t live long—they give long,” he said, cornering me in silence as I lofted within the clouds, acknowledging the fact that there’s nothing surface-level about this artist. It was refreshing to know we share such artistic intensity.

“I’ll stay up until 4 in the morning sometimes, bro. Just wired in,” he told me, and I nodded with understanding.

Coming in, I had a few well-thought-out questions I wanted to ask, and in time I did—allowing him to reach the answers at his own pace. He communicates through enlightened, fragmented tangents, indicative of an overactive brain that refuses a sedentary existence yet operates best with conciseness. The man behind the mic was exactly as I expected—and more.

Interview with Lil Baby Suplex

RRX: When you unplug your outlet—the surging bass, the bravado, the fans—what lies within the inner silence and what does it tell you?
LBS: “It’s never plugged in. I don’t have a performative switch. This is just who I am,” he responds. “There is no silence. If there’s silence, there’s sadness.”

That answer was a heavy hitter, granting further light into the emotional nucleus that was the entirety of our meeting. His art exists to fill the silence grief has left behind. He knows no true peace, stemming from the various losses he’s encountered throughout the years. There lives only noise, which he uses music to channel.

RRX: Your music sounds like therapy and guerrilla warfare at the same time—like you’re healing and raging through the same instrument. Almost like a Draco that delivers both savagery and salvation. When you’re deep in your zone, what are you truly seeking?
LBS: “Nothing,” he responds. “Great art isn’t hunted; it happens. Intention f***s up the result.”

He speaks of creation as instinct and inflection, referencing Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” and how it was born purely from perception without calculation—unlike Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa,” which, in his opinion, is why the former topples the latter. He further explains how the duality of healing and rage comes naturally since he’s simply emitting only what is.

RRX: There’s beautiful chaos in your sound that feels deliberate, almost like a painter splattering meaning through an internal inferno. What’s the method inside your madness—and how do you know when the chaos has said enough?
LBS: “My method is duality: you only recognize beauty after knowing real chaos. Songs should work for joy, love, game, flyness—and still warn you of the dark edge because everything that glitters ain’t gold. Chaos is the plot. You don’t end it; you learn to move through it with.”

RRX: If every artist carries an unhealable yet tamable wound—one they’ve learned to manipulate into rhythm—what’s yours, and does it still hunger even through the praise?
LBS: He thought for a moment before answering. “The wound is accumulated loss, violence, poverty, and grief. I’m not afraid to be vulnerable. I cry in front of my ni**as because I’m not afraid to hide that shit.”

He mentions how his multitude of tattoos harbor memory and justice on his body. Regarding the hunger, he states that he’s able to convert it into guidance. “It’s okay to be tender, different, and still carry yourself with strength. I’m cool with being a rapper, but I know I’m way more.”

RRX: I compared your work to the abstract rebellion of Jean-Michel Basquiat and Mark Bradford—the way all three of you beautifully weaponize nonlinear emotion. Your music breathes like a fusion of protest, prayer, and instinct. What does that give birth to in real time for you?
LBS: “I move with divinity; love. I gotta be for others what I wanted when I needed it. Each one teach one.”

For him, the use of his platform and the knowledge he’s accumulated over 15 years is to help his people. He centers focused craft beyond clout—utilizing art as a vehicle to position himself to address worldly issues such as insufficient access to clean water and exponential waste that exacerbates the famine at our societal core.

RRX: When you look deeply at the world you’re encompassed in, do you feel your voice represents collapse or revival—and why?
LBS: “Neither. One artist can’t collapse or revive a world. I’m a human just trying to understand it.”

He speaks with profound passion for investing effort into obtaining universal understanding, especially among those plagued by hatred and ignorance. That’s the key to growth, as he puts it—aiming to spark change rather than be the change himself. A man of swaggerous bravado who’s ultimately grounded in genuine selflessness.

RRX: Years from now, when you’re far past your prime and your music finds someone your current age for the first time, what do you hope it ignites within them?
LBS: “The freedom to be many things at once and still do what’s right—even when it’s hard. And to have the faith that money isn’t the answer; feeding the soul and community is.”

Suplex carries a resilient belief that we possess the ability to control our destiny—but that the willingness must be obtained through fearlessly digging for meaning within the grueling muck of chaos.

More from BradQuon Copeland…