Aesop Rock was the jewel in the Definitive Jux beanie. His clutch of noughties records for the label saw him and long-time producer Blockhead craft brass knuckles rap that sounded like analogue machinery grinding below New York’s pavement. In the cockpit was Aes, who blasted tongue-twisting rhymes from skewered vocal cords. His vernacular was like a weird kind of subterranean dialect, the abstract lyricism of another planet. The pair were like The Simpsons’ maniacal galactic conquistadors, Kang and Kodos, in human form. They looked like real people, but it was a poor impression.