Scarhop Drops Bilingual UK Drill Statement With “Cero”

“Cero” hits with no warning. Heavy drums stamp the floor, bass dragging the air down, Scarhop already switching language before the beat fully settles. “Vas a conocerme probarás mi caramelo.” Sweet in phrasing, sharp in tone. It’s less a promise than a statement: you’re going to know him.

The bilingual flow isn’t for decoration. In English the delivery snaps quick, clipped, urgent. In Spanish the words stretch longer, heavier, weighted with memory. The shift feels instinctive, the product of moving from Venezuela to Spain to the UK migration pressed into cadence.

Production keeps the surface raw. Low-end thick, percussion jagged, no attempt to smooth out edges. You hear breath on the mic, consonants tearing through, distortion when he leans too far. It’s not built for playlist polish. It’s built for systems already battered from nights before.

Scarhop bars direct. “Matar la palabra puedo.” Kill the word can. “You will never know this man behind bars.” Both rhyme and cell, a refusal to be boxed in. “Don’t you ever try to take me apart.” A warning delivered flat. Then a grin: “I got the sauce LMAO.” Humour breaking rhythm before the next strike lands.

Faith runs underneath without softening the edge. “Voy a rezar el credo.” A line pulled from childhood, his grandmother’s voice still in it. It doesn’t serve as nostalgia. It anchors the track, tradition turned into fuel.

Control shows in the delivery. Rhymes lock inside the bar, words drop on the off-beat, silence left sharp as any ad-lib. Scarhop calls his pen martial art on Cero it sounds exact. Every phrase is either a strike, a block, or a counter.

Nothing about the track sprawls. Hooks don’t chase repetition for streaming replay. Bars don’t overreach. He pushes forward with pressure and restraint, giving just enough room for the weight to land.

Scarhop’s presence extends outside the track. He’s played Webster Hall in Manhattan, stood in campaigns for major urban fashion brands, fronted a Super Bowl commercial. Those stages show scale, but Cero doesn’t sound designed for crossover. It sounds like a track built for the room, for the pull of a bassline and the silence before the reload.

His voice cuts at industry too. “Can you even make f***ng art?” is the bar that sticks. Not rhetorical a shot at the surface-level, the gatekeepers sanding music down until nothing’s left. Scarhop doesn’t posture about authenticity. He spits at the lack of it.

The reach is already international. Features on Brazil’s Rap Growing platform. Collaboration with DJ AG. Coverage across music blogs. But the test is always the track. Cero doesn’t bend, doesn’t dilute, doesn’t chase playlist slots. It demands space.

The ending proves it. No fade, no outro. Just a sudden cut, the air left vibrating like a rope snapped under tension. It leaves the track unfinished on purpose. No closure. No message. Just the echo of the first line, stamped harder the second time it runs through your head: vas a conocerme.