The music of Tyler, The Creator seems born of a pop culture basement cluttered with Atari cartridges, Wu-Tang posters and anarchist adolescent manifestos. Over the flanged funk of "Yonkers", his raspy voice lurches off the track as he dismissively hands a date his therapist's number, who's "awesome with listening", and complains that his mom will never understand him. Supremely politically incorrect dispatches "DEATHCAMP" and "Sandwitches" are too goofy to be truly offensive, but just barely. This is hip-hop's id, crossed with juvenile absurdity and spit into ridiculous and important songs.