I am by no means a connoisseur of hip hop. The hip hop section of my collection is very meager, and I feel ill-equipped to talk about hip hop in any sort of meaningful way.

That said, my metric for good hip hop is much the same as Justice Potter Stewart’s metric for pornography: I know it when I see it. And Midlife, the sprawling, mercurial debut from Cincinnati’s Eugenius, passes that test with ease.

To be completely honest, I probably wouldn’t have crossed paths with this record (or Phil Smith, the man behind Eugenius) if it weren’t released through Friend Club Records, the punk-and-emo-leaning label started by from friends of mine. And on paper, the inclusion of an avant-garde rapper was a little confounding. My confusion was cleared up after learning of Smith’s involvement in numerous hardcore bands over the years, but after actually hearing it for myself, it didn’t matter.

Midlife plays with a kaleidoscopic, shapeshifting energy that betrays both his punk roots and his devotion to underground hip hop. The beats grab elements from everywhere: there are shades of funk, punk, soul, electro, and noise that are cut up and pasted together into a blistering sonic collage that speaks to the rage and anxiety that comes from living as a black man in an increasingly racially divided America. As a whole, it feels just as maximalist as Because the Internet but far angrier. There are moments of noise-blasting hip hop like Death Grips, Shabazz Palaces, or Yeezus without all the Kanye (“Savior / Self“), moments of Frank Ocean-like ambient R&B (“Midlife Suite iii: Fail You“), moments of hardcore punk (“Everything’s Fucked“) and even some tracks that would sound like emo if it weren’t for the ticking drum machines (“Midlife Suite ii: Pathetic“). Smith’s delivery is always engaging, whether rapping, singing, or verging on a hardcore punk yell. The beats, from grimy noise (“Nothing“) to ambient delicacy (“Endpoint Definition ii: An Error Has Occured“).

It’s the type of record that deserves to be consumed as a whole—the “title track” is a four-track suite that spans the entire B-side, for crying out loud. That said, it is a dense and overwhelming listen. It pulls no punches, pushing the listener’s face into the ugliness of racism, rigged capitalism, and his own anxieties. It’s certainly relatable, but it’s not the record to put on if you want a bit of escapism. Instead, it plays itself with a raw, unflinching self-exploitation that feels almost pornographic. And like pornography, despite how base and uncomfortable it gets, there’s something alluring about it that keeps you engaged—but Midlife ends without the pit in the bottom of your stomach once it finishes.

Seriously. Buy this record.