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