From bum to bum-rushed, Mike “The Streets” Skinner has charted his own pitfalls and pratfalls across three scuffed albums where he has gone increasingly further off-and into-his own head. Where Skinner once drew detailed cross-sections of an optimistic everyman with bruised candor, now fame just seems to have him sketched out. Conversely, the fractured garridge-brushed beats are even more creatively decorated and distressed. Still, nuanced arrangements don’t excuse Skinner’s most drug-fueled and self-destructive narratives. He excels at cheeky piss-takes on enduring (no-laughing) matters and general malaise, so hopefully this album’s hermetic narratives are merely reflections in the rearview.