It takes a little elbow grease to polish the layers of grit and grime off of Atrocity Exhibition before one realizes they’re holding gold. Danny Brown’s fourth studio album is dense. This exhibits itself not only in Brown’s lyricism, but in the bizarre flows and production that punctuate this work. Once unpacked however, the material gleams emotional complexity and technical prowess that is undeniably refreshing.

It is easy to pinhole this album using the critical lens as the work of an auteur. And in many ways it is that–the lyricism and dark production are indeed a product of Danny Brown’s artistic vision. That would, however disservice the longstanding legacy of partnership in the hip hop world. If hip hop is about anything, it is style. That style is honed by negotiating with a longstanding set of ethics.

These rules are unwritten of course, but they are codified in the way that artists have interacted with one another for decades now, and they are not to be broken. One of the strongest is the bond between lyricists and producers. The credit is always shared. An rapper’s triumph can never be theirs alone unless it is a true work of the artist him/herself (e.g. MF DOOM and his many noms de plume). This is true here with Danny’s longtime collaborator Paul White.

On the dark and brooding Atrocity Exhibition, the cohesion of vocals and production is immediately striking. The beats here (synecdoche for the entire instrumental track upon which a rapper lays down vocals, not simply the rhythm of percussion) are unlike any I’ve heard and the sheer fact that Brown can rap over them is praiseworthy in and of itself. The variety of time signatures and styles is astonishing even from the start on “Downward Spiral,” the bluesy striped down beat is almost vacant of any percussion off which to syncopate. The the vertigo inducing beat lends itself to the dizzying way in which Brown spits out the depths of his drug induced paranoia and psychoses. “Everybody say, you got a lot to be proud of/Been high this whole time, don’t realize what I done/‘Cause when I’m all alone, feels like no one care/Isolate myself and don’t go nowhere,” he raps. This juxtaposition of his accomplishments and despair are striking and set up the organization of the album as trending from debauchery towards a kind of self-reckoning, while left incomplete, is a sort of progress.

With this focus on desperation and delirium, Brown ran a potential risk of becoming a broken record. He manages to prove once more his incredible versatility of both flow and subject in order to maintain an a consistent tone without seeming preachy (Mick Jenkins’ recent project) or belaboring the point (Mac Miller’s most recent effort). Instead we embark on an almost Archimedean spiral down into the depths of depravity.

Don’t be fooled though, Brown is careful not to glorify any of the life of which he describes in such visceral detail. The highs are short-lived and the hangovers are brutal. The sex is awkward and unsatisfying. Both are nothing more than escapism.

The production mirrors this chaos in both frenetic tone of the highs–the horns in “Ain’t it Funny” and “Gold Dust” and the groggy, somber lows of “Tell Me What I Don’t Know” are stellar examples. Even when the album briefly diverges into the world of more traditional bangers, there is nothing on this album that could be considered user friendly, let alone radio friendly.

The posse cut “Really Doe” is the closest thing one can find to “fun” on this album, and it truly isn’t anything of the sort. It is an incredible showcase of the talents of the best lyrical rappers currently working. The beat, produced by fellow Detroit denizen Black Milk, is another departure from the weird grooves and gritty industrial production of the rest of the album. While former Odd Future member Earl Sweatshirt inarguably has the best verse on that song with clever punchlines like, “You a mouse that the falcon picked up, so disrespect get you checked like the top of the month,” it almost feels like Brown is giving the others a handicap with respect that he chose the objectively easiest beat to rap over on the whole album for them to work with.

Danny Brown’s adaptability is notorious. He used to be nicknamed “The Hybrid” due to his various tones and flows and that is as apparent as ever throughout this piece. He manages to work with both the intense tribal percussion on “Dance in the Water,” as well as the sludgy psychedelic grooves of “Rolling Stone.” His focus never strays from the writing, however. This stays raw and viscerally emotional throughout the record. Brown writes with intention and comes up with nothing short of gold. It’s the kind of gold that must be dug for, through slime and sludge, but gold nonetheless.