Homeboy Sandman doesn’t love independent movies. He just likes them. He’s not a total hipster.

This realization, confided in “Problems,” marks a rare moment on the Stones Throw emcee’s latest full-length: it’s a confession that gets closure. On Hallways, rumination ranges from minutiae on tracks like “Loads,” where he rhymes, “Look people in the eye longer than they’re comfortable with / My bad, I ain’t give a shit when you tried to show me your iPad,” to deep self analysis on “Grand Pupa,” featuring lines like, “Time to face my mommy issues finally…The thought of being alone has always frightened me.” But while it makes an ardent effort to brand itself as “grown up” Hip Hop, the album has no interest in either romanticizing or condemning Sandman’s shortcomings, a relieving departure from the the  trope of linking maturity with righting wrongs. That said, Hallways’ inconsistencies are welcomed, its resolutions are fluid and fleeting, and its bonafides aren’t solely limited to being moralistic.

Like previous projects, a defining characteristic of Hallways is Sandman’s pliable delivery and off-kilter cadence. The rhyme schemes are dense as ever, and subject matter tumbles between verses without much filter. But apart from the ending of opening track “1,2,3,” in which the Ivy League graduate facetiously sighs as he realizes that he’s repeated a rhyme, Hallways stays away from rapping for Rap’s sake, and Homeboy Sandman’s technical talents never distract from the overarching theme of self improvement and reconciling expectations.

That embrace of imperfection and inconsistency manifests differently on each song. The gravitas of “America, The Beautiful” has Sandman praising Section 8 housing, workers’ comp and free Wi-Fi, while “Problems” begins with him getting turned away at the free clinic. “Grand Pupa” is an admission that he always “tries to play the husband” with the women he sleeps with; the subsequent “Personal Ad” is littered with grinning innuendo. Hallways is at its best when Homeboy Sandman eschews polished revelations and figures out his problems as he goes, making the listener privy to a character that doesn’t try to be anything more than a 33-year-old human being. For those seeking the moral high ground, it lends the album a relatable, everyman quality. For those who have no such inclinations, it’s still an entertaining listen.

“Just yesterday I learned my ABCs / My aching knees / My age increase!,” he raps on the clanking soul of Oh No assisted “Heaven Too,” a track that’s rooted in the increasing mundanity of life as we get older and its struggles without resorting to wallowing or escapism.

Homeboy Sandman has never been a stranger to sarcasm, non sequiturs and self deprecation, and Hallways features its fair share of laughs. He stays light when rapping about a modest bank account, a stable of eccentric women and the breaks in his vegan diet. Later, he admits that he doesn’t understand Kurt Cobain lyrics; “I ain’t scared of dying, this planet ain’t all that,” he smirks on “Loads,” a Blu collaboration with a sparse backdrop and unbridled charisma. The one time Sandman ventures into potentially cliché territory is the saccharine “Stroll,” an ode to New York City and long walks in his Queens neighborhood. But Sandman’s praises are boroughs away from the usual subject matter: He gives a shoutout to John Starks, stores with strong air conditioning and loose dog hair.

The only real complaint about Hallways is its production, which is often heavily layered and weighs down Homeboy Sandman’s delivery. The whirring siren of “Activity” is particularly distracting, and hampers some of the album’s best lines. The last two songs on the album, meanwhile, have no percussion and are carried only by arpeggiated acoustic guitar sequences.

Despite all that, Hallways is still an accomplished addition to Homeboy Sandman’s ever consistent output. He notes in the album’s first few bars that he’s stuck between street and scholarly aesthetics, but Hallways reinterprets both ends of the spectrum. The material belonging to the former glorifies the smallest details of working class culture, while the material belonging to the latter raises heavy questions without claiming to know the answers.