XXX

XXX is a bloated album; 19-track albums are a thing of the early millennium past. But this bloat is a gluttonous glory. Danny Brown is not a retread or nostalgia-pandering schmub. XXX -- named for his gutter-filthy mouth and his 30th birthday -- is an accomplishment. Where else would one correlate coitus with Stacey Lattisaw? Danny is one of his generation's most on-the-edge champions. Every song is telling: "XXX" is his ode to suicide; on "Die Like a Rockstar" he name-checks every star's downward spiral, including Chris Farley, Heath Ledger, and Belushi. XXX's greatest tone is Danny's out-of-control, nasal "Young Zee" snarl -- it's when he's at his nastiest ("How about me and your girlfriend, you with it?") and delusional ("Make Sarah Palin deep throat 'til she hiccup"), but most musical ("Bruiser Brigade" is about a sociopath crew, ready to set it off with cheap brew). For the last third of the album, Danny raps in a normal tenor -- it's startling. The production is dark, schizo, halting, and Detroit mechanical.