In the past handful of years, Torrence Hatch has been known by various names: Lil Boosie, the moniker he rode to cult hero status in his native Baton Rouge; Boosie Badazz, the name he switched to when he got sick of grown men calling him "little"; and inmate #560699, when he was locked away in Angola, the country's largest maximum-security prison. Rap fans, particularly those throughout the American south, know him as one of the genre's most distinct voices—literally, for his cartoon-villain-on-helium drawl, and more broadly for a writing perspective that marries grim reportage to an unshakeable, immutable sense of joy.

In March of 2014, Boosie was released from that (barely) repurposed plantation in Louisiana after beating a drug smuggling case and first-degree murder charge. He seemed, finally, free—a pair of freestyles recorded on the ride home had him singing about seeing his kids and figuring out when he could squeeze in a haircut. He quickly went scorched-Earth with a series of guest features and loose singles that saw him very near, or perhaps at his creative peak. (A remake of "Lifestyle" was so good it justified its existence.)

His return to retail shelves, last spring's Touch Down 2 Cause Hell, played like a blues record. There was the snarling intro, the grizzled wisdom on "Mr. Miyagi," the unadulterated happiness of "All I Know." Save for a four-song stretch on the back half, the preceding mixtape Life After Deathrow was even better, and ranks alongside Boosie's best work. For an artist who had spent the ages that account for many rappers' creative primes behind bars, there were remarkably few cobwebs to shake out. It seemed, for 18 months, that Boosie had beaten every odd and would go down as one of the greatest feel-good stories of his era.

Until this Thanksgiving. That's when Boosie posted to his Instagram—then hastily deleted—a notice that he had been diagnosed with kidney cancer. A few weeks later, in mid-December, he reportedly underwent surgery to have half of one of his kidneys removed, and announced that it went well, and that he's now cancer-free. It was a relief to his legions of fans, but the very public process had been disorienting: how is one person so chronically, powerfully unfortunate?

That question is the catalyst for In My Feelings (Goin' Thru It), Boosie's brief new album. As always, he has the ability to explore in-depth and with great precision the extent of his unhappiness, without ever sounding self-indulgent or as if he's wallowing. "Cancer," the record's centerpiece, is plaintive even by his standards: "Told my bitch, she cried/ Told my niggas, they cried/ Mama tried to downplay it to the family—she lied/ I'm thinking, 'Damn, how'd I get cancer?'" There and at Feelings' other high points ("The Rain," the beautiful closer "I Know They Gone Miss Me"), Boosie is who you wish you'd be in his situation, resolute and concerned with others before himself. It's like watching your most positive friend try to speak it into existence one last time.

And yet, while you'd be forgiven for being morbidly curious about 10 tracks of Boosie at his lowest, the album's construction is its Achilles heel. Not only are there no emotional highs like a "Top to the Bottom" or a "Finger Fucking," but the prevailing mood here is weariness. That's probably an honest reflection of where Boosie's at in life, but it can make for a grim listen. Consider "Call of Duty," where he raps about sending a duffel bag full of money to someone's house, then cross-reference his vocal take with how you imagine Boosie would rap about that situation at any other point in his life. It's easy to imagine him crushed under the weight of obligation, but there are a handful of would-be set pieces that end up feeling frustratingly anonymous.

Boosie is still Boosie, and through the din of doctors and ungrateful hangers-on, you can still hear the pen that will keep him in rotation at LSU for generations to come. The hook on "Bad Guy" alone is more carefully crafted than many songs that will hit Top 40 this year. But In My Feelings often feels as if its about to collapse under its own weight, which is doubly frustrating when you consider it clocks in at a slight 34 minutes. Still, it's hard to be too somber when you remember that Torrence Hatch is free, cancer-free, and isn't going anywhere.