One of the longest shadows in hip-hop is cast by a 14-month stretch from September '93 through November '94. Arguably the last and finest run of hip-hop's golden age, this period is bookended by the releases of De La Soul's alt-rap classic Buhloone Mindstate and Redman's surreal, grimy *Dare Iz a Darkside—*and encompasses so many distinctly earth-shaking individual statements it's almost beyond belief. Midnight Marauders, Enter the Wu-Tang, Illmatic, Ready to Die, Doggystyle, The Diary, Hard to Earn, Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik, *Resurrection—*even the stuff that hasn't crossed over to the same extent, like Black Moon's Enta da Stage or O.C.'s *Word…Life *or Del the Funky Homosapien's No Need for Alarm, reign as certified classics, each with their own stories to tell and unique elements that made them stand out in rap's busiest creative flourish of the coming-of-age '90s.

As profiles and reviews have regularly pointed out, Joey Bada$$ wasn't alive for any of these albums' release dates. That's not really the issue here, though it's easy to draw conclusions from that fact; when the weight of influence an artist carries has the additional weight of history piled on, that can't be good for the backbone. But as his career has developed, from the claim-staking mixtape 1999 to the moody regrouping effort Summer Knights to a litany of guest verses (A$AP Rocky's "1 Train"; the remix of Madgibbs' "Knicks"), he still hasn't strayed far from that two-decades-past area of influence, a narrow purview that's resulted in some fine mood music but little that's been transcendent or reinventive. Official debut B4.DA.$$ keeps that frustrating formula going.

And make no mistake, B4.DA.$$ is a case of squandered resources rather than some expected mediocrity inoffensively met. It sets a compelling mood well—a restless-youth disbelief in actually making it, even when all the evidence is laid out in front of him, until finally the cloud cover breaks and it all starts registering. (One of his most unguarded moments of cynicism-shaking excitement comes at the end of "Piece of Mind": A jailed friend admits that he caught Joey's new single on the radio and Joey's reaction—"oh, you heard that shit!"—is pure, hard-earned pride.) And even at their most obvious, the beats nail that East Coast melancholy winter sensation, whether coming from vets of the era Joey nods back to (DJ Premier on "Paper Trail$"; a Roots/Dilla reconstruction on "Like Me") or Pro Era hands like Kirk Knight ("Big Dusty"; "Hazeus View") and Chuck Strangers ("Escape 120"; "Black Beetles"). Some of the homages are blatant to the point of distracting; if you can hear Statik Selektah's beat for "No. 99" and not scoff at the idea of putting a Canal Street "Scenario" knockoff in the middle of an otherwise moody album, I envy your reserve. But the heavy traditional soul-jazz/boom-bap backing is at least well-executed, and the occasional shakeup via drum'n'bass-adjacent uptempo breaks ("Escape 120"; bonus track "Teach Me") is welcome. You could do far worse than to pick this record up for meditative late nights or bad-weather commutes, where it's best to just zone out and let the vibe sneak up on you.

But the catch for an MC aiming his sights at the pantheon of stylistic greatness circa '93-'94 is that the people who appreciate that music the most—especially the people who came of age with it as their soundtrack when that shit was new—are also the least forgiving when it comes to lyrical complacency. And with a voice and a flow barely distinct enough to be instantly recognizable just yet, there's no margin of error for Joey here. There aren't enough intricate lines to make up for the ones so flatly familiar they feel like placeholders: check one-verser "Christ Conscious" and its opening-line "Motherfuckin' microphone checker/ Keep that grip tight, like my Smith & Wesson" couplet, then realize that there's still Namedrop 101 references to Ike Turner, "Dragon Ball", and Thriller-era Michael on the way. There aren't enough unexpected detours to compensate for the constant quasi-iconoclastic invocations of other artists' well-known hooks, with "Paper Trail$" and its nuance-draining "Cash ruined everything around me" maybe the most egregious. And most disappointing of all, there's not enough spark to the rhymes to excuse the goofy metaphors ("Hazeus View": "I'm a titan, like Zeus I enlighten 'em/ Kick flows till it's kung fu fightin' 'em"). He's still relatively young, but Joey's experienced enough worth sharing that it feels like his words are inadequate to even cover its scope.

And that's what separates albums like this from records you just kind of shrug at and move on from. Joey's less than a month into his twenties and he's already lost a close friend in Capital STEEZ, is trying to figure out his place in the rap world (and the rest of the world) under a social media microscope, and has to live up to being the type of new-hope torch-carrier who can get friggin' Primo to do a beat for him. Through all of this, he still has to develop and evolve, in public, after already setting a precedent for himself as an ambassador for the aesthetic of a previous, endlessly revered and long-lamented era. That he can hint at who he really is beneath the simplistic words and still-developing voice is a good sign, and with the opportunity to vent on this record—dealing with money woes ("Paper Trail$"), strengthening familial ties ("Curry Chicken"), reflecting on a childhood he's growing out of yet still strongly shaped by ("O.C.B.", short for "only child blues")—he's gradually but noticeably building up a real identity on record. But if that next level's within reach, there has to be one obstacle to overcome: Firsthand truths take longer to sink in when they're delivered with secondhand styles.