The defining words that linger on Melvin Van Peebles’ 1971 film and soundtrack Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song are, “They bled my mama, they bled my papa/Won’t bleed me, won’t bleed you.” The line is from “Won’t Bleed Me,” a story of a black man living in a world where the white man has all of the authority (sounds familiar). Van Peebles’ message is one of resistance and hope, a connection he shares with Jasper Marsalis, aka Slauson Malone, who lightly sings that exact quote on “Won’t Bleed Me: The Sequel” and in part molds his ambitious album, A Quiet Farwell, Twenty Sixteen to Twenty Eighteen, after Peebles’ groundbreaking independent film.

Slauson Malone comes from the genre-neglecting New York collective of Standing on the Corner, whose music is often a response to the social issues negatively impacting the oppression of blackness and its culture. But at the end, they leave you with a sense of hope and optimism, felt deeply in the music of rappers like MIKE and Medhane. In this scene, Slauson Malone is the steady backbone, sprinkling his sample-heavy touches throughout. A Quiet Farwell, Twenty Sixteen to Twenty Eighteen is Marsalis’ first album since departing Standing on the Corner, for which he creates a surreal sound of memory, and a soulful foundation to send a message of his own.

Like a jazz musician or a restless composer, Marsalis reinterprets the same song four different times here, titled “Smile.” Through this miniseries within his album, he discovers a defining mantra: “Smile at the past when I see it.” It’s a bar spit by a reflective Caleb Giles over a bright piano riff on “Smile 1,” restated with less energy by Los Angeles rapper Maxo on “Smile 2,” before dreary guitars and Quasimoto-style pitch alteration on Marsalis’ vocals feel like a descent into a dark portal on “Smile 3” and “Smile 4.”

At times—with short songs that hover around a minute, abrupt beat switches, and a refusal to hide his influences—Marsalis begins to emerge like a youth-injected Madlib. There are moments where it's easy to get lost because Marsalis is unconcerned if anyone can keep up. It can feel like you’re listening to a YouTube playlist of snippets. But the snippet-like approach isn’t a distraction from Marsalis’ message given we’re in an era where some (me) can go days only listening to leaked clips of Playboi Carti and Lil Uzi Vert.

And, refreshingly, Marsalis’ music is not all message. His arrangements are engaging despite their density, using collaborations to make every song feel like a moment of its own. He spreads a fresh set of meditative voices across the project (See: Medhane, Pink Siifu, and Taphari) and adds extra life through contributions from cellist Nicky Wetherell and violinist Maya Balkaran.

Above all, it’s an album that rewards close, undistracted listening. Marsalis’ music inspires deep-digging into yourself (or Google) because when you’re lost in a song, replaying it, you pick up on new details each time, and realize every sound has a purpose. Whether the sounds are mournful sirens and screams or a saxophone riff on “(Fred Hampton’s Door Into Farewell Sassy) Na” that makes it feel like you’re the only attendee at a cigar-scented jazz club.

The beautiful part about the New York underground where Marsalis emerged is that they’re conscious of their brashness and unbothered if their message doesn’t knock down every door. Marsalis remains unbroken in a world made to demoralize a young black person like himself before they get the chance to reach this type of creative breakthrough. In an archived interview, Melvin Van Peebles said there were two responses to Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, “Those who got their game uptight, dig it out of sight, the others run for cover.” With any luck, Marsalis will garner a similar response.