The question is what’s left after you start to throw off the critiques, and lose the courage not to care? There are obvious shock lines sprinkled through Vol. 2, like “Riding around town in Seattle/ With the same shotgun that Kurt used to ‘Click-Clack-Boom-Pow.’” But plenty more of the lyrical content to be found—particularly coming from Tyler—tries to parse the decidedly odd present he’s encountered with newfound fame. It’s more interesting than the straight navel-gazing he slipped into on his 2011 solo album, Goblin, but it’s leagues away from the sick, twisted wit of days past. Tyler moans about it being “really awkward to know, that a bunch of kids do adore me/ It’s like I fathered these fuckers, so you will find me on Maury.” And elsewhere, “Now I have have famous friends who like coke and them drugs/ Dancing with me, Jerry Sandusky, and the Pope in the club.” This sort of jaded maundering hardly ever works, even when it’s done by someone who’s twice Tyler’s age (and level of fame). Tyler’s turned more toward narrative than rapid-fire raunch, but often his stories seem bored, frustrated, directionless.