Mykki Blanco’s a tough one to pin down. Over the past 14 years and change, the artist known in government records as Michael Quattlebaum Jr. has been performing under a genderbending persona both braggadocious and tender. Speedrunning through genres (and artistic mediums; he recently got his MFA in Switzerland), Blanco doesn’t lay claim to any one particular sound: His songs run the gamut from industrial rap to Nine Inch Nails-style rock to ballroom.

One thing Blanco has never been, though, is coy: I mean, his debut album came out swinging with the image of “white powder in both holes.” His new album, Cafe Paradiso, is still rife with sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. But there’s an inward shift; while Blanco’s lyrics are as swaggering and bawdy as ever, Paradiso sounds more sensual than sensory, more relishing than confrontational. Drawing on influences from Saint Etienne to Deee-Lite’s Towa Tei, Blanco swerves head-on into slick ’80s grooves and garage rock with self-assuredness.

The album kicks off with disco-ball gleam. The relatively downtempo “Little Feet” is a delightful opening feint towards slow-jam chillness; never have backshots sounded more romantic. Then the album revs into gear: On “NYC DOGS,” Blanco growls and keens over buzzing, blown-out bass and B-52s-esque percussion as he urges the audience to stick out our tongues, dirty dogs that we are, and “spread like butter for me.” Listening to the standout “Butt Sex”—a sort of freaked-out, tweaked-out “Ice Cream” by New Young Pony Club—one can practically imagine Blanco strutting around stage in an undone tux with Elvis Derangement Syndrome. Blanco conjures baddies to the floor and howls for the track’s titular action over juicy, rollicking bass licks and stuttering synths, courtesy of co-production by purveyors of electronic smoothness Daniel Fisher, of Car Culture and Physical Therapy, and Patrick Holland of Jump Source. It’s completely unserious until you feel just how severe that bassline is. “Uglies, please exit the floor,” Blanco sneers; “Y’all don’t even get five seconds.” You almost feel for them.

The rest of Paradiso flits between genres, blooming into something more experimental but a bit disjointed. “Fuck as Friends” gets back into the ’80s bag with frantic synth-pop that becomes increasingly blown-out as Blanco pleads an ex-lover to get back together, restraining order be damned. And it’s an unexpected delight when Blanco dons the Julian Casablancas vest; “Wasted in Soho” and “Cut Me Open” are refreshingly vulnerable pleas to an unnamed lover, with smooth guitars and Blanco’s soft, raspy tenor evoking early Strokes. He winds down his indie-rock jaunt in a more ’90s vein on the penultimate track, “Spread For Me,” a sweet and straightforward love song. Paradiso also goes back to Blanco’s roots as a rapper with a voracious ear and curatorial sensibility. “Easy Does It” is an exercise in hedonism set to a melodic drill-adjacent beat, with classic Mykki-isms combining mafioso bluster and outré sexuality; “Hey Dopeman” and “Tough Guy” amp up the villainy with stark, Cibo Matto-esque production.

The album’s weirdest cuts are disruptive, following stretches of cut-up funk and head-bopping rock with ominous, stripped-back melodies. “FOXES,” a Silver Apples-influenced track and the album’s midpoint, throbs with menace as Blanco details “a sweet little nursery rhyme” about ravenous dogs and the foxes they prey on. As the verse winds down, the reverbed-out synths and pounding drums kick in and Blanco presides over the crowd with a spoken-word interlude: “Are you a sexy audience?” he purrs. “You ain’t getting away yet. We gonna bring that shit back.” It’s captivating, in the most literal sense of the word. Unfortunately, closer “God Is Alive” drags in comparison. Over looped vocals, discordant orchestral swells, and flute melodies, Blanco sings breathlessly about “the man upstairs,” who he calls “a drunk and a friend.” It’s eerie and beautiful but feels overwrought in its self-seriousness, particularly after everything we’ve just heard. Blanco’s had many beautifully-executed moments of introspection before, like the spectral 2016 track “Something Special”; in comparison, “God Is Alive” feels impenetrable.

For an album so stripped of persona, there’s still a lot of theatrical flair to Paradiso. It may not be his most cohesive album, but Paradiso feels like Blanco’s most glamorous. Its polish enables a showman’s attitude—a record confident in its ability to cartwheel all over the map, to both scare and seduce the hoes in one fell swoop. And if you don’t rock with it—well, you’ve got five seconds.