At the end of 2015, a 23-year-old Mac Miller posted an unassuming cover of “Vienna,” Billy Joel’s Stranger classic about taking things slowly and appreciating life while it’s right in front of us. Miller’s “Vienna” is slow and pitched-down, groggy and bathed in sadness. About a year earlier, he quietly recorded a suite of songs in a similarly melancholy mood. He ultimately shelved the tunes in favor of his major-label debut, 2015’s GO:OD AM, but the untouched recordings are now available as Balloonerism, the late Pittsburgh rapper’s second posthumous album. The new release is a missing link between Miller’s psychedelic hip-hop days and the smooth, nearly singer-songwriter path he explored on his final projects.

The music Miller made around the time of Balloonerism was a lot stranger and bolder than these 14 songs that he recorded in his Los Angeles home studio. His critical breakthrough, 2013’s Watching Movies With the Sound Off, was agitated and outlandish, an array of introspection, goofiness, bombast, and lyrical tongue-twisters, all delivered atop his most experimental production choices to date. He followed that album with a pair of mixtapes; first, Delusional Thomas, an alter-ego horrorcore project with spooky beats, knowingly perverted bars, and one of Earl Sweatshirt’s best-ever guest verses; then Faces, released in 2014 not long after Miller tried out his Balloonerism songs. It is, in some respects, the peak of the Mac Miller project, overblown, as fun as it is painfully depressing, and earnest as could be. When Miller signed with the label then known as Warner Bros. and made a highly polished album, GO:OD AM, he dialed back his self-destruction and highlighted his technical prowess. He was, by then, a veteran in his early twenties, ready to embark on the mature part of his career.

Still, Balloonerism is not just detritus from a creative and productive era of Miller’s life. It’s a fully formed project that captures the rapper’s ability to make feel-good music from feelings that don’t necessarily feel good. “Mrs. Deborah Downer” is languid and jazzy, with Thundercat playing bass slowly and sweatily under Miller’s vocals and ramshackle drums. “Stoned” follows next and is cut from the same damp cloth. Neither should feel necessarily comforting but they both do, with the latter, in particular, finding a groove that’s nearly upbeat as Miller sings and raps as if he’s got no cares in the world.

It’s these moments on Balloonerism that make me think of Miller’s far-too-derided frat-rap days. There was a sadness that lurked in the songs about partying, getting high, and never wanting to grow up, and his happiness never disappeared even when his lyric sheets grew more lurid and dangerous. Miller was always both, and Balloonerism expresses his duality, the way that he could sound like he was smiling, opening up, and truly having a good time amid some gray clouds. Here is someone who, just a few years before rapping, “Rich as fuck and miserable,” on “Do You Have a Destination?,” was singing, “Life couldn’t get better/This gon’ be the best day ever.”

The downcast yet charming mood is particularly acute across the spare Balloonerism, especially in contrast to Miller’s other more fleshed-out projects. Most songs on the album are built around keys, bass, drums, and Miller’s vocals, with the gentlest touch of additional production by Thundercat, Ronald and Jameel Bruner, and Taylor Graves, to bring the tracks to life. The dusty, soulful beats keep things light even in darker moments. A song like “Shangri-La” gestures toward heaviness, but there’s not enough weight to drag it down. Miller, in his pitched-down voice, raps on that track, “If I’m dying young, promise you’ll smile at my funeral,” but it comes off steady, matter-of-fact, and he balances out his thinking with, “Live your life ’cause you can lose tomorrow.” The song, with drums that don’t follow any rules and bright synths that pop up when they please, feels like a memory of a good day, distorted from something that was once peaceful into something more ethereal.

Balloonerism, having not been shaped for commercial release, is basically an album made exclusively of deep cuts, the little moments where you feel like your favorite artist is making something especially for you because they’re really just making it for themselves—like when Miller opens “Funny Papers” by asking in a silly, old-Hollywood voice, “Did no one ever teach you how to dance?” The intimacy makes the album a comfortable and comforting listen, a small portrait of a crestfallen guy, not some maudlin collection from a beloved artist gone too soon. Miller was a natural melodicist, a captivating vocalist, and an evocative songwriter, all of which are here on display. It’s a mood piece, and the mood is sweet and sedate.