It feels so empty partly because of the shoddy scaffolding—a majority of songs are around two minutes or less and devoid of curveballs. “Damn” is DOA, cycling through the same verse three times like a cursed hymn. Any Ye fan could predict what he says on “I Can’t Wait” before hitting play: jabs at industry execs and conspiratorial mumbling. “Circles” is so laughably undercooked that it almost comes out the other end as a clever meta-statement on his own behavior patterns. Between a telephone booth-quality Don Toliver feature and an AI remake of the overused sample “Huit Octobre 1971” by Cortex, Ye limply mewls, “Circles, circles.” Ye’s core talent was always his ability to dig up grand, poignant samples and make them feel like his private chorus, earthbending them around his presence until he seemed in control of the whole universe. He has the samples but not the vocal sharpness here, using slowed-down Supremes and devotional monologues as emotional shortcuts instead of the launchpad for outpourings.…