But Drake is less concerned with fully polished songs here — several feel rushed, with lyrics a notch too plain — and though his last album, “More Life,” was advertised as a playlist, it felt more albumlike than “Scorpion” does. The new record’s length — it is very, very, very long — is not an asset, regardless of whether it’s a maximalist streaming strategy, a pointed rebuke to certain artists’ increasingly brief albums, or perhaps the fulfillment of a contractual obligation, or perhaps just the usual bloat. (Drake is not immune to bloat.)

Perhaps most worryingly, the split album conceit relies on a false binary of Drake’s rapping and singing sides, his tough and tender approaches. What made Drake singular upon his arrival, and for the first half of his career, was his insistence that those two impulses were not only related, but necessarily intertwined. Atomizing them into halves — even if it means getting to the end of his contract early — does them both a disservice.

In truth, these Drakes are the same: the agoniste, the uncertain playboy, the tortured boy king. (It’s not an accident that the last words he utters on this album are “I’m changing from a boy to a man,” an interpolation of an old Boyz II Men interlude). Though he’s been involved with some high-profile beefs in recent years, his responses here are largely subdued — teaming with Jay-Z, another titan with a roller-coaster relationship with Mr. West, on “Talk Up,” or “8 Out of 10,” which sounds like a taunt at Mr. West, lyrically and musically.

In this album’s high moments, vintage Drake feels fresh. “After Dark” is the peak, a feast of male tenderness that’s a collaboration with Ty Dolla Sign and Static Major (who died in 2008), and anchored by a velvet speech by a quiet storm radio D.J. (He uses an unreleased Michael Jackson sample to less effect on “Don’t Matter to Me.”) And he is still capable of acute emotional observation, usually of the mirror-staring variety, like on “Is There More”: “I only tell lies to who I gotta protect/I would rather have you remember me how we met/I would rather lose my leg than lose their respect.”

Here, as ever, he is fueled by anxiety, sometimes of his own making. His son was born last October, and part of the job of “Scorpion” is to confirm that news — initially leaked by Drake antagonist Pusha-T — and also to add new fatherhood to the list of existential Drake concerns.

But Drake doesn’t make it central. Only “March 14” is wholly dedicated to the subject (“I got an empty crib in my empty crib”), and it only merits a few stray lyrics throughout the rest of the album. Given that Drake has made his career by putting his most vulnerable sentiments on display, the lack of candor here is notable. Maybe, for once, the feelings were too raw.