Memories Don’t Die is Tory Lanez’s attempt to leave an indelible mark, to foster a legacy that will outlive him. “People die every day but the memories don’t,” he intones gravely on the intro. “This my motherfuckin’ album.” It’s too bad, then, that Lanez’s quest for immortality hinges entirely on a record full of crude imitations of every remotely bankable contemporary R&B or rap song. He scans production and songwriting templates through his photocopier and then presents them as originals, all the while taunting those who have criticized him for doing just that. Lanez is obsessed with showing up anyone who doubts him, but if Memories is supposed to offer evidence proving them wrong, it is a miserable failure.

Much was made of his “beef” with Drake, which was rather unceremoniously quashed last May, and, like his more famous rival, Lanez goes out of his way to work all the drama into his narrative on “Hate to Say”: “If … me and Drake mendin’ bridges it’d probably equal to winnin’.” What he doesn’t realize is that he will always be measured by the shadow of the man he impersonates most. The timing of his debut album, 2016’s I Told You, was favorable for the upstart, as it was released shortly after VIEWS, when Drake’s defenses seemed most vulnerable. But this settles it: The chasm between the two has never been wider.

There are still plenty of Drake flows and melodies and impressions on Memories Don’t Die, but a lot of the problems are entirely Lanez’s own. The album is still way too long (18 tracks, an hour and 10 minutes) and his singing can be lifeless and devoid of personality, soaking up the flavor of the month like tofu. His creative impulse is to smash two perfectly fine songs into one annoyingly jumbled one, like on the eight-minute “Happiness x Tell Me.” “Tell me how you feel about a nigga, knowing everything is real about me,” he says flatly on the song. But he doesn’t really want to know. That would require him to do some actual soul-searching.

Until now, Lanez was a functional rapper, fine for an R&B sadboy. He used his bars like a party trick, pulling them out sparingly to show casual onlookers he was a bit more interesting. But he’s leaning more heavily on his raps now, to his detriment. Nearly everything he raps on Memories Don’t Die is something you’ve heard before, performed more ably elsewhere, and the few lines that aren’t are unbelievably simple-minded or straight-up witless. Behold: “My dick giant like Fifo, if you need know/Money singin’ in a C-Note like Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do.” Earlier he rips off this brutal trio of facepalm-worthy stinkers: “I’m cruisin’ through New York in a 911/Used to fuck Julie ’round 9:11/Fly nigga in the buildin’ like 9/11.”

The songs that do work are largely indebted to their guest stars or influences. “48 Floors” is smooth and understated thanks to a shimmering coda from the Oakland singer Mansa. The Fabolous-led “Connection” is the album’s most satisfying listen, a mélange of hollow sounds and wispy melodies; Lanez doesn’t have a verse. The weird and sudden vocal turns on “4 Me,” Lanez’s most daring effort to date, are slippery and elastic; his aerodynamic performance is reminiscent of recent exhibitions from Swae Lee and Young Thug. With every release, it becomes clearer that the singer-rapper’s only true skill is interpretation.

Then there’s “Pieces,” Lanez’s big turn toward evocative drama. The song samples Sting’s “Shape of My Heart”—previously used prominently on Nas’ “The Message”—and tells a convoluted tale of a rape victim who kills the uncle that molested her. The song has a “twist” ending, and Lanez has compared it to Immortal Technique’s cult classic “Dance With the Devil.” But that song had power and purpose, and it wasn’t tragedy for tragedy’s sake. Plus, Lanez’s writing doesn’t have the nuance required to unpack such a complicated situation, and many of the plot points are entirely self-serving. Tory Lanez wants badly to be felt, to be remembered by history. But Memories Don’t Die reflects an inability to achieve anything beyond being featured on RapCaviar.