That’s helpful because Yeat does everything in his power to disorient us with his voice as he touts his financial, carnal and pharmacological accomplishments. He visits nearly every corner of his lungs, throat, mouth and sinuses on “Turban,” using his vocalizations to re-create the tweedle of birdsong, the glitchiness of bad cell service, the groan of a plastic straw puncturing the lid of a Big Gulp and more. It’s the stuff of reverie. “I’m in a rich boy climate,” he brags on “Bak On Em,” offering vague coordinates for his creative powerspot, his voice a multi-tracked swirl of scoffs, moans, yawns and sneers. Then the bell rings and we wonder where we are.