Kanye West review
It’s been a long time since I’ve listened to a whole album all the way through, one song after another. No stop for rest, no skipping songs, just one fluid experience. When I say a long time, I suppose I should clarify that I actually mean never.
But Kanye West, in his fifth studio album, My Dark Twisted Fantasy, managed to captivate me in a way that I’ve never been captivated before. The work is expansive, opulent, fantastic, awesome and magnificent. The work is a culmination of everything West has been doing up to this point.
The stripped down and bare 808s & Heartbreak was a necessary catharsis after the loss of his mother, and a tough break up – but Fantasy sees him delve even deeper into the unilluminated corners of his psyche. He is at his lyrical zenith, and the beats, or perhaps they would more aptly be called compositions, that back him are richer and more impactful than they’ve ever been before.
In an interview with MTV a month prior to Fantasy’s release, West said that it his goal “in this lifetime to be the greatest artist of all time.” The album is evidence that this is not just Kanye being Kanye, and saying inane and insane things.
West sure did have a crazy year, though. After jumping up onto the stage and embarrassing himself in front of millions, he exiled himself for months. (Speaking of music videos, his new album is accompanied by a 30 minute long magnus opus that is more short musical than music video). He reemerged months later on Twitter, amassing nearly two million followers, and tweeting pictures of Napoleon, and – drunkenly – lyrics to his own songs. He then made a surprise appearance at the Silicon Valley headquarters of Facebook, jumping on top of a table to rap rough drafts of verses from his new album, a capella style.
In Fantasy West delivers some of the best verses of his career through a washed out synthesizer in “Gorgeous” (“Is hip hop just a euphemism for a new religion/the soul music for the slaves that the youth is missing/this is more than just my road to redemption”). And for the first time, West at least openly recognizes, if not deplores and wonders why, he is an asshole. When he proposes a toast to the “douchebags,” “assholes,” and “jerk-offs” on arguably the best track of the album, “Runaway,” you’d best believe he’s being self-referential.
The songs on Fantasy range from the swaggering, anthemic “Power” (“Screams from the haters, got a nice ring to it/I guess every superhero need his theme music”) to the aforementioned introspective “Runaway” which measures over nine minutes long from tip to tail, and features three solid minutes of West wailing into a vocoder, sounding like nothing more than a dying cyborg (which somehow manages to sound … right).
Bon Iver guests, as does Raekwon, Kid Cudi, Jay-Z, Rick Ross, Chris Brown and, on “All of the Lights,” a wacked out Nikki Minaj, who manages to out-crazy West for a few brief bars. Even on his own album, the last word does not go to West, but to Gil Scott-Heron. But do not for a moment be deceived, the show is always West’s, and it’s grandiose and masterful for every second.
