By Abdullah "T Kid" Saeed
By Matt Caputo
By Devon Maloney
By Chris Chafin
By Village Voice
By Katie Moulton
By Hilary Hughes
By Gili Malinsky
Kanye West does not do well with loss of control. Never has. He is a maestro in the truest senseof his music, of his feelings, of the way he is interpreted by the masses. If the conversation about him is moving in a direction he dislikes, he gestures with his hands and changes it. This was the year he became better than anyone at changing the conversationwith a new free song, with an extravagant short film, with a Twitter rant. Or several of all three.
But its his frequent loss of control that makes West the most compelling popular musician of his generation. When he flies off the rails, it is often its own sort of symphony. Whether elbowing Taylor Swift to the left, commandeering a telethon, or melting down on a morning show, its the disaster that makes the greatness palpable, the mistake that is the solution. These are honest moments, untrained and emotional and, sure, egotistical. But you never get less than everything from Kanye West. Hes just not the withholding type. So for the first real unraveling on his fifth album, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, to arrive 11 songs in is surprising, but also appropriate. Its on Blame Game, not the flashiest or most forward-thinking song on the album, but certainly the most earthbound. And therefore the most important.
But before all that, Kanye begins this albuma staggering, often breathtaking workwith a kind of Home Alone freak-out. Mom is gone, love is dead, and the world has called him every racial epithet that exists. What to do? Like Macaulay Culkins Kevin McCallister, he orchestrates his own reverie, finally free to order the cheese pizza of his dreams, and eat it all by himself. I fantasized about this back in Chicago, are the first words we hear from him on Dark Fantasy. Home, alone. That unchained postureanything is possible, and I can make it all sois what drives this audacious album. Can we get much higher? a chorus of angels wails on the chorus; Kanye intends to find out. Nearly every song here is longer than five minutes. There are not one, not two, but three posse cuts, a maximalists delight. All of the Lights features 11 guest vocalists, including Fergie and Elton John, mostly just because it can. The gorgeous Bink! production Devil in a New Dress was initially released during his free-mp3-a-week G.O.O.D. Fridays project, as a solo effort. It was affecting, funny (I ordered the jerk, she said 'You are what you eat.') and soulfula touch of the old Ye. And just three minutes long. But the album version is something bigger, with a magisterial guest verse from Rick Ross (appearing twice here) that comes after an odd but sumptuous acid-jazz breakdown. These gestures to size are what we do in our dreams, where everything is distorted and gigantic. The organizing principle seems to be, When in doubt, go bigger. More voices. More layers. More grandeur. More, more, more.
Kanye did afford himself a safety net. The G.O.O.D. Fridays project is an act of generosity and a riskgiving away music months before your albums release requires its own kind of mania. But it was also a testing ground. When the douchebag-toasting single Runaway was released, fans voiced disappointment that the official version did not feature the sampled flourishes theyd heard during his live version at the MTV Video Music Awards. Fantasy restores those flourishes. When Monster, the epochal posse cut that announced Nicki Minajs manic brilliance to so many, quietly crept up the Hot 100, the song became more than track sixit became an essential part of this albums story, delivered months early. Technically, only two G.O.O.D. Fridays tracks made the ultimate cutMonster and Im So Appalled. Leaks accounted for the other songs wed heard first, including four different iterations of All of the Lights. But the crowdsourcing sensation of the project made fans feel like a part of the process.
There are other conspirators here, besides you and me. Kanye is rapping and singing better and with more tenacity than he ever has on Fantasy, but also less often, wisely allowing others to speak for himevery single guest artist on this album senses the moment and rises to the occasion. Yes, even Fergie. For the past five years, Kanye has been absorbing the gifts of his handpicked collaborators, and occasionally elevating them. From Jon Brion circa Late Registration, he learned about arranging orchestral majesty. During Graduation, he adapted DJ Toomps oozing menace. On 2008s 808s and Heartbreak, Kid Cudis moaning melodies became elemental. Theyre all here. Fantasy was initially pitched as a New York boom-bap revival, with contributions from august collagists Pete Rock, Q-Tip, and the RZA. Thats not quite the casethis album engulfs everything around it, where the proposed concept would have kept its distance, regarding this kind of emotion with a sneer. But the influence is clear. Rather than sample from tried-and-true sources, Kanye goes to deeper and darker bins: King Crimsons apocalyptic prog on Power; Mojo Mens feverish psych rock on Hell of a Life; a haunting, elegiac interlude from Aphex Twin on Blame Game. All are unlikely inspirations, seamlessly woven into this fantasia, each one a monument to self, to desire, to smashing limitations. Can we get much higher?
Like any empire, things do come crashing down, and like a Greek tragedy, its felled by a woman. Fantasy is masterfully engineered and sequenced, each song bleeding over like some long night out into the hazy morning after. (Tellingly, it features more overt references to drinking and drug use than any other West album.) By the time Runaway arrives, West seems to be swirling completely out of control. Self-laceration overtakes chest-beating, as he sings, I'm so gifted at finding what I don't like the most. He finds her on Hell of a Life, a blurry, dissonant ode to rough sex that grinds, burbles, and ticks away, dissipating into the crucial gossamer, Blame Game. Finally, he collapses under the weight of what everyone collapses under: love. Fuck arguing and harvesting the feelings/Yo, I'd rather be by my fucking self/Till about 2 a.m. and I call back and I hang up and I start to blame myself . . . Somebody help, West raps, torn asunder and bleary-eyed. Verse two, vocally manipulated to reflect a woozy internal war, is even darker and more panic-stricken. It is a terrifying and real picture of a blue valentine. John Legend, long Wests emotional sledgehammer, delivers a chorus that takes us back to an important word: I love you, more. I hate you, more. More, more, more. No one ever wins at love.
Of course, the fantasy is a lie. The good life is a mirage. People will reach to call this a perfect albumit cant be that. Not because art cant be perfect, but because the point of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is imperfection. A lack of answers. By the time we arrive at the albums final suite, Kanye West is Lost in the World. Not found in his Murciélago. Or rolling with monsters. Or reveling in all that power. Hes alone and confused. I'm down my whole life/I'm new to the city/Down for the night, Bon Ivers Justin Vernon sings. The album closes with a snatch of Gil Scott-Herons Comment #1: Scott-Herons beckoning call Who will survive in America? are the last words we hear. Its a too-serious denouement for an album that is more about the selfs little nightmares than some aching societal rejection. By keeping us so close to the flesh, we lose sight of how famous Kanye West is, how bratty he can be, how far he can fall. But not how great he can be. He cant get much higher.