Much of it sounds harsh, brutally minimal — sometimes stripped down to little more than West's voice and a drum beat or a distorted keyboard with production help from Daft Punk and Rick Rubin, among others. It is ruthlessly edited, with rhythms and rhymes that hit like anvils, a perfect soundtrack for dropping bombs, invading homes or bum-rushing an awards show complaining that no way did Taylor Swift make a better video than Beyonce.
But there are sudden digressions and twists within the oppression, with glimpses of old soul and gospel, a sample of Hungarian rock, even Nina Simone's version of the protest anthem "Strange Fruit. Drill even further down, and West sounds more complicated than ever, an artist willing to throw himself off the ledge not just to get a reaction, but to open up a conversation about, well, just about everything that matters to him.
A wave of noise opens the album, synthesizers spazzing out in "On Sight" as West rises, "a monster about to come alive again. Abruptly it breaks into a sample from a gospel record that advises, "He'll give us what we need, it may not be what we want" — a sly commentary on an album that is sure to defeat expectations about who West is and what he represents.
It is exactly those sorts of expectations that West aims to upend. A decade ago, he was creating songs about the precocious kid who hated his minimum-wage job at a retail store, a relatable, everyday figure in a hip-hop world populated by larger-than-life stars.
Later he was the celebrity with a tendency to run his mouth and overstay his welcome — never as cool as his hero and mentor, Jay-Z, or as prodigiously gifted an MC as Nas. Lake County News-Sun. Pioneer Press. Unlimited Digital Access gives you unlimited access to our exclusive premium storytelling and represents the best of the Chicago Tribune online. Subscription includes the eNewspaper, a copy of the daily Chicago Tribune delivered to you digitally every morning, and the Chicago Tribune App, an enhanced mobile experience for your smartphone and tablet.
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Chicago Tribune. Skip to content Menu. Become a Subscriber Register or Subscribe to discover the Chicago Tribune's award winning journalism and trusted columnists and writers. He samples acid house and Young Chop, shouts out old friends and makes the drill scene's bad kids, Chief Keef and King L, the record's only rap features. Keef, in particular, adds a self-destructive bent to the sparse, tremendous "Hold My Liquor" with Justin Vernon, the story of a drunken drive to visit Kanye's ex-fiance.
He just can't chill out, and that instability makes for some really wild, awesome stuff here. It's the most human thing about him, and while it bodes well for his music, it doesn't necessarily for his state of mind. Pray for Kim K. Yeezy season looks something nasty. Yeezus Now! Our commenting rules: Don't be racist or bigoted, or post comments like "Who cares?
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