Photo: WENN
It's been just over two weeks now, since that divisive performance. Here's why you didn't get it and hated it... or why you did, and loved it.
In 2006, sometime between releasing 'Late Registration' and 'Graduation', Kanye West was filmed dancing onstage to A-Ha’s shamelessly infectious hit 'Take on Me' like it was his first school disco. The shaky, distorted footage shows a guy dressed in white shirt, baggy jeans and cripplingly uncool trainers. It shows a man smiling broadly, shedding abandon and leading a chorus of people who are loving it. Just under a decade later and that same guy is scorned, berated and mocked for leading a singalong to another karaoke hit, 'Bohemian Rhapsody', at last month's Glastonbury. What changed? How did the charismatic, prodigal son of hip-hop become its most reviled, Messiah- compounded fantasist in the eyes of people across the musical spectrum?
Full disclosure. I was at Glastonbury. I was right underneath that crane. And yes, I’m a Kanye apologist. That’s right; it’s an ‘in defence of Kanye’ piece. You know where the ‘back’ button is.
In the past, Kanye has been pretty sensational on the stage, by all accounts. The Abbey Road thing, Coachella, the Watch the Throne tour. Bold, gloriously realised successes that cement Kanye’s place as a pioneer, pushing hip-hop to its most peripheral edges. He could have done that again. He could have done a Jay-Z; gone to lengths to win over the pessimists and the haters. But endearment has been traded for megalomania as Kanye’s new, public-facing currency. The rants, the mask, the ludicrous mountain tour set. While 'Yeezus' took fantastic, daring strides into untouched musical territory, it also gave us Yeezy; a crackling ball of frustration, ego and grossly exhibited delusion.
What the angry Facebook tribes and petition signers aren’t seeing is that Yeezy is a character. A myth. A foil for notoriety that separates him from the Drakes and the Weekends he’s influenced.
I’m not naïve, I get that this isn’t all a projected fantasy caricature and Kanye’s ego seems to fly around pretty unchecked. But you know how Alan Partridge is actually just Steve Coogan exaggerated? Well, this is sort of the same, just a little less self-consciously. Yeezy is an extension of Kanye’s desire to be an anarchist and an artist, and sometimes it’s pretty ugly.
Kanye’s long courted controversy. But for every incident of douchebaggery, there is redemption. For every “I’mma let you finish”, there’s the denouncement of homophobia or support for Caitlyn Jenner. For every demand for a wheelchair-bound man to stand up, there’s the calling out of a President on live television (OK, maybe that’s a little harder to defend, but you get the picture). Don’t get me wrong, he isn’t Rosa Parks, but this is a smart man who advocates equality and, in theory at least, fits that Glastonbury ethos, in spite of his misguided outbursts.
It’s a frustrating duplicity that appears throughout Kanye’s music, full as it is of lyrics that are equally self-degrading and self-aggrandising, with a sharp eye on the world and what’s happening in it.
So what happens when you get this character, this creation, this monumental ego to stand on one of the world’s biggest stages? Not just a stage, but a fucking pyramid. Headlining Glastonbury is about a few things. First, you’re grateful to be there. It’s hallowed ground. Bowie, McCartney, Radiohead. Big shoes. Second, you embrace the cheese, the fun of it, and the good nature. Do a Lionel, basically. Last, you deliver. Big time. Light shows. Big hits. Crowd interaction. Fireworks, if you have the budget. But those are Glastonbury’s rules, not Kanye’s.
You want lights? OK, how about a fluorescent, Connect 4 grid that obscures more than it illuminates. Hits? OK, but you’ll get half songs, to a backing track. And when you are rewarded with the real biggies, you’ll get them on his terms and he’ll fly a cherry picker over the crowd, literally rapping about touching the sky.
For me, it was thrilling. For others, it was incomprehensible, confusing, or just shit. And that’s cool. Nobody’s forcing you to like it. But for fans like me, it was the culmination of the Yeezy story.
From the opening bars of Stronger (a brilliant “Fuck you” to the petition signers), this was Kanye not trying to win anyone over, but daring people to enjoy it. Then there’s the bone of contention. Just when it couldn’t get any weirder, the sound of a familiar piano riff raises 100,000 eyebrows in unison. Is that Queen? It is. And, like A-Ha, it’s not a cover. It’s a singalong, the one moment where the wall comes down and the Kanye of 2006 squints through the lights shining over him. This isn’t a vocal comparison; it’s homage to a beloved star of the past.
Then we’re back in Yeezy mode. He sabotages Gold Digger – a song he’s publicly admitted disliking in the past, yet arguably his biggest hit – with that rockstar proclamation. It’s absurd, hilarious but, inescapably… true. If your definition of a rockstar is Freddy Mercury; full voice, crowd-pleaser, musician, that’s valid. But if your definition of rockstar is John Lydon or Liam Gallagher, people who’ve made music that challenges or who occasionally behaved like egomaniacal knobs – Kanye cuts a pretty rockstar-worthy figure to me. Rockstars are divisive, they make people talk, they flaunt themselves in ways that fall on the wrong side of dignity. That’s what Kanye, more than any other artist, is doing right now.
Make no mistake, Kanye chose this. I suspect he won’t be surprised in any way by the reaction to his Glastonbury set (despite the technical setbacks and this twat). He knows the power of controversy, that it only boosts his profile and feeds the inflammatory conversation around him. To that end, he’ll give you what you need, but it might not be what you want.
