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Has there�ever been an album rollout weirder than�The Life of Pablo's?�It�s�been a mess. After two years of abortive singles and flaunted promises, Kanye�suddenly whirled into a frenzy of action, giving us four different titles, editing�the track listing three times and writing verses up to and past the eleventh�hour. It�s a testament to his incomparable confidence that even the prospect of�a launch party at Madison Square Gardens didn�t prompt him to finish the thing;�he turned up, played some unmasterered tracks off of his laptop, and then chopped�and rearranged the whole thing over the weekend.
His Twitter�feed became a hive of controversy. There was beef with Wiz Khalifa, an alleged $53�million of personal debt and the uncomfortable proclamation: �BILL COSBY�INNOCENT !!!�. Accompanying this chaos has been a mounting body of censure, even�from Ye�s staunchest defenders � a liminal sense that he has�finally gone too far. �
This is completely�baffling to me � such behaviour may be new to his twitter feed, but his albums�have been a hotbed of misogyny and ludicrous opinions for at least a decade. I�have couple theories why it�s taken so long for music critics to challenge Deus Kanye. Music critics probably stopped�seeing Kanye clearly once they all agreed to give him the appellation �genius�,�and consequently over-intellectualised everything he did. The second is that feminists�have given him something of a pass due to his stances on racial inequality. They�seem to look the other way because he�s black, working in a�typically-marginalised art form and, you know, going through some stuff. When�you think about this, though, this is deeply�racist, as it holds black artists to a different moral standard�than others (not to mention ignores Kanye�s manifest ability to be totally racist).�This is par for the course in the increasingly confused, tangled world of identify�politics, in which what you say matters less than who you are.
What both�of these attitudes have in common is an inability to hold two possibly�contradictory ideas of a person in one�s head; Kanye might be a huge sexist and�a loving husband, a mother lode of moronic opinions and a hugely innovative producer,�an arrogant megalomaniac and a caring father. This kind of ambivalence isn�t uncommon�in everyday life, but the curse of celebrity is to be petrified as an idea, and�Kanye is in most minds either Untarnished Genius or The Douchebag That Ruined�Music. The result is a journalistic industry spinning its wheels every time�Kanye does something that suggests the attendant, dizzying complexities of a troubled�and troubling human being.
But, enough�talk (or torque?) � onto the music. The Life of�Pablo has been described by its creator as a �gospel album with a whole lot�of cursing on it�, but in reality it encompasses a lot more, and achieves a lot�less. There�s a reason I began my review discussing its bizarre, chaotic�release schedule: it�s inseparable from the record, which is every bit as exasperatingly�schizogenic as Kanye�s Twitter feed.
In the past�Kanye albums have rewritten the rule book, introducing a new sonic landscape�for every other rapper to imitate for the next few years. This time around though,�Kanye wears his influences on his sleeve; the hip-hop of the Atlanta scene in�particular, with its triplet-heavy sprechesang, murky trap beats and rapid-fire�hit-hats, permeates the album. This is especially true on tracks like �Facts��and �Father Stretch My Hands Pt. 2�, where producer Metro Boomin�s hand is�felt. The sprawling collage of Kendrick Lamar�s To Pimp a Butterfly seems�to have had an effect too: there�s barely a track here without a lurching tempo�change or abrupt beat switch.
Being�Kanye, though, his greatest influence is of course himself, and the album is�populated by artists who owe a musical debt to Kanye. When Chance the Rapper references�Good Ass Job on the opening track, he�s referring not only to the 2008 track, but his own homage, 2013�s �Good Ass Intro�. This�kind of meta, autocannibalism finds it�s way into the lyrics. On �I Love�Kanye�, West archly raps: �I miss the sweet Kanye, chop up the beats Kanye��,�later asking �what if Kanye made a song about Kanye?�. He samples his own �wake�up Mr. West� skit on �Famous� and, on a self-described �adlib track� within �30�Hours� he says �this the bonus track� all my favourite albums have bonus joints�.�The results aren�t exactly fresh � the album feels diluted, too self-aware in�its intention to be Another Kanye Masterpiece.
The�production consequently takes us on a guided tour of Kanye�s various�aesthetics. We get his early crate-digging days with samples of Pastor T.L�Barett, and Nina Simone, right up to Yeezus-era�agro in the dissonant synths of �Feedback�. The appropriately-titled �Highlights��moves through pretty much every Kanye style ever: there are liberal doses of autotune�(courtesy of 808�s and Heartbreaks), slatherings�of Late Registration�s strings, a�brief Graduation-esque stab of�anthemic pop. We�re barely a minute in at this point. With the menacing throb�of a deep synth we enter the slanted vistas of Yeezus-territory, before a slew of vocal effects herald the arrival�of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy.�Lyrically, you�d hope this isn�t a recapitulation of his deepest concerns: it�s�mostly just an aimless ramble about Kanye having sex, earning money, beating up�a hypothetical basketball coach and, naturally, being a Christian. �
TLOP�s opening track does a better job of handling this�vein of dubious Christianity, which meanders awkwardly throughout the album. Based�around a set of blossoming synth chords, decorated with some fiddly figures on�bass, �Ultra Light Beam� is a modern gospel track: stripped down, delicate, mostly�empty, ponderous space. A cast of featured artists take turn to prod at their�faith, but Chance the Rapper steals the show, delivering what is comfortably�the best verse on the album. It�s a huge moment for Chance, who has regularly�touted The College Dropout as the�reason he raps, and it�s a moment he entirely owns. �I�m just having fun with�it!� he beams, showing the kind of triumphant positivity that made last year�s Surf such a joy. � � � � � � � � � � � � � ��
Kanye�s�best moments on the album, however, tend to be his saddest � nothing helps him focus�quite like the harsh relief of misery. The most downbeat is �FML�, built around�a lonely, distorted sample which may have been a piano in a past life, before it�was processed beyond recognition, hollowed out and ghostly. The angry lyrics talk�about being �off his Lexapro� (joining a growing roster of rappers who are admirably candid about�mental illness), and his struggles to maintain marital fidelity. The song ends�with the album�s most outr� moment; an obscure sample sped up and shifted some�distance from any recognisable pitch, becoming an atonal, mechanical whine to�join Kanye�s autotune warbling. It�s a weird and totally inspired reminder that�no one does avant-garde hip-hop quite like Kanye.
The flow to�FML�s verse feels a little like a sped up version of �Heartless� and this sense�of d�j� vu does colour much of the album�s�diminishing returns. The line on �Feedback� in which he feels like a �rich�slave in the fabric store picking cotton�, feels like a paltry echo of �New�Slaves�� witty dig at the fashion industry, for instance.�He doesn�t�do a great job with his collaborators, either, overusing the tedious and�underusing the talented. Caroline Shaw (who remixed Kanye beautifully last year) provides a gorgeous�vocal melody on �Wolves�, but the track ultimately goes nowhere and says�nothing, redeemed only by Frank Ocean�s closing fragment. Rihanna�s vocals on �Famous��feels like a phoned-in favour, and when the original Nina Simone sample appears�in the track�s denouement � seventeen seconds of extraordinary nuance and nostalgia�� you can�t help but think Rihanna just isn�t that interesting (as fun as it is�to pretend otherwise). � � � � � � �
Fundamentally�though, the album never quite shakes off a whiff of arbitrariness and�self-indulgence. The sense that if the album deadline had been a week later,�we�d have a different beast on our hands. This results in some jarring,�incongruous shifts in tone that are entirely indefensible. Particularly galling�is �Father Stretch My Hands Pt 1 & Pt. 2�, which is probably the world�s�first I Like Anal Sex And Also Miss My Estranged Father song (I can�t imagine this�becoming a sub-genre anytime soon). Kanye has been oxymoronic before � Yeezus is essentially a collection of Racial�Injustice And Fisting songs � but previously this has seemed knowing, playfully�provocative. Here it just feels lazy, rushed and, to be honest it, pretty gross.�
The panoply�of samples doesn�t always gel, like when the slower Rihanna hook returns in �Famous�,�puncturing the momentum and awkwardly deflating the track. The same thing�happens three times in �Father Stretch My Hands�. There isn�t a track here that�isn�t abundant with fascinating ideas, but they�re too often disappointingly�disjointed. In the best songs, the disparate parts cohere into whole. �Famous��comes alive in its second half, beautifully seguing into an ingenious reworking�of Sister Nancy�s �Bam Bam� buoyed by a transcendent major-key chord�progression. �Real Friends� is a perfect, forward-facing distillation of his�past styles; Ty Dolla $ign�s vocals are interwoven beautifully, and the lyrics�are struck with genuine pathos. The song is a sad reminder that a life of fame�and riches can preclude normal, loving relationships, the nutrients that get�most of us through our day. It�s not quite your standard Kanye self-pity�though, as he admits: �I guess I get what I deserve, don�t I?��
So, The Life of Pablo doesn�t always work. Kanye�is overshadowed by his peers, faces condemnation from�critics that were once fans, and doesn�t provide enough moments of humanity to transcend�the Twitter caricature. Despite a handful of brilliant tracks, you can�t escape�the feeling that, for the first time, maybe the world is moving on.
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