So I’ve been listening to Yeezus for almost a week now. Some people love it. Some people hate it. Some people just repeat opinions they hear on Pitchfork. I’m not one of those people. To succinctly summarize Kanye’s problem: he lacks credibility. While lecturing us on materialism, he name checks Alexander Wang all while playing designer with his very own weak-ass ready-to-wear collection. Kanye, you wish you were Alexander Wang. Kanye, you wish you were Riccardo Tisci. (Or you wish you were in Riccardo Tisci allegedly whatever.) How can a man that is shamelessly reproducing with the Kueen of Konsumption lecture anyone? Kanye maintains his trademark anger on this album, but on Yeezus it feels particularly misdirected. For all his race-based indignation, I suspect the last time Kanye West felt legitimately persecuted is when Alber Elbaz had the good sense to deny his ass from the Lanvin show. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is a really incredible and incomparable record. I don’t expect every record Kanye makes to eclipse BDTF, but Yeezus isn’t at all fun. Kanye borrows from a somewhat diverse (if predictable) musical cannon ranging from Billie Holliday (vis-à-vis Nina Simone) to Charlie Wilson, but the vocal layering never quite gels. It feels very mash-up and less integrative than his previous application of this well-worn technique. Kanye fancies himself a pioneer and taste-maker, but his private and personal decisions of the last year prove he’s no visionary. Yeezus ain’t all that innovative. Kim is so over, and bathed in her low-budget, mainstream media-whore stank Kanye’s all but over too.
Home > Paris