![]() ![]() 2” is a collage of sped-up gospel samples, trap hi-hats, mumbled ad-libs, and a Daft Punk electro chorale. Kanye veers from Graduation-era synth-pop (“Highlights”) to squealing Yeezus-style industrial hip-hop (“Freestyle 4”) over the course of two songs, while the suite of “Father Stretch My Hands Pt. ![]() Kanye’s production work is as varied as it’s ever been, recklessly recasting his old sounds in a messy, digitized style reminiscent of Guided by Voices: simple compositions done up in lo-fi, lent power by their stitched-together nature. Some critics see The Life of Pablo as rap’s White Album, and there’s merit to that comparison. As competent as these verses are, though, it’s clear that Kanye’s actual rapping ability pales in comparison to his peers: Nothing here stands up to Lamar’s knotty spiritual narratives, Young Thug’s caterwauling unpredictability, or even Drake’s self-assured, straightforward boasts. Even the tossed-off, possibly improvised “I Love Kanye” is self-deprecating and light-heartedly humorous in a way that Kanye hasn’t been since Late Registration, a welcome reprieve from all his posturing and self-mythologizing. “Real Friends” is bitter but reasoned, an examination of the strains that fame and adulthood put on old friendships, and “No More Parties in L.A.” sees him stepping up his game to keep up with Kendrick Lamar’s unsurprisingly beastly verse. Meanwhile, the Future-ripping fashion-industry kiss-off “Facts (Charlie Heat Version)” is just a lot of tough talk from someone who just made the questionably accurate declaration that he’s $53 million in debt.īut there are plenty of moments where Kanye’s lyrical charm prevails. The infamous Taylor Swift line from “Famous” (“I feel like me and Taylor might still have sex/Why? I made that bitch famous”) is a lame shock tactic that lacks the social resonance of “George Bush doesn’t care about black people” or the brilliant stupidity of “Hurry up with my damn croissants,” a blight that overshadows the track’s impressive flipping of an Sister Nancy sample into a doo-wop bridge and its devastating chorus-to-verse key change. Perhaps that’s one explanation for why the entire affair perpetually threatens to devolve into self-parody. Right up until its contentious release, The Life of Pablo’s stable of songwriters and producers ballooned to the point where a writing credit from Drake (for “30 Hours”) didn’t elicit any surprise. But there’s an exhilaration to the way the album’s strange links between Kanye’s many iterations-soul-sample enthusiast, heartbroken Auto-Tune crooner, hedonistic avant-pop composer, industrial-rap shit-talker-coalesce into something uniquely powerful, if not sharply honed. Kanye West’s The Life of Pablo has all the feel of a college paper composed during an Adderall-fueled all-nighter: Shambolic, half-baked, and haphazardly executed, it’s rife with cringe-worthy leaps of the imagination and displays of bravado. ![]()
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