why i care about kanye west

Firstly, I care about Kanye West because I think hero worship is funny in its weirdly excessive self-deprecation and apparently other people do too so I feed into that. Secondly and more pointedly, though, I care about Kanye West because he’s the one figure in all of hip-hop that’s been able to snag the elusive term of “genius” without letting it turn him (completely) into a joke or a caricature. Sure, 2Pac is a genius – a thug genius.  Jay-Z’s a genius too – but a business genius. Kanye’s managed to take that term and force the general public to come to terms with, if not the certainty, then at least the looming and very probable possibility that he’s a genius on a creative and musical level.  It doesn’t really matter if he is or not to anyone who isn’t invested in his music. It only matters that he’s defiantly shouldered his way into the center of that discussion (either in spite of or because of his antics).  

Kanye West is the type of rare artist that’s somehow managed to part humanity into two polarized sides on every aspect of his personality like Moses did the Red Sea: or, at least, everything but his music.  That, we’ve somewhat grudgingly conceded, he’s got covered (easy to forget in the wake of Drake and Kendrick Lamar’s ascendances and subsequent warring for the metaphorical throne of hip-hop that My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy was one of the most unanimously and immediately praised hip-hop albums in the genre’s history, and that came after all of the amazing shit he did before it that I could write and have written about for thousands of words).  That’s also why Yeezus won’t ever be one of my favorite Kanye albums, because it finally permitted Kanye’s polarizing nature extend to his music in a way it hadn’t before (Watch the Throne and Cruel Summer were big steps in that direction, but breaking the string of universally praised Kanye solo albums is a big deal), in the process shattering Kanye’s final and most fundamental barrier from public ridicule.  

I’m doubtful that the recently strengthening tides against Kanye (71% unfavorable, according to Rasmussen) have the Kardashian clan to thank as the proverbial straws that broke the camel’s back.  In my mind, it’s because Kanye’s finally showing cracks in the unassailable helm of “creative genius” that he wore so proudly for a decade.  And thirdly, that’s why I care so much about Kanye – because if Kanye isn’t a genius anymore, whether because he’s actually making worse music or because the public has decided that Kim Kardashian and/or his consistent barrage of shockingly, incredibly, unbelievably dumb declarations in the media, that means that hip-hop is having to stake its reputation (and potentially its hopes of ever shedding its primary status as a shallow music form) on the likes of the afore-mentioned Kendrick and Drake.

Yeah, I know and you probably know that hip-hop is more than that, and I know and you probably know that Kendrick and Drake are both generational talents who are very potentially capable of transforming and shaping a genre like Kanye before them. But that’s beyond the point, because most of the public doesn’t. Drake is the guy who raps about girls who don’t love him back and calling them at 5AM, and Kendrick is the new guy who raps about swimming pools and really deep shit about the hood in some order.  Kanye had built up a reputation with critical and public acclaim – not one that Drake and Kendrick can’t build, but one that they haven’t just yet.

So that means that in the wake of Kanye meticulously self-destructing every facet of his public reputation, hip-hop has to hope that someone can step up and grab that “genius” mantle, because especially in the wake of this kind of over-generalizing, stereotyping, predetermined-narrative-searching bullshit, hip-hop needs a figure that can be taken seriously outside of its own bubble.  And it doesn’t look like Kanye can be that person anymore. 

Now go listen to the best Kanye song and remember why he’s one of the most singular talents hip-hop will ever have.

1. pusha t - "nosetalgia feat. kendrick lamar (prod. nottz & kanye west)"

Over the last twenty days of December (and obviously 2013), I’ll be writing about my favorite twenty albums and songs of the year, one a day.  Not best. Not most influential.  Not most likely to land on a Complex slideshow.  Just my favorite, ranked in order.

1. pusha t – “nosetalgia feat. kendrick lamar (prod. nottz & kanye west)”

On an album that embraced minimalism as a way of life, “Nosetalgia” stands head and shoulders above the rest as the purest manifestation of the album’s “Rick Rubin on steroids” mantra.  It’s as bare-bones as a hip-hop song gets, relying on about six different drum and sample sounds to lurch it along, and there’s no mistake where the spotlight’s turned: towards the mic.  On a superficial level, it’s excellent simply as a glass display case for two of the best rappers alive; Nottz and Kanye’s stretched-out horns and subdued drums certainly leave enough space between drums and rattles for Pusha T and Kendrick Lamar to flex.  We could leave it there – it’s just two incredibly talented rappers clearing the table off, sitting down, and rhyming.  

But that’s not all.  Kendrick plays the windowpane-peering Nas to Pusha’s Jay-Z stunningly well, each taking up two different roles and lenses to view the cocaine trade through.  While Pusha was “crack in the school zone/two beepers on me, starter jacket that was two-toned,” Kendrick’s “daddy turned a quarter piece to a four and a half/Took a L, started selling soap fiends bubble bath.”  They’re at odds by the very nature of the parts they play, but “Nosetalgia” doesn’t pit the two rappers against each other: the song isn’t accusatory towards any side, and it’s not a platform for either to level shots.  Instead, the aggression and intensity bleeds through the lines and snarls, letting the verses serve as testimonials to be taken and absorbed.

For any other rapper, Kendrick’s turn on “Nosetalgia” would be a career-high.  It’s telling that for him, it’s just another clip in a highlight reel of a year full of song-throttlers: Big Sean’s “Control”, Tech N9ne’s “Fragile”, Fredo Santana’s “Jealous.”  It’s not as in-your-face as the verse that most might name as his biggest contribution this year (here, Kendrick at least refrains from calling out his peers), but it burrows into your brain just as well.  While “Control” saw Kendrick tossing out a flurry of references and threats, he’s paradoxically both more restrained and animated here.  Halfway through his verse, right before he segues into a conversation with his father in which he raps both sides: “And nine times out of ten, niggas don’t pay attention/And when there’s tension in the air, nines come with extensions.” Kendrick’s not as grizzled as Pusha, and maybe he doesn’t have the same type of resume to flaunt, but when it comes to backdoor meaning unveilings and crafting unforgettable images, well, he’s virtually unparalleled.  King Kendrick.

good kid, m.A.A.d city - kendrick lamar

good kid, m.A.A.d city opens with a prayer over a haunting synth, layered vocal samples and a short bassline, and Kendrick Lamar doesn’t say his first word on the album for over a minute.  In some ways, it’s much like his opening tracks on his past two albums, but “Sherane a.k.a. Master Splinter’s Daughter” is decidedly different.  Whereas before Kendrick had opted for quick jazzy chord progressions and a panicked, almost angry flow on “The Heart Pt. 2” and “Fuck Your Ethnicity,” the emotionless delivery that Kendrick adopts on “Sherane” is striking.  Here, he’s weaving a mesmerizing story of helpless seduction, rather than a Lupe-esque preaching session.  In that aspect, good kid, m.A.A.d city is most likely the most decidedly polished project that the Compton-hailing rapper has ever released.  #Section.80 might have the piano swirls and brash horns, but good kid, m.A.A.d city is a stunningly compelling concept album that rivals the likes of the genre’s best.

The story that Kendrick tells throughout good kid, m.A.A.d city is, quite literally, the story of a good kid in a mad city, driven to crime through the pressures of his friends and the violence that surrounds him.  At times, the narrative seems to lose steam, such as with radio-player “Swimming Pools (Drank),” but for the most part it’s a fast-paced story that keeps the album moving.  The skits that close most of the songs are excellent: minimally written and well-acted.

Kendrick Lamar has always been regarded as one of the foremost upcoming lyricists in hip-hop, and with the added personal dimension that the story behind good kid, m.A.A.d city brings to the table, he may just be one of the most singularly talented rappers alive.  He never displays the level of rawness that labelmate Ab-Soul does on songs like his “The Book of Soul,” but Kendrick’s usage of cadence and versatility within his delivery is something that few can match - Kendrick has a masterful sense of emphasis, even when he’s being simple, like in the third verse of “The Art of Peer Pressure” when he raps, “We made a right, then made a left then made a right, then made a left, we was just circling life.“

Halle Berry, or hallelujah - pick your poison tell me what you do, everybody gon’ respect the shooter, but the one in front of the gun lives forever.

But it’s been evident for years that what Kendrick lacked in pure emotional substance, he more than made up through pure technical talent.  good kid, m.A.A.d city, however, deals with far more powerful subjects: gang violence, corruption, drugs, alcohol, money.  The production on good kid, m.A.A.d city falters compared to the excellent in-house production on #Section.80, but with a rapper as purely talented as Kendrick, the best production is often the type exhibited on “Sing About Me”: jazzy, driven by piano chords with a backing drum track.  At times, Kendrick sounds legitimately exhausted: his normally hyperactive delivery lagging behind the beat, his voice scratchy and out of breath.  It’s a talent that rappers like Game have been trying to develop properly for years.  There’s room for improvement, but Kendrick’s finally taken that step from rapping about personal experience to broader, more hard-hitting subjects.

But, although Kendrick has taken huge strides artistically, good kid, m.A.A.d city is (unsurprisingly) not perfect.  Despite the impressive producer list that was behind the boards for Kendrick’s debut (including Hit-Boy, Pharrell, Scoop DeVille, and Just Blaze, among others), it’s lacking compared to both these producers’ previous works and to Kendrick’s previous album.  Throughout Hit-Boy’s contribution (“Backseat Freestyle”), there’s a sense that the beat never drops: it never has the frantic urgency of Kanye West and Jay-Z’s “Niggas in Paris,” or the buzz of A$AP Rocky’s “Goldie.”  Pharrell-produced “good kid” is a significant departure from Pharrell’s synth-heavy instrumentals, and Just Blaze’s “Compton” never comes close to the grandiosity of Drake and Rick Ross’s “Lord Knows.”  But what might be good kid, m.A.A.d city’s most striking flaw is Kendrick’s surprising reliance on gimmicky voice filters, given his absurd talent at rapping.  When utilized well, it’s impressive (as in pre-album release “Cartoon & Cereal”), but when Kendrick starts rapping in a high-pitched, agitated voice that he declares as his conscience speaking in “Swimming Pools (Drank),” it might be too much.

good kid, m.A.A.d city is one of the most impressive city-themed albums in recent memory.  It’s a hauntingly helpless, ever-so-slightly hopeful depiction of life in one of the most notorious cities in America: Compton, CA.  Kendrick’s remarkable versatility is on full display, as he goes from pronouncing “I pray my dick get big as the Eiffel Tower, so I can fuck the world for 72 hours” on “Backseat Freestyle” to brooding on the effects of the culture around him on “The Art of Peer Pressure,” when he raps “Rush a nigga quick and then we laugh about it - that’s ironic ‘cause I’ve never been violent, until I’m with the homies.”  good kid, m.A.A.d city certainly stands out for its musical excellence, but that’s not all.

It exemplifies the third step in the natural progression of hip-hop: from a chronicling of the greatness of life on the streets (Jay-Z’s “Reasonable Doubt,” for example), to a move toward the 9-5 working man (Kanye West’s “College Dropout”), to now good kid, m.A.A.d city: a musically underground but mainstream-backed, emotionally volatile portrayal of the terrors of the streets.  It’s not as lyrically groundbreaking as Nas’s Illmatic or poignant as Blu & Exile’sBelow the Heavens, or as influential as 50 Cent’s Get Rich or Die Tryin’.  But it comes at an important time in hip-hop and American culture, when a rapper like Kendrick Lamar is being thrust into a mainstream dominated by the “fuck bitches get money” attitude of Big Sean and Meek Mill.  As cliché as it is, Kendrick Lamar may just represent the future of hip-hop.  Act and listen accordingly.

10/21/12.