Over the course of the past handful of years, amidst omnipresent public faux-pas and the inflation of an ego now approximately the size of Mexico
Kanye West has come up with enough obscenity to have Bizarre Magazine repenting its every lude remark. And with next to no audio output to obfuscate such ridiculed nonchalance, he's a figure irrevocably reviled, and reviled with reason. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, the fifth studio LP from Mr. West, extravagantly adorned with a series of sleeve artwork portraits (that seen above suitably the most grotesque) is, bemusingly, something of a return to the glory years of Kanye's allegorical college education. Harking back to days spent kicking dirt in ambitious recesses of his mind in an oversized fluffy mascot suit in place of ranting and raving at Taylor Swift et al. from atop his pedestal, spitting down at the country bumpkin, dribbling down from the upper echelons between Swarovski-encrusted Nike hi-tops opener Dark Fantasy swirls enchantingly about autotuned prose, yes, prose, delivered by Nicki Minaj before an operatic sense of euphoria reminiscent of N-Dubz' grubby Camden Lock crunk-rock flourishes. Witty lyricisms of West as the King of Leon-a-Lewis, comparing the previous X Factor ch(a/u)mp to a "fat booty Celine Dion" and ubiquitous sports car reference ought to have Cowell taking notes for his 'constructive' criticism dished out on the deluded pseudo-stars of reality TV's grimmest reality weekly, whilst Gorgeous sees West rope in cronies Kid Kudi and Raekwon to somewhat superfluously spit over a Motown guitar line girded with a steely glam sheen. We
frothed a little at Power earlier on in the year, and
scratched foreheads until splattered in crimson blood when Monster emerged amidst a collaboration list half the length of many a thesis, before the frenetic pop ascendency of All Of The Lights mops up any unwanted bodily substance with a synthetic horn fanfare that'll ring in a certain royal matrimony, if Prince Harry were to drunkenly stumble behind the Elton John-endorsed iPod at the reception...
So Appalled, perhaps the exasperated reaction of Tesco shelf stackers the length of the country when lining checkouts with My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy writhes in a menacing sense of vacuous melancholy, and features Jay-Z reciting the line "all of y'all can suck my balls through my drawers" which, whilst again quite a repulsive image to behold, is as intriguing as West's blasé rants on micro-blogging, technology and humanity in general. Devil In A New Dress sounds like a recovered artifact from J. Dilla's revered tapedeck, and sees West crooning, freed from the shackles of Antares Audio Technologies etc. Runaway, almost biblical in length sees minimal production delving deep into the fragility of West's insecurity, stripped back and resplendent. A toast to the "jerk-offs that'd never take work off" that's sonically akin to hip hop heartbreak, and the centrifugal force behind a quite inexplicable, unexpectedly superlative record. Hell Of A Life is a return to more trodden, stodgy ground however, boasting of Oscar day dresses in self-congratulatory revelry, reminiscent of
Tinie Tempah's obsession with shiny things and buxom things, West pronouncing his renouncement of drugs in favour of porn star fornication and divine intervention, before Blame Game sees John Legend return to grand piano tinkling and chorus warbles after his
brief stint as a nomad in the wearied lands of dubstep. Predictable chat show strops and vindictive diatribes aside, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy may be his exhaustive magnum opus, his explicit pièce de résistance, his Gospel of modernity. Seems the post-grad finally landed a fairly first-classed degree...
