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| by kenn on 8/27/2005 09:45:00 PM |
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Late Review: Kanye West
Source:
Kanye West's debut album, The College Dropout, was a masterpiece. It deservedly won the Grammy for best rap album last year, one of three Grammys the hip hop renaissance man pocketed that night. (Another was for his production work on Alicia Keys's 'You Don't Know My Name'.)
The path to those Grammys took in some dramatic scenery. Knocked back as a rapper, West's dextrous production skills were put to excellent use by Jay-Z. Finally signed as a vocalist, a serious car crash nearly derailed West's ambitions. In hospital, with his jaw wired shut, he rapped his first hit, 'Through the Wire'.
The College Dropout might not have sold the multiple millions of copies that pop thugs such as 50 Cent habitually shift, but it immediately catapulted West into hip hop's creative elite. He is one of a handful of so-called urban artists (OutKast, Missy Elliott, Timbaland and the Neptunes join him) who combine radical innovation and wit with dancefloor-buckling nous. West's lyrics are a particular treat, casting a wry eye on the black experience.
The sense of expectation for Dropout's successor, then, is vertiginously high, buoyed by West's boundless faith in his own abilities, one he articulates loudly and often. Modesty isn't something that comes naturally to rappers, but Late Registration proves that West is as good as his word.
As ever, the producer-cum-rapper has one ear tuned to the bass bins reverberating in the cars in the Projects and one ear tuned to posterity. There are guests from outside hip hop and a phalanx of rap cameos, but one figure stands out. Joining Kanye in the producer's booth is arranger and film soundtracker Jon Brion, who was behind Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, who harnesses string sections and live orchestras in the service of Kanye's soul samples, gospel choirs and audacious beats. Indeed, there are moments here where it feels like West is aiming to be nothing less than the Brian Wilson of hip hop.
Tracks like the giddy 'Celebration' or 'Bring Me Down', which features Brandy and might be a single next year, are out-and-out pop songs, but rich with complex eddies of sound. String sections are normally the last refuge of the unimaginative artist looking for a cheap, classy fix, but West is better than that, never doing the obvious where he can aim higher. The album's lead single, 'Diamonds From Sierra Leone', didn't just loop a Shirley Bassey sample, it built lush arrangements around it.
Hip hop now abounds with West-copyists who speed up soul samples (a trick he first deployed for Jay-Z). West has responded by cutting out the Minnie Mouse-on-helium hooks. The vast majority of his samples and sung hooks here are rich and male, as on 'My Way Home' which plays on Gil Scott-Heron's 'Home is Where the Hatred is'. Forthcoming single 'Gold Digger' even sees actor Jamie Foxx playing Ray Charles, as he did in the Charles biopic. Every track swims confidently in a fertile bath of old soul and state-of-the-art studio mastery.
West also knows when to hold back. Not every track is florid. 'Gold Digger' is deliriously straight up and bouncy. And West even ropes in his old rival, Just Blaze, to engineer 'Touch the Sky', a jubilant moment ('I think I died in the accident 'cos this must be heaven,' West sings). Jay-Z turns up for a verse on the remix of 'Diamonds From Sierra Leone', after Kanye has tackled the deep ironies of rich African-Americans blinging out on the suffering of Africans.
As with his debut, West plays up the struggle between conscience and covetousness, the pop mainstream and what can be achieved within the notional boundaries of hip hop. The only thing that really threatens to derail West's terrific strike rate is 'Hey Mama', a good tune whose gushing mother-love contrasts badly with the lyrical tensions elsewhere.
And where College Dropout was cheeky, West's comfy pillow made of laurels means Late Registration can sound a bit smug. Fortunately, though, this album is another high benchmark for hip hop; West has every right to sing his own praises.
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