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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Tuesday, November 23   >>


Kanye West is exceptionally talented. Not exclusively because of his rhymes, or his tenacity with media, or his off-stage persona, or his high-end girlfriends, or because of all the other external and stupid shit that people usually pay attention to, like him being a total dickbag to that hot blonde with the great ass who sings about princesses and shit.

He's talented because he is an artist who knows the concept of "concept," the intent of an album in its traditional form, and recognizes how vital having a laser-focused aesthetic is in achieving true success in making an LP. But he isn't the only one. West is one of thousands who can, really. He's just of the more famous ones.

I've heard My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy some 3 times today and it's pretty terrifying. And sad. It's a scarily open and honest invitation into West's sickest (as in "damaged" as opposed to "perverse") portions of his psyche. One thing that people (and often critics) overlook is how difficult it is to communicate anything--yes, anything in its purest form--in an album. West does this and often does this in all his channels, whether on stage or on album. Most people often reduce this to "energy," but it's really sincerity mixed with musical talent.

But is it perfect? Fuck no. Pitchfork can lick my balls. Did you count the cultural references in their review? Good god, it may have well been an obituary.

On the realz, it's good because it sounds fucking scary, and desolate, and that's the product of a truly tormented period in one's life mixed with the ability to make songs without thinking about money. That's all you needed to say, Pitchfork. Really.