Dear editors,
The biggest artist of the twenty-first century is a hedonist. It’s evident immediately in Kanye’s early albums—the compulsive consumerism of The College Dropout, the self-diagnosed afflictions on Late Registration. It should come as no surprise, then, that his art is all about sex—simply another vice alongside the bottles of Hennessy on “Diamonds From Sierra Leone” and Louis Vuitton jackets on “Last Call.”
My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy initiated a more nuanced view of sex. That view is, on one hand, something like art, presented through lush, somber compositions. On the other, it’s something primal, almost animalistic, brought about by brazen guitars and aggressive, unadorned passion. The dichotomy between these two ideas is jarring, both sonically and structurally: the drawn-out pianos of “’Runaway” smash-cut into abrasive guitars on “Hell of a Life.” The following album, Yeezus, attempts to throw out the romantic view entirely. Sex is raw, powerful, and lurks like a monster below the surface, threatening to derail decorum at a moment’s notice. And yet the romanticization of sex cannot be fully suppressed. It slips through the cracks as a church choir breaking apart an overbearing synth on “On Sight,” as a pained crooning in the midst of slow, heavy drums on “New Slaves.”
The Life of Pablo shifts away from the primal and back towards the romantic ideal. This seems well and good—the highs are euphoric—but the worship of sex as an idol leaves us unfulfilled. It engenders a disgust with the self, disgust with the state of the world, and worst of all, an apathy that makes sex no more interesting than those jackets and bottles of liquor. Maybe Kanye should just throw out sex entirely. This is what Jesus Is King and Donda attempt to do, replacing worldly gods with an actual one. Here, sex is almost always a false prophet, a distraction from what should truly be idolized and worshipped, an impediment to what truly brings about peace and joy.
If this is where Kanye’s beliefs concluded, you probably wouldn’t be reading this letter. After Kanye’s two most spiritually devout albums came his most grossly indulgent, Vultures 1, with his new wife naked on the cover. His views on sex went from ascetic to completely unrestrained–-all the album’s biggest hits (the self-evidently titled “FUK SUMN”, for example) feature sex as nothing more than ego appeasement. Now, Kanye’s lack of restraint has evidently moved past sex into a disgusting torrent of hate. It’s unlikely that any new Kanye album will ever present a construction of sex as anything other than pure gratification.
One of the most culturally important artists of the last twenty years made his albums all about sex. He can’t figure it out. What do we make of that?
What’s most striking is that every idea was perfectly adequate–temporarily. The flashy consumerist, the artistic venerator, the spiritual ascetic, the animalistic outcast—they all served a function. Ultimately, though, none could survive the scrutiny of the human ego. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy started to examine a paradox that every album after it tried to reconcile. Cliché as it may be, the answer to Kanye’s question might simply be found in his striving itself. The attempt to placate the desires of the self might be a futile task. “It’s all about sex” is a banality. What’s more interesting is what we should make of that truth. And what is most interesting—and what Kanye’s art and life so vividly portrays—is that maybe we shouldn’t even try.
Unambitiously,
Charlie Phelan
Image. Peter Hutchins, Kanye West @ Verizon Center, Washington, DC, 2013. CC 2.0.