Rooftrampler92

My Parachutes always lasted 5 minutes and 10, and well, I’m a victim of download.

*brief interlude

The review leaves much to be desired, and listen to this record again, Don't Panic and We Never Change are among the best. And then, I mean, calling the interlude Parachutes that lasts over 5 minutes, come on, either you haven't really listened to it much or you've only listened to the singles.

I started it yesterday, not bad at all. It seems to have a lot of Cave, but I'm not very familiar with the Swans to make certain parallels.

And luckily there are those who say to leave hip hop to the blacks...

Regardless of Doo Bop, jazz is a fundamental component of black music just as blues is; hip hop is a consequence of funk, and funk is born from rhythm and blues and soul, which in turn is the offspring of jazz, those insignificant black bastards, the ones from Kind of Blue, from Somethin' Else.

What you say is not far from the truth; the flaw in criticism lies in idolizing an album beyond its actual artistic dimensions, and this happens when the critics are people with such a strong ego that, for the love of themselves and as emancipated, snobbish journalists, they declare an album good as a masterpiece of the modern age. Pitchfork's rating seemed to me nothing short of exaggerated, as did Rolling Stone and many others. To me, it remains a solid album; regarding West as a person, I don’t think his materialistic hyperbole as a cool, megalomaniac with a hot girlfriend brings him any peace within himself. For me, there is no man who doesn’t struggle with his own image, especially if he does everything to exaggerate it, and I enjoy West's album precisely for this reason, because it splits in two the reality of things: the image of West and the little man West.

I don't see why one should overdo it with adjectives like "dirty": the album is highly polished, it's actually excessively so and intentionally so. It certainly doesn't have the sobriety of its predecessor because it's flashy and "luxurious," but to call it dirty is a bit out of place. Nor does psychedelic seem like an appropriate descriptor for an album that's truly not expansive and makes detail a reason for being, especially when talking about rap vocals, which, a hundred percent of the time, are quite grounded. Rather, one gets the feeling of something surreal, but that's because we are faced with a caricatured album, somewhat grotesque even. I don't understand those who say that criticism has sold out or things like that; the album has an artistic verve that few in the hip hop scene possess. The return to gangster sounds ridiculous; the album extols the empire of image and appearance, loading it up to the point of exhaustion, with girls, sex, money, luxury cars, penthouse dinners, and all that one can afford when one ultimately struggles to coexist with their own image—a classic love/hate split, between narcissism and regret.

This album is therapeutic for me; it always keeps me more in touch with reality.

But more than anything, Little, that baroque style was me expressing myself. Just say that Kanye is a megalomaniac narcissist who loves luxury, and that might make it more understandable. I even went so far as to buy the limited edition, and more than an album, it resembles the Palace of Versailles with its celebratory sexual parties.