And it's these songs that fail to go anywhere (So Appalled and Gorgeous, for instance) and a few clunky rhymes which could very well create an Emperor's New Clothes scenario as the grandiose gloss decays over time. In fact, this record’s only flaw is that its scale is so awe-inspiring it tends to paper over any weaker cracks. With an Auto-Tuned Justin Vernon of Bon Iver and a closing sample from Gil Scott-Heron's Comment #1, it is to be heard to be believed. It's on the heartrending conclusion of Lost in the World that West cements his vision and paints a sonic world to call his own. This is until, sadly, Chris Rock ruins it with an ill-placed skit.
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Yet it's the closing tracks that seal the deal, as the beautiful Blame Game – aided by a sublimely smooth John Legend – sees Kanye’s alpha-male bravado in full force before succumbing to the realities of heartbreak that would have any man breaking down in pleas of "I can’t love you this much, I can’t love you this much". Runaway sees Yeezy toasting to the "douchebags" - including himself – over a nine-minute trip-hop voyage through self-disparagement, All of the Lights recruits half of the musical world in a war between brass and drum'n'bass while Nicki Minaj's verse on Monster is liable to torment the mind and shatter the bowels. Don't let the reported $3 million price tag and plethora of A-list guest spots fool you, this is no vacuous shell, for its depth, detail, ideas and sheer scope of vision is staggering – all the while remaining lyrically honest, earnest, conflicting and – at times – fairly ridiculous. Yet it appears one benefit of tearing your mind apart is being able to put it back together better than before, for this album really is something special – something that scales heights of ambition barely touched not only by his previous work, but by 2010 in general. One thing's for sure, dark days have been had. However, it's a darker form of self-deprecating madness which drives the majority of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy – the kind the only comes from losing love, experiencing death and being branded as the "abomination of Obama's nation" as he insists on the brilliantly pompous Power, right before contemplating suicide. Of course, some of this supposed insanity is nothing but self-mocking egomania. For in a genre whose death is declared on a regular basis, West has become three things: interesting, innovative and utterly, utterly mad. In this day and age most artists are other artists: their lyrics someone else's clichés, their careers an imitation, their passions a mere reference.
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