Review Summary: Step up in this bitch like:
Swish, er wait, Waves, er no, The Life of Pablo, yeah, but uh, the first version -- as in the pre-month-afterward-addition-of-"Frank's Song"-and-other-play-obsessive-trivial-tinkerings edition, aka the 18-track one rather than that once-projected 12-track one (or was it 11?). So yeah, it's accordingly disheveled and erratic to the point where it may literally still be unfinished, scrappy scraps rub shoulders with some of Ye's most cogent-n-genuine production-n-bars yet, hyped emergence-from-the-shadows cameos from Andre 3K and Frank Ocean seem intentionally wasted via mere titular murmur and deserted+dejected finis-fragment, respectively. And while haters bitch the day away about the glaring lack of focus and perfectionism, I'm left a) wondering why that was ever expected given the loony development of this patchwork from the get-go, and b) charmed and stimulated by its instability.
The oh-so-Kanye synthesis of celebratory playfulness, staid introspection, questionable quirk and whacked-out 'what the's is in full and radiant effect compared to the detached try-hard tantrum that was Yeezus -- and as suggested from the initiatory sermonizing small-fry/r&b cooers/gospel-ridden God-dreams/beautiful-morning proclamations being gaily undercut by the potential peril of a model's bleached asshole tarnishing his t-shirt mid-fvck, this sees outright trolling being added to that list. He utilizes intermissions for uber-self-aware a-cappella hilarity and told-you-so phone-call consent from an imprisoned wave-man, elatedly mistreats a lengthy portion of an elite beat via stammerin' and ad-libs, formulates an invasive wake-up call out of sharp+squealin' feedback and titles it "Feedback".
And while the multifarious curves and crevices leave plenty to puzzle over -- zombie-eyed ghost girls and impulsive beat-cripplings serving as cryptic outro-chunks, b-movie wolf-cries portraying bothersome fam-hounders, Street Fighter II voice-borrows promulgating perfection, a fanatical ghetto-Oprah poppin' in to offer prizes for no reason whatsoever -- unadulterated surface-level satisfaction still runs rampant: "Waves" busting down the comparably-beefed up second half's door with turnt-up heaven's-gate squawk-pop, the feel-good congregational free-for-all of "Highlights", Rihanna's hook-magic and "Bam Bam"-sample divulgence of "Famous" leading you out of a pseudo-pious beam-light trio and into the ensuing driftless depths.
The iPhone ringtone/answered phone call that (thankfully?) interrupts the meandering of "30 Hours" speaks volumes -- sure, he willingly cements a guaranteed-to-become-dated piece of contempo annoyance fluke into his self-touted opulent opus, but it's also slyly prefaced with the utterance of "the media be at me like…". Indecisive and mischievous as this album comes off, deep down the guy knows what he's doing; and when it's on top of a beat that could actually go on for 30 hours without a hitch, meandering ain't too bad either. Not that I'd listen to the album for 30 hours, but one certainly does me fine.
