An Ode to Kanye West

A letter dedicated to the creative genius named Kanye Omari West

Originally published on March 16, 2016, in ’15-’16 Issue #5


 

To whom it may concern,

You remember July 4, 1776 as an historic day in American history, but surely second in importance to American citizens is June 8, 1977: the day Kanye Omari West was born. Introduced to the world in Atlanta, Georgia, this prodigal child rose to become this generation’s greatest artist. Throughout his lifetime, he has fulfilled his destiny to become the loudest and most provocative voice of the millennial generation.
Growing up, it was clear that school wasn’t for West. College chained West’s creative mind, and this beautiful bird exploded from its cage and flew free. In 2004, he became a “College Dropout,” releasing an album so full of soul that it brought the roots of black culture back to hip-hop. Otis Redding, Curtis Mayfield, and Al Green came back to life in his second album, “Late Registration,” which conducted full orchestras on hip-hop records than Leonard Bernstein ever could have.
Riding the wave of his rise to superstardom, West reached his inevitable “Graduation,” becoming stronger and stronger by 2007, as he united hip-hop heads with university punks and suburban moms, being one of very few rappers whose music could be played at both basement parties in Houston and eighth grade dances in Flemington, NJ.
In 2009, however, West’s winds grew turbulent. Tragedy struck when his mother passed away. Behind the veil of auto-tuned vocals, West screeched out his heartbroken soul on “808s and Heartbreak,” wearing his heart on the sleeve, bleeding into the grooves of the record.
But a genius cannot let his heart eat him from the inside out. In 2010, West learned to harness the full power of his emotions to his benefit. Like the phoenix that rises from the ashes, West embarked on a spiritual pilgrimage to Hawai’i, where long treks through the misty mountains of this island paradise inspired something deeper, older, and more beautiful within West himself. The release of “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” cemented West’s place in history, a project that can only be paralleled by Beethoven’s “Fifth Symphony” or Isaac Newton’s “Principia Mathematica.”
Coming off of his bold 2013 project, “Yeezus,” West produced an album of rock, gospel, pop, rap, and soul. Now thirty-eight years old, the man who is both a cultural icon and a father of two brings new insight into the life of a star on “The Life of Pablo.” Embodying the acclaim of history’s greatest painter, Pablo Picasso, “The Life of Pablo” is cubism in a bland, two-dimensional world.
The media refuses to recognize West’s undisputed grip on the music and fashion industries, demonizing his interactions with the irrelevant Taylor Swift, paparazzi, and the tabloids. They incite mass riots against this visionary, criticizing his artistry and outspoken nature. He is the people’s voice, but Fox News and MSNBC alike all want West’s head.
The true West-heads know that Kanye doesn’t care about what the haters say, and neither should we.
It is safe to say that it is obvious and widely known that the honorary Black Beatle, Mr. Kanye Omari West, is a titan in every facet of society and recognizes his influence in everything he touches.
Kanye West possesses a superior intellectual state which perplexes the most feeble-minded neanderthals who inhabit this desolate and soulless planet. Because of the corrupting and filthy nature of the media of the masses, chances are, you have paid more attention to his off-stage antics and his brazenly, outspoken, controversial celebrity feuds than to his music and clothes that are physical and consumable embodiments of his soul.
When you put on your headphones and sink into “Twisted Fantasy” or “Pablo,” you’re suddenly intertwined with West’s heart and body. No longer do you own your worldly possessions and worries; as the sound waves transduce down your auditory nerves, you are simply one hundred percent West. You were born in Atlanta. You completed elementary school in China. You made five beats a day for three summers while major record labels laughed at your rap demos. You rose to become Jay-Z’s prodigy, surpassing even him. You entered into the Kardashian dynasty. You became the closest approximation of a deity that any human being has ever, ever dared to attempt. You have soared as high as Icarus with fire-proof wings, reaching the heavens.
Steve Jobs, Versace, Shakira, Voltaire, Damn Daniel, the Medici Family, and Gandhi all collectively represent the cultural icons that have shaped and molded how we perceive ourselves, and the world around us.
Kanye West, in a similar vein, has shaped our souls. He is not a bipolar savant. He is completely aware of his artistic prowess and lyrical ferocity. He is completely aware of his trendsetting fashion and avant garde clothing line. He is completely aware of his genre-fluid discography and flawless production. He is completely aware that his Yeezy footwear has surpassed Jordans as the forefront of the shoe industry.
In the end, the haters don’t deserve the 140 characters they use to tweet profanities at this immortal man. Kanye West doesn’t need to keep arguing for his place in the textbooks.

He’s too busy writing history to read it.

Sincerely,
Alex Eng and Faraz Khan