Dear Kanye West,
I hope this finds you well, whatever your definition of that may be.
I’m writing to you in the wake of your most recent Twitter tirade, an
oddly compelling and frankly disturbing saga that has involved Wiz
Khalifa and the cost of textbooks in the US to Bill Cosby’s innocence
and your supposed $53-million “personal debt.”
I assumed that with the arrival of your son Saint and, more
importantly, that you now appear to command the attention of fashion’s
powers-that-be (despite the establishment’s overall skepticism toward
you and your lack of serious fashion cred), that you would, as the
youths say these days, “have more chill.” But everything you’ve said
online lately confirms that all is not well with you, Mr. Kim
Kardashian.
Let’s start with your “Yeezy Season 3.” I’m still figuring
out what’s more impressive: that you were able to cram thousands of
people into Madison Square Garden for the debut of your latest clothing
line and your new album, “The Life of Pablo,” or that the venue was big
enough to hold everyone and your ego.
Distasteful Inspiration
I also find the fact that a photo of a Rwandan refugee camp
served as both the invitation and inspiration for the show — if you must
call it that — about as tasteful as an Auschwitz-themed amusement park.
Moreover, your decision to plug your laptop into the sound system of
MSG to play your new tunes at an earsplitting volume was very derelicte of you.
If you really want to fulfill your dream of one day becoming the creative director of — cough —
Hermès like you told Anna Wintour, however, being known as the maker of
ugly-as-sh*t footwear and clothing isn’t the way to do it. Or maybe it
is. I don’t know anymore. I’m still confused as to why anyone would want
to buy your overpriced crap just to cosplay any character from Mad Max: Fury Road.
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Sigh. Every time your name comes up, I can’t help but think
of a meme that came out during the time you and Amber Rose were still a
thing. It features a kitten’s paw placed over a person’s hand and a
caption that read: “It’s time to stop posting.” (Appropriate af.) I
mean, you’ve asked “white publications” such as Pitchfork and the New York Times
not to comment on “black music” anymore, but then you’ve also begged
Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg for help to the tune of $1 billion. Listen,
if you can afford to buy “furs and houses” for your family, perhaps you
should funnel some of those funds into your so-called art instead. That
is, only if you’re truly serious about it.
What happened to the old Kanye who made music without the
bullsh*t theatrics and the social media melodrama, the Kanye who
reworked old soul records with the playfulness of a kid who gleefully
spun 33s at 45 rpm? I was your fan from “The College Dropout” until
“808s & Heartbreak.” I secretly smiled when a random stranger at a
mall in Pasadena called me “Kanye” since I turned up the collar of my
Brooks Brothers rugby shirt that day, yes, in your honor. I even bought
goddamn shutter shades because you made them so goddamn popular. Then
you gave in and believed your own hype and you lost me after that —
forever. I didn’t even bother to illegally download your subsequent
albums.
Now I see you more as a joke, a self-centered quack who
fancies himself a revolutionary artist, a caricature of someone who is
dying to be taken seriously but is failing at it. You rail that people
don’t understand what it means to be the great grandson of ex-slaves and
“make it this far,” yet you seem to be doing your ancestors a great
disservice with your repetitive, vulgar and often nonsensical
declarations of your own vision, genius and god-like attributes. You had
me fooled before but I’m not buying it, not anymore. You are the
embodiment of The Emperor’s New Clothes and someone needs to tell you that, unfortunately, you’re not all that. Kendrick Lamar is so much better than you.
Cheers,
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