Art of eccentricity

Kanye West might have an ego the size of the solar system and serious delusions of deity status — the modest megastar appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone wearing a crown of thorns and called his last album Yeezus — but even he wouldn’t dare remix the Bible.

A US retailer published The Book Of Yeezus: A Bible For The Modern Day, in which every mention of God has been changed to the rapper’s name. The chipmunk-cheeked megalomaniac himself is yet to comment, but you’d imagine he strongly approves. As he says: “God chose me. He made a path for me. I am God’s vessel. But my greatest pain in life is that I will never be able to see myself perform live.”

The ‘bad’ boy image

Let that sink in for a moment: the thing that makes Kanye saddest is that he can’t stump up good money to spend several hours in a stadium paying homage to himself. The heart bleeds.

The odd arrogant lyric aside, we got our first real clues as to the scale of his berkitude in 2009 when Kanye announced that henceforth, he wanted to be addressed as “Martin Louis the King Junior”. It didn’t catch on. Later that year, he shot to mainstream notoriety with his stage invasion at the MTV awards. Taylor Swift had just beaten Beyoncé to a gong and, hopped up on Hennessy Cognac and self-importance, Kanye wasn’t having it.

As gawky teenager Swift made her gushing acceptance speech, Kanye lurched up like a bling Brandon Block, snatched the mic and slurred the immortal words: “Yo Taylor, Imma left you finish but Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time!” It was rude and roundly booed. Beyoncé cringed, clearly mouthing “Oh, Kanye” when cameras cut to her. Kanye eventually apologised — only to later retract, claiming the apology was down to “peer pressure” and he wasn’t sorry really.

Kanye’s not what you’d call modest, routinely making statements such as: “I am Picasso. I am Michelangelo. I am Basquiat, Warhol, Shakespeare in the flesh, Walt Disney. I’m the Steve Jobs of the internet, downtown, fashion, culture”. He’s called himself “the world’s most credible person”, “a superhero”, “the nucleus”, “dedicated to complete awesomeness”, “in the business of trying to make dope shit for the world”.

Two of my personal favourite bon mots are “I’ve reached a point in life where my Truman Show boat has hit the painting” and “I represent the regular dude who believes in God but still likes pussy.” Hey, don’t we all?

He’s opened restaurants, launched ropy fashion lines and inspired a crypto-currency called “Coinye West”. Headlining 2011’s Big Chill festival, he even identified with the ever-popular Führer, announcing: “I walk down the street and people look at me like I’m insane, like I’m Hitler.” Way to harsh the crowd’s mellow, mate.

Over on Twitter, meanwhile, he regales his 12 million followers with self-pitying, perspective-free humblebrags such as: “What do I have to do to get a simple Persian rug with cherub imagery?”, “It’s super lonely to buy yourself a Cartier love bracelet” and “Fur pillows are hard to actually sleep on”. He’s equated celebrities to black people in 60s America, calling them “a minority” subject to “discrimination” and “inequality”.

Then there’s the media circus of his marriage to reality-TV star Kim Kardashian. They’re the US Posh and Becks but without the class or intellectual gravitas. He might appear on red carpets and in ceaseless selfies, but Kanye looks permanently under duress. There are whole “Sad Kanye” websites dedicated to his miserable demeanour. It’s probably just his mournful resting face — all jowls and glassy eyes, like a bereaved hamster or a spaniel with mumps — but it hardly helps him get taken seriously.

Self-proclaimed icon

Just when I think Kanye couldn’t be much more of a wally, another story emerges — a pompous video, an attack on a paparazzi, a self-aggrandising pronouncement — and the preposto-legend grows. At the same time, I’m strangely obsessed. Partly because his music is so damn good.

At the turn of the millennium, Kanye was a sought-after but relatively low-profile producer from Chicago. A hip-hop knob-twiddler and hit-writer of growing repute, destined to stay behind-the-scenes because he didn’t fit the gangsta template of the era. A near-fatal car crash nudged him to finally release a record of his own. The result, The College Dropout, sold 4 million copies and won a Grammy. Its first single, “Through The Wire”, was recorded with his shattered jaw still wired shut from the accident.

His five albums since — three or arguably four of which are bona fide brilliant — are staggeringly inventive. Tunes like “Gold Digger”, “Diamonds From Sierra Leone”, “Jesus Walks”, “Stronger, Runaway”, “Niggas In Paris”, “Flashing Lights” and “Love Lockdown” are stone-cold classics. He’s not just outrageously gifted, switching from rapping to singing, stripped-back slow jams to baroque maximalism, but a smart trend-spotter — adept at choosing the right collaborators at the right time, like Bowie or Madonna in their prime.
I wouldn’t want to go for a pint with him — he probably wouldn’t know what a pint was and his miserable mush would put you right off your beer — yet I’m glad Kanye exists. Pop culture needs him and his gloriously insane ilk. In a musical landscape dominated by nice-but-dull unit-shifters — Ed Sheeran, Sam Smith, Coldplay’s Chris Martin, Mumford & Sonzzzz, sorry, I nodded off typing that list — we need stars like Kanye.

There’s something old-skool about him. He’s an Elton, a Hendrix, a Prince or Wacko Jacko for the iTunes generation. Wilfully eccentric, larger-than-life, happy to make a total tool out of himself. Pop should be a bit daft: a heady cocktail of hit songs, high fashion, flamboyant showmanship and outrageous interviews. In an increasingly grey industry of manufactured acts, media training, PR-controlled access and paralysing fear of causing controversy, combative characters like Kanye go off-piste, keep it unpredictable and prevent pop becoming joylessly boring. That’s why the Glasto protestors have got it so wrong. Kanye’s more rock’n’roll than most guitar bands could ever be.

So see you down the front of the Pyramid Stage on June 27. I’ll be the jackass quoting from the Book Of Yeezus. Believing in God but still, if you will, liking pussy. Who’s with me? Imma let you finish but it promises to be one of the most compelling headline sets of all time. Not least due to the sight of Kim Kardashian tottering around backstage, trying not to get her stilettos muddy and wrinkling her nose at the latrines.