Pushed back and back again, Vultures has dropped rather unceremoniously onto streaming platforms. Kanye West’s latest stares down the long-running controversies and spiralling state of Ye’s online and offline presence. His wilder attitudes and worse comments are still etched into the minds of many and little is done to address this in this first volume, an ambitious claim of three for a man who moved the release date repeatedly. Despite being in tune with those controversial claims here or there, West does little to deliver a decent rebuttal, merely doubling down on what landed him in hot water in the first place. Beyond that, the music just isn’t up to scratch. West sounds like a faded piece of formerly world-beating culture. We are far away from Graduation now.
Regardless of the glaring issues of public life, Vultures offers little for the Kanye faithful. Flat and goading works which lack the mixing calibre we should expect of a man held in such high regard. Keys to My Life is a shock for West, cucked by a Papa John’s eating stranger but moving on to the grief following the death of his mother, Donda. As firm as the lyrics may be in places, the collaboration with a dull Ty Dolla Sign and some messy mixing stops this from hitting as hard as it should. West has wrapped his burning desires and everyday comments, the moving groove found in the strings and vocal isolation of this first track, around a jittering, almost random, collection of electronic spikes. “I’m just here to get paid,” Ty Dolla Sign repeats on Paid. Yes, this is apparent.
Back to Me ties West to Family Matters character Urkel. West heads away from a sharp lyrical range to sexualised simplicity, there for the gratification of a man who has lost his touch. Hoodrat showcases this best of all. Its repetitive title drafted in as a foundation for West to delve into his doubled-down religious thoughts, though they sound of no interest and instead the occasional, unhinged screech and slur is thrown in. West used to make music moved by his ranged feelings, but when a man loses his Nike partnership and starts hanging around Elon Musk, he can only react to his surroundings. Our surroundings are the sum of our work, and for West, it means he has angled himself as a chance to be an alternate without committing yourself to anything of real action. Flickers of quality can be found on Burn, the neat instrumentals underlined by some rare, slick verses from West. It is a short-lived moment, nothing more.
Do It may be an indicator of the troubles West now faces. He is allegedly well-moneyed but is searching for a new persona. He has yet to find it and is firm in his belief of obscurity as his next image. But this is not just an obscuring of his image but of his style, his former lyrical wonder. At its best, Vultures sounds like a water-logged Def Jam tape, with plenty of record scratch and reverse moments, filling in the background blanks as West brags of his financial flutters. Carnival is abysmal, brain rot put to tape. Metallic clangs of Paperwork may be the closest West gets to an interesting noise, with his rollout of thematically indifferent pieces suffering under the abundance of producers who have wildly different ideas on where the sound should go. Nowhere is where it ends up.
