In the weeks leading up to this year’s Glastonbury, many punters voluntarily outed themselves as the shy Tories destroyed the country at the last election. These not so shy Tories, allergic to the slightest breath of change, unleashed their pious, home-counties brand of indignant wheedling, attacking the absence of a creaking member of the rock aristocracy at the top of Saturday’s bill. Copious insults and death threats rained down upon those who had the audacity to suggest that it’s only right to have someone from the world of hip-hop headline a festival that prides itself on freedom and variety. Disgruntled revellers could always check out another stage, right? No actually: the whole weekend was irrevocably ruined before it had even started, by a clutch of conspiring cretins.
West is infinitely more entertaining than most contemporary indie bands. His uncompromising attitude, independence of mind and political conscience make him more engaging than hideously inane rubbish like The Vaccines. But, for this writer, he can’t be considered a serious musical prospect. Splicing together samples of other bands’ tunes like a musical Dr. Frankenstein does not an artist make. His ‘songs’ are sumptuously produced exhibitions of his eclectic music taste and remarkable skills in the studio, rather than fresh innovations born out of industrious musicianship. They simply do not merit the mantle of ‘genius’ he so assiduously claims they are every time he converts oxygen into carbon dioxide.
His bravado is at once matched and contradicted by the stage’s layout. Neglecting to surround himself with musicians, West cuts an isolated figure, intensifying the ‘me against the world’ mentality he so loves to indulge in. With no one to hide behind or take the spotlight from him, it’s clear that this is the Kanye show, done on his terms, and no one else is going to infringe on the moment. Blazing lights above him hang low, symbolising the pressure he’s under to deliver and the ceaseless attention he receives.
The opening salvo of ‘Stronger’ and ‘POWER’ electrifies the baying crowd, sheer euphoria propelling everybody up and down in holy union. The silly petition and sneering derision are forgotten in the addictive refrains of ‘POWER’. Matters soon go awry however: as the apocalyptic drums of ‘Black Skinhead’ thunder into earshot, the heroic Lee Nelson gate-crashes the Kanye show, cracking West’s ego-hardened carapace. Rattled by Nelson’s stunt, he falters, before abandoning it and starting again. Seeing a man of messianic self-importance get undermined in such a manner is highly rewarding, but more interestingly, it’s the first in a series of examples we see of West’s vulnerability. His inability to indulge Nelson reminds you that he is a man who simultaneously takes himself incredibly seriously and elicits great laughter with his laughably serious declarations. West is less a musician, more a humourless comedian who’s unintentionally hilarious.
Then came a bizarre segue into a desert of beige, auto-tuned dross that captures Kanye’s contradictions. After the lyrically astonishing ‘New Slaves’, which would’ve had cowardly BBC executives cowering with terror, West inexplicably meanders through a glut of pedestrian ballads, eviscerating the previously crackling atmosphere. The appearance of Justin Vernon, or Bon Iver to tree shagging feta fetishists, is at once as rock and roll and farcical as it gets: of all his contacts West could have picked, he chose not the decaying Paul McCartney or Rihanna, but indie pimple Vernon, defying expectations and delighting bookies.
It’s a deft selection that cements his maverick status. Despite the brilliant call-up, the duet is catastrophically dull; Vernon, lurking on the edge of the stage, looked determined not to get too close to our lord and saviour, lest he lose his index fingers for daring to steal the spotlight. West emerges from the morass of magnolia into the blitz of the lyrical juggernaut ‘Jesus Walks’, cut and paste nightmare ‘Bound 2’ and ode to Bend it like Beckham ‘Touch the Sky’, during which he ascends to the heavens in a cherry picker. Does riding a cherry picker during your slot at Glasto make you a rock and roll star? Of course it doesn’t, but it was certainly more interesting than anything that happened during Florence & The Machine’s consummate display of caustic caterwauling.
When Kanye fanatically repeats ‘I’m the greatest rock n’ roll star on the planet!’ at the end of his inimitable performance, you have to wonder who exactly is he trying to convince? The audience, who have backed him throughout and have patiently ridden his capricious whims, or himself? Does he really believe his own self-appointed position? I’m not so sure. Does he deserve that title? No, because he simply doesn’t have the tunes, nor the artistic credibility. The central tension between hubris and uncertainty that his act hinges upon is one that’s missed by a lot of his critics, and one that characterises the temperaments of many performers. Unanswered questions around fish sticks and why Kim Kardashian isn’t a hobbit aside, West’s performance, crushingly flat as it was at times, was wonderfully anarchic because he uncompromisingly kept his rough edges and refused to bow to expectations. He certainly isn’t a rock star, but his independence and eccentricity are something to admire.
If only he could get a sense of humour.
– Rudi Abdallah