blacksoapinyoasscrease

stay black and fly! 

[beetheblack]

[beetheblack]

We revolt simply because, for a variety of reasons, we can no longer breathe

Frantz Fanon

[beetheblack]

Black history everything lovely.... 

[beetheblack]

Sip

The last drop of the 40 ounce smelled like fish paste. Of course folks don’t never taste the final bit; the tongue quits on folks then. Cold spit from the iron tonsil stones. His grandmother’s uncles knew, voices bellowing from loins choked into blood but not bloody submission. This had been the trouble with this breed: the mouth hole, which seemed to the less iridescent, dieux soi disant  much too burning and expansive. How do these things taste a damn thing? (Blacks got six stomachs and wide noses.) They must just smell it; that’s why they noses so wide. Them uncles ate mullet on sweet days, but the last bit too cold, frigid even. That’s why it killed his great uncles and was close to killing him. He pursed his lips. Still too cool to taste, which is why you don’t taste it, you smell it. The smell was searing, seeping in and underneath the smell of the dumpster he worked in. The true tenants smelled the last drop before anything else, before his shoes or gloves or two mobile carts that he used to haul their junk to the city dump 15 miles from the apartments. All these objects had a peculiar taste to him, for at times, when no one was around the dump, he put his mouth around these things. He wet his tongue with his shirt, holding it up with his teeth when he had to relieve himself. He tore his gloves off with his two incisors (sometimes this helped the stomach rumbling in the fifth stomach), and he spit in his cleanest cart on summer nights, when none of the real tenants felt merciful enough to let him stay in the stairwell of their building lobby. All the lovely tastes. But he couldn’t taste this final bit, and although you already know why because I just told you, he didn’t know why. He hadn’t put it in the thin lady’s refrigerator. She cooked fish everyday for her five sons. She left him the leftovers every third Sunday. Teach a man to fish.

The tenants thought they would receive blessings. They never talked down upon him. A few of them tried to make his job easier, stacking metal junk on the side of the dumpster, leaving cardboard and overflowing garbage bags in his carts. In return he treated them with the highest respect, but not because they ain’t protest his existence; rather, he idolized them because they knew he existed. He forgot he did a while back, especially when he took the first sip of the 40 ounce. His mouth’s tongue stroked the brim; merely a feeble suggestion of the sensual because how could one possess sensuality on the fringes of existence? At any rate, his mouth honored the mouths of his ancestors as he began to reject his being. The liquid had an excursion ahead of it, or maybe an escalade. As he took the first swig, a man approached with a trash bag. The maintenance man, small-mouthed and well fed.

“Alright now, how we doin’ today.”

“Alright now Mr. Randolph, I’m makin’ it just fine. How you makin’ it now?”

“Blessed and highly favored.”

The maintenance man threw the trash on the grayish mobile cart. The cart’s gray looked slightly less luminous than the gray that surrounded the two men. One man turned to leave.

“Weather ain’t too bad out here today is it, Mr. Randolph?” His jaws curled as his mouth rung out, almost in desperation, desperate to shrivel.

“Show’ll ain’t” the maintenance man replied, allowing his back to communicate his supposed disinterest.

“Mr. Randolph.”

The maintainer kept walking without turning back. It wasn’t disinterest at all, for most people kept conversation short, lest they find themselves on the end of a moral dilemma about whether or not they should donate a quarter. The maintainer was scared of him.

God bless him. God damn him. I know that nigger heard me. Ain’t shit no way. Who he think he is? Uncle Charles was a property manager. I can’t ask Frieda for no money! Charles would damn near kill me. You don’t need. You don’t need. You just can’t get right. Go ‘round telling people ‘bout some no good nephew. They ain’t got nothin’ I don’t got. Niggers just like I am. Blacker too! Black as hell. God I know I oughta love Randolph. You know he busy; he gotta get to fixin’ up them sinks. He bring me some good stuff every now and then. I got ten dollars for that refrigerator last month and two for his old can opener. “Alright now, how we doin’?” We. One flesh like Pastor Davis and Frieda on Thursday evenings. Davis and Randolph old lady too. Who is we; who know me?

“I’m tryna make it, Mr. Randolph sir; it’s mighty rough outchea’ you know?”

“Blessed and most high, my brother, and I got some fresh shit for you here.” I show’ll need a little something to wet my tongue, all this humidity in this gray. Gray be making me mighty thirsty.

“Mr. Randolph, this some gray outchea’ ain’t it? Make somebody real thirsty don’t it?” Lord ha’ mercy. My tongue parched. “Mr. Randolph! Mr. Rand.” To hell with it. Fool ain’t my brother. Agape Frater what Davis say. I ain’t seen Randolph in church. I may as well quit dwell on it. I need a suit to go to church. Ain’t no use in goin’. God, I done asked you for a favor. I’m thirsty, feel like I’m burnin’ up! Mr. Randolph made in God image eyes no. Ears neither. Nah nah, they see me. I’m show’ll glad they see me. They my brothers, but they don’t talk loud. Mr. Randolph got a child voice. Dear, baby Jesus, give Randolph old lady strength. She bow down to a child on some days. She need a black strap, hey hey! A strong mouth, real strong mouth! That’s what I got, lord knows. Lord willing I get somethin’ to sip. “Show’ll ain’t” good weather. All this gray make my mouth dry.

A younger man approached, dressed like a storefront preacher. His sermonic fabrics ensnared two iron pans and a ceramic container for the well fed, god-fearing, and faux jouissance seeking folks.

“Hey Mr. Beard! If I had yo’ hand I’d turn mine right aloose.”

The younger man gave a slight chuckle. Soothsaying? His mouth curved slightly but expertly, as if the curl had been rehearsed.

“Is that for me, young man? You can just set it right there. Don’t want you to get nothin’ on your $40 shirt.” The pan and ceramic dish fell into the blackish cart, the more used of the two carts, sturdier, earthier, but much more damaged than the gray. “Those kids ain’t driving you crazy is they?”

“No not yet,” replied the religiously dressed man, “I’m takin’ it…”

“Kids something else nowadays, son. Back in my day they showed respect for grown folk, you know.”

“Yeah, I take it one day at a time,” replied the younger person.

“Job like that make a man need a heavy drink, something cold, eh Mr. Beard?”

“I don’t drink.” The young man began to rotate his Holy garments.

Strange fellow must be.

“Well look here, Mr. Beard let me ask you: You know where Robinson Street is? I need to get there in ‘bout five minutes for a job interview.”

“Well I would; I have to take my brother on a job interview on East.” The lie almost had no reservation. The youngster’s mouth didn’t even taste the deceit.

“Oh really? East eh? Where he working at there? Big money over there, don’t it. The old East”.

“Oh jus’ a cook. He might get it. Ain’t much money in that though, cooking up beef.”

“Oh no, not like teaching them bad ass kids. They getting on your nerves yet, Mr. Beard?”

“Nah, not yet they ain’t.”

“Job like that make you need a real strong drank ain’t that right, son? I’ll tell you what I do make you need ‘bout two or three. Ain’t got no massa’ degree like you. These people throw out some heavy stuff I tell you. Like that leather sofa up there down there. Likely 40 pounds on each side! And I tried to cut it with a saw Ms. Pope gave me. You know Ms. Pope up there on C- 16? Yeah she had a saw her husband used to use before he died. And do you know that thing was still heavy even broken up? Lord. Have. Mercy! You know Mr. Beard, Mrs. Pope got ‘bout six and a half kids. All boys. Sometime they help me lift some of this shit up to the dumpster. Some heavy shit Mr. Beard. Might be a little too heavy for you. That big leather sofa: my goodness! And don’t get me started on them hot water heaters. Things still got water on the inside of ‘em most of the time. Some hard work, son. You know, I ain’t got no massa’ degree like you now. Show’ll is some hard work what I do.”

“I imagine so,” the younger man replied. “Well I’m gonna get on in and cook this food.”

“Alright Mr. Beard, what you cooking tonight, poke chops? Eat them and you be sleeping sound after don’t it? Might sleep past time it is to go to work. Say what time you get up for work, ‘bout seven; probably later than I huh? You probably still in the bed when I get up eh, son? Just dreamin’ away, dreamin’ way! Dreamin’ you pull up to the school in an all black limousine with tinted windows and something cold to drink in every cup holder. Everybody see you, and you sigh: ‘Look at me now, look at me now.’ Look at me now there!”

The younger man uttered a laugh (reminiscent of the chuckle), false as the lies his clothes told worshipers, and began his rotation and descent.

“Alright, Mr. Beard.”

The young man left him in a stupor of vinery bliss, a black bliss.

Ah, I’m almost at the last lil’ bit. Don’t never last too long. Ole’ Mr. Beard. Dress mighty fine. Always got something on his neck. Don’t dress like most black folks oh no, dress real sharp. What happen when you get that massa’ degrees. Get some mo’ money and wear them $40 shirts and what not now. If I had my hand I’d turn yours right aloose. Them kids drivin’ you crazy at that school house ain’t it? “Not yet, Mr. Beard, not yet.” Mr. Beard I need to get the spot on Robinson, get a lil’ mo’ here since I’m runnin’ out you know? Know ‘bout this here don’t you. Yo’ work probably be wearin’ you out eh Mr. Beard? “First, I have to take my brother on a job interview on East.” Somethin’ strange ‘bout a man who don’t sip, but he a good man. Young man. I’m old. We both is black tho’. Between you and me, Mr. Beard, I kinda like being black. Mr. Beard, you a lil’ light. A little light, haha; talkin’ to a teacher gotta be proper ain’t it, Mr. Beard. This weather out here make eye get mighty thirsty though, Mr. Beard. “That’s true Mr. Beard, show’ll mighty true indeed. It’s gon’ get dark soon though, Mr. Beard. You gon’ be alright out here in the night?” Yeah, son, I’ll be just fine. We already black no way. You black ain’t you Mr. Beard? “I am, I am, I is. Show’ll is.” Right on Mr. Bea

“MASSA’! Somethin’ smell like fish!”  

Mrs. Pope and Mr. Randolph sittin’ in a tree/Mr. Beard cookin’ up some poke chop for me/Me and Uncle Charlie fishin’ in the sea/Then we gave Davis fried brim so he could preach! My mouth feel mighty swoll.

“SEE ME!”

A tenant looked from her window and motioned for her mother to watch the mise en scène noir. Each act, he performed expertly, as if he wasn't acting, as if he was instead the playwright. 

“I AM, I AM, I IS, I WAS!”

The bliss began to fade, and his mouth began to shrink.

“I was, I was, I was” he faintly whispered (or whimpered).

Man need a heavy drink, Mr. Beard. Why don’t you sip Mr. Beard? It make me forget. What you mean? Forget how big my mouth is. Especially when you get to that last lil’ sip, Mr. Beard. Can’t hear yourself right? Can’t hear myself right. Thank Mrs. Pope for the poke chop! I remember it real good. Mr. Beard when you comin’ back to take me to Robinson for that job interview? You can’t get no job say Charlie, old fool. But Lord when I do. I’m gon’ gone up there to Randolph house and spit at his door. If I still have some spit left by then. You will, Mr. Beard. You think so, Mr. Beard? You is mighty smart after all. But your mouth used to be much bigger see. That’s ‘cause I ain’t got no massa’ like you; by the way, what you got cold to drink in there? That’ll help my mouth right on ‘long. This last bit will give you just what you need.

He smacked his lips, unable to recognize the gray suffocating his outbursts: “COLD POKE CHOP”, unable to taste or to even feel his tongue in his shrinking mouth. The fish smelling gray rushed down, but settled at the center of his black throat. His black throat began to shrink into the void of being.

POPE EYE IS RANDOLPH BEARD I IS!

His eyes shook at his final demonstration of being.

 EPILOGUE: Few wept.

[madonnasvswhores-blog]

initial response to a short essay by Alice Walker

In her first definition of the term, womanist, Alice Walker traces the word’s origin back to the black familial space. Specifically, she points to the relationship between black mothers and daughters. The child who acts womanish receives parental admonition for seemingly presumptuous behavior; she expresses interests in the affairs and performances of adulthood (the being of black womanhood?), which perhaps she cannot completely grasp because of lack of experience. Similarly, the womanist inquires about and challenges the definitions, constructions, and expressions of black womanhood. Earlier waves of feminism greatly benefited women by providing discourse to discuss women’s subjugation, but in some ways, the leaders and thinkers of the theoretical movement failed (or forgot) to consider the multiple layers of oppression that women of color experience. However, even if white thinkers address this issue, their lack of (black[1]) experience inhibits them from fully grasping the nuances of black womanhood (and also blackness as a whole). Moreover, we don’t need white people to speak for us,to validate our expressions and experiences. Rather, we welcome allies who seek to assist in challenging attitudes and systems that deny agency (or even self exploration) to a wide range of people/groups, allies who recognize the positive effects of black self love firstly for black people and secondly for other folks. Walker’s analogy points to such a mission. The color of purple encompasses lavender. The black feminist (someone such as Walker) saw the failure (as well as the inability) of white feminists to address the intersectionality of black womanhood as problematic and dangerous for women of color and also for the “survival and wholeness of entire people” (Walker xi). Thus the womanist works for women of color and indirectly for a broad range of people. So, the womanist loves self as well as others, and  this self love inspires or even encompasses one’s love for others. To clarify, black self love yields positive results for everyone. However, the womanist values herself as a black woman, and the positive results that everyone else benefit from occur almost by proxy.[2] Moreover, UNIVERSALITY (AKA: WHITENESS) IS NOT THE FOCAL POINT OF THE WOMANISTS’ CONCERNS!

Clearly, Walker’s suggestion of writing works for oneself involves both developing one’s individual identity and contributing to various group identities: racial identities, class identities, and gender identities. However, the artist saves herself through self love, despite constant external manifestos that declare her as worthless because of race, gender, class, etc. Walker mentions a variety of artists who saved themselves (and on a side note, eventually saved others) through self love. WALKER DOES NOT ATTEMPT TO MEASURE UP TO SOME WHITE STANDARD OR REVEAL THAT SHE HAS WHITE LITERARY INFLUENCES! Instead, she reveals that to love and value oneself provides one with an opportunity to save HERSELF as well as others.

[1] So a white reader may acknowledge and sympathize with the plight of Pecola as a victim of multiple kinds of abuse, but she probably cannot grasp the notion of colorism and its destructive effects within the black community, and Morrison needs not attempt to appeal to white readers.

[2] It’s sort of like the #blacklivesmatter movement. If black people declare that our lives have value, we who have suffered dehumanization and abjection, then of course all lives indeed matter, by proxy. However, the primary point of the declaration is to reject the claim that we have no value.

[beetheblack]

old joints

[bumblebeethekidd-blog]

TLOP review.

Misogyny plagues Black American culture, both subtly and blatantly, in obvious ways and pervasive ways. It helps to uphold patriarchal hierarchy, maintains strict gender roles, and fantastically distorts black sexuality. In other words, misogyny works to preserve and legitimize sexism. Moreover, as Angela Davis stresses in her analysis of the relationships between systems of oppression, oppressive power structures support one another. So racism and classism support sexism, and when moving against one of these systems, one must also reject the other systems that operate almost in unison, or the movement will fail. So it’s somewhat illogical and indeed counterproductive to chant “we shall overcome” while exhibiting or perpetuating misogyny. The origins of misogyny in Black America deserve careful consideration. However, regardless of how misogyny began to operate within our culture, the fact remains that it operates as a subversive and destructive force, and we bear the responsibility of investigating its toxic effects and working to eradicate it. Since art often reflects culture, artistic expressions often mirror or reveal cultural attitudes. Critics of rap music (some anti-black and some pro-black) and rappers themselves have long noted the problematic treatment of women within the genre, thus noting the phenomenon of misogyny in the black community. Even so, rappers continue to degrade women, and few listeners really hold them accountable. Ironically, even the “conscious” or “aware” or “woke” rap artists participate in this denigration of femininity. For instance, the critically acclaimed artist, Tupac Shakur created a song entitled “Keep Ya Head Up” in which he analyzed the misogyny within the black community, rapping: “I wonder why we take from our women/why we rape our women/do we hate our women”. However, on the very same album, on the song “I Get Around”, Shakur speaks of “keeping… hoes in check”. Other rappers also create seemingly contradictory records. The contradiction is obvious, but another question perhaps deserves more of our attention: Does the music reveal how oppressive language works to subvert the language of progress, especially when the words come from the same mouth, and moreover, does this point to the connection between systems of oppression that Davis emphasizes? I say, absolutely yes, and the latest album by Kanye West, entitled The Life of Pablo, supports the notion that oppressive institutions work together to undermine social progress.

West’s work provides an excellent medium through which to explore this idea because he works as both a vocalist and a producer; he utters language and also composes musical arrangements in order to convey a(n) (in)coherent message. So we do well to immediately note the Christian overtones in The Life of Pablo. The first song, “Ultralight Beam” begins with a young girl who seems to possess the euphoric holy ghost. She shouts loudly “we don’t want no devils in the house, God. We want the Lord… Halleluiah”. As the song moves forward, it sounds more and more like a gospel song. A guest singer almost wails about trying to keep faith. An actual gospel choir supports him, soulfully accenting the “faith”. West then declares the divinity of the moment, saying: “This is a God dream”. As West prays for serenity and peace in a slightly auto- tuned, Southside Chicago dialect, a mellow organ speaks to a base line that mimics West’s accent. A light heavyweight drum break makes an occasional statement. Then the choir joins West in his refrain. They sound like gospel choirs sound, like the solar system: far way, yet very close, ethereal, yet visceral. A notable gospel singer then takes a solo, singing about struggles, oppression, and hope. She “looks to the light… [knowing that the divinity] will make everything alright… [and] take good care of [her]”. After her solo, a guest rapper takes the main microphone, making all kinds of references to Judeo-Christianity, including treating demons like Martin treated Pam (ostracizing them), letting his little light shine, giving glory to the divinity, and referencing the Great Flood, the biblical origin of the rainbow, and the infamous pillar of salt that Lot’s wife turned into during the Jewish god’s destruction of the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. So immediately, the album creates a religious tone both lyrically and musically.

Such an introduction becomes more interesting when we think about gospel music and Christianity’s strange relationship to sexuality and patriarchy. Some Christian imagery contains clear sexual overtones. The divinity possesses some kind of ownership over the follower’s material body; the divinity ravages the follower’s body, drawing upon and reinforcing a rigid system of power dynamics (see John Donne). This power arrangement also establishes normal and abnormal uses of the body. So gospel songs that contain lyrics like “No one can do you like Jesus” or “You’re the only power that can save this world today” point to an all powerful father-god who determines correct and incorrect usages of one’s body, a determination that of course extends to one’s sexuality and privileges gender and specific expressions of sexuality. Or consider the practice of praise dancing in Black Christianity. It has similarities to popular, secular dances that have sexual overtones. The praise dancer’s body comes under the control of God, and even movements that seem explicitly sexual cause no issues because the performer does them within the context of the boundaries of religion. So a clear relationship exists between religious order and sexuality. This relationship becomes even more complicated when we think of the circumstances in which black people took up Christianity (i.e. colonialism and slavery). For a black person trapped within the institution of slavery, unable to assert bodily control, a subversion of Christianity and its constructions of sexuality could provide an avenue to even a small degree of bodily control. One could exercise a sort of freedom to give his/her body to God, rejecting the white slaver’s legal assertion of ownership.

TLOP contains plenty of examples of West attempting to assert a bodily control (which our anti-black society denies black people the right to do) through sexuality. Whether intentional or not, West’s use of gospel samples and choirs point to this effort, since Christianity and sexuality relate to one another. Moreover, some of West’s lyrics indeed reveal a pro-black stance, a desire for unhibited black subjectivity.  On the song “Father Stretch My Hands Pt. 1”, he moans: “I just wanna feel liberated”. In other songs, he expresses a similar desire: “As far as my business/I’m the only one that’s in control” or even the seemingly narcissistic “I love you like Kanye loves Kanye”. We may debate about arrogance and self inflation, but we must not overlook that such lyrics point to self assertion, and even if this self assertion proves confused and imbalanced, it reveals a desire to reject the denial of black subjectivity, a pretty important task to attempt. Moreover, in the song “Wolves”, West does exactly what black slaves did when forced to convert to Christianity: He subverts it in order to explore his own selfhood. He raps: “What if Mary/ was in the club/’fore she met Joseph/around hella’ thugs”. Here, West subverts the nativity story in order to reflect upon the consequences of his sexual expression. The song explores whether or not sexual expression proves an effective way to reclaim one’s body (or to exercise a little more control over one’s body). West seems quite self-aware in “Wolves”, wondering about what his late mother would think of his path to self-assertion. He sings in a scratchy voice: “If mama knew now/how you turned out/you too wild”. The baseline in this song moans sorrowfully, and a vocal sample woos listeners into a contemplative mind state.

However, this awareness does little to address the major flaw in West’s path to self assertion through sexual expression: He allows misogynistic attitudes to infiltrate his movement. Now, sexual expression does not equate with misogyny. However, the difference becomes hazy throughout the album. For instance, when West speaks about participating in public sex that develops into a mass orgy in “Freestyle 4” (which features eerie strings, abrasive synth sounds, and slightly industrial drums) or proposes shooting pornographic videos with a portable go pro on his genitals, we could view such lyrics as distasteful to say the least. If we hold the view that sex inherently reinforces problematic gender roles, then perhaps these lyrics have patriarchal overtones, but they don’t explicitly degrade women. Moreover, if we deem such lyrics as problematic, we could insinuate that black male sexuality is somehow problematic, which is not the case. However, some expressions of sexuality can indeed have problematic consequences, and West seems to ignore them. Throughout, the album he degrades women in order to assert his sexual expression.  This occurs early on in TLOP. In “Father Stretch my Hands” he utters a very disturbing line about sex with a model: “Now if I fuck this model/and she just bleached her asshole/and I get bleach on my t-shirt/I’m gon’ feel like an asshole”. Here, he clearly denigrates his female sexual partner, reducing her subjectivity to a mere body part. He has no concern for her liberation or self assertion. By subscribing to such misogynistic views, West denies another marginalized group the opportunity for liberation. He contributes to patriarchy. The primary danger in the support he gives to the oppressive system of patriarchy involves the dehumanization of women. The secondary danger involves the underpinning of West’s own desire for liberation, for systems of patriarchy and racism function along with each other.

West commits this error all throughout TLOP. On the song “Famous”, he claims that his  sexuality significantly affects the autonomy and life experience of others (exclusively women). Ironically, West includes a Nina Simone sample in this song, a singer who personally experienced and fought against misogyny. On “Feedback” he literally offers women as commodities, labeling himself the “ghetto Oprah”. On the same song he speaks on police brutality and black mental health. Confusing. He completely fails to address the relationship between black oppression and women’s oppression. The ultimate example of this failure comes in the song “Highlights”, in which West calls for black men to impregnate white women so that these women will bear black children. He uses the metaphor of the “fruit of Islam in the trenches” to justify his interracial sexual desire, but he actually dehumanizes women by both his problematic advice and strange perversion of religion (this time Islam as opposed to Christianity). Sometimes he doesn’t make this mistake explicitly, but his misunderstandings of the links between oppressive systems surface almost subtly. For instance, in the expertly produced “30 Hours” (the drums knock, the baseline soothes, and the sample warms) West condemns a former girlfriend for sexual promiscuity, the very tool through which he seeks to assert himself! On “No More Parties in L.A”, West reveals his subscription to patriarchy with the line: “I be worried my daughter/ I worried about Kim [his wife]/ but Saint [his son] is baby ‘Ye, I ain’t ‘bout him”. So both inadvertently and intentionally, West perpetuates gender inequality and supports patriarchal power structures.

Regardless if West is aware of his error, it surfaces enough to subvert or even negate his positive themes. As mentioned, he touches on police brutality and black mental health. In part two of “Father Stretch My Hands” and in the song “Real Friends” he touches on black familial relationships. He does well to address these topics, but his conclusions aren’t fully fleshed out; they contain plenty of contradictions; and point to a confusion of how power functions. In a way, TLOP makes the same mistakes that gospel music makes: It seeks to treat certain institutions of oppression while failing to reject, and thus bolstering others. For Angela Davis, this error can render movements useless. She explores how early feminist movements fell victim to racism and classism and thus proved less effective. Perhaps we should recommend Davis’ work to West: #readinglistforkanye maybe? Despite its major flaw, the album has plenty of great moments, and West conveys the same complicated feelings that listeners may experience when they listen (critically) to religious music. On a linguistic level, West not only contradicts himself, but presents a rather unclear message; he constantly subverts himself. TLOP clearly reveals how oppressive systems intermingle and how one can’t quite fight one in particular if he/she supports another. Moreover, West, through his stylistic choices (not only lyrical but also compositional) alludes to the complex relationship between sexuality and Christianity. In a way, West really is “driving in the same car that they killed Pac [Shakur] in”, meaning that like Tupac, and like numerous artists and people, West has a great deal of complications and inconsistencies that surface in his art. There are no justifications for West’s misogyny. Nothing will happen if he does or does not hold himself accountable for it. But if we as listeners hold him accountable, we teach and learn that such attitudes only work to obstruct liberation.  

Grade: B-

Favorite track: “Ultralight Beam”