Kanye West — Yeezus

“I think that’s a responsibility that I have, to push boundaries, to show people: ‘This is the level that things could be at.’ So when you get something that has the name Kanye West on it, it’s supposed to be pushing the furthest possibilities.”

West’s recent interview with The New York Times is just one in a series of public relations bombshells in the rapper’s much publicized quest to become the most infamous celebrity since Billy Corgan. But though West’s ego is surely among the biggest in music today, his music often acts as his safety net: brilliant and thought-provoking, even when the man himself rarely seems to be.

Yeezus, West’s first studio album in three years and his follow-up to critical darling My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, continues the MC’s streak of challenging, thematically rich albums. Where Fantasy was a lushly produced, deep-dish slice of Behind the Music-style self-flagellation, Yeezus looks outwards with an industrial, racially charged conviction that challenges the rapper’s most audacious and engaging work.

Working with producer Rick Rubin — famous for his minimalistic, bare-bones production style — Yeezus’ 10 tracks are among the most skeletal and aggressive of West’s career. The electronic march of “Black Skinhead” and the haunted Atari 2600 beats of “New Slaves” remind of the stripped-down hip-hop of Death Grips and Public Enemy.

Elsewhere, the melancholy Nina Simone sample on “Blood On the Leaves” and the high-pitched soul on album closer “Bound 2” remind of Kanye’s early LPs, and the production that launched his career in the first place.

Though Yeezus makes for an inconsistent first listen — tracks like “On Sight” and “Hold My Liquor” pitch tonal curveballs, and there isn’t a serviceable radio single to be found — West is working at the top of his game, and his rapid-fire flow and provocative yet playful lyrics have never been stronger.

The album is sure to alienate many fans expecting Fantasy part two, but West’s unwillingness to repeat himself is one of his greatest strengths. For a man who believes himself to be God’s gift to music, he sure is hard to prove wrong.

Sigur Ros — Kveikur

Kveikur is a palate cleanser, an album unlike any Sigur Ros has ever made before, with an element of aggressiveness and cacophony they’re unlikely to repeat. In nine tracks, the band have managed to tear down their sound, reorganize it, and rebuild.

Spanning a relatively slender 48 minutes, the album is the band’s first as a trio, having lost keyboardist and founding member Kjartan Sveinsson last year. Sveinsson’s influence is clearly absent from Kveikur — the lush, orchestrated crescendos the band has become so well known for have been stripped down and economized.

Album opener “Brennisteinn” is fast-paced and claustrophobic; “Stormur” is percussive and groovy; the obscured vocal samples and anxious reverb of “Yfirboro,” sound like the work of a different band entirely. The only remaining souvenir of Sigur Ros’ previous sound is lead singer Jonsi Birgisson’s otherworldly falsetto, which seems angelic against the backdrop of Kveikur’s end-of-the-world aesthetic.

“Isjaki” and “Blapraour” lean closer towards the band’s more typical fare, building towards life-affirming crescendos while factoring in the album’s increased rhythmic focus. Instrumental album closer “Var” caps off the album in unexpectedly understated fashion, building towards a subtle drone-and-piano coda.

Sadly, Sigur Ros’ audacious aural reinvention seems stifled by its production: whereas in concert, these new tracks were overpowered by the bedlam of drummer Orri Dyrason’s schizophrenic stylings, the album’s mix seems to favour Jonsi’s fragile croon, which detracts from the songs’ magnitude.

Still, the album pulsates with a vitality largely missing from last year’s lifeless career low point, Valtari. The Icelandic post-rockers, who’ve built their sound on a foundation of seraphic soundscapes, have proven they aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.

Kveikur is undoubtedly one of the most interesting and idiosyncratic additions to the band’s catalogue, and re-injects the trio with a much needed sense of livelihood.

Throwback: Joni Mitchell — Blue

Most of what you’ll read about Joni Mitchell’s Blue — and, if you’re so inclined, there’s a lot to read — will tell you how the album is about a break-up, or the musical embodiment of depression. But ultimately, the best word to describe the album is ‘transparent.’

Mitchell’s 1971 magnum opus is melancholic, sure, but it’s also prone to flights of sheer joy and complex self-reflection, the work of a woman completely unwilling to hide any part of herself. The 10 songs on Blue show Mitchell at her best and her worst; they read like short stories and land emotional body blows. Mitchell’s vocal, as expressive and organic as her lyrics, aches and yearns for something intangible.

“All I Want” sees Mitchell embracing the full spectrum of romance, from blushing beginning to acrimonious end. “A Case of You” is a cryptic half-remembrance of Mitchell’s brief affair with Leonard Cohen. “Little Green”, the only song not written for the album, is Mitchell’s tribute to her daughter, whom she gave away for adoption, penniless and in the throes of depression.

From a musical perspective, Blue is undoubtedly Mitchell’s strongest effort. Eschewing the expansive arrangements and heavy percussion of her peers, the album is centered around Mitchell’s passionate vocal, unconventional guitar chords and her use of the Appalachian dulcimer. But the reason that Blue has persevered in the minds and record collections of so many is Mitchell’s honest, courageous performance.

She acknowledges her struggles and exhumes them with striking artistry.  “At that period of my life, I had no personal defenses,” Mitchell said in an interview with Rolling Stone. “I felt like I had no secrets in my life and I couldn’t pretend in my life to be strong. Or to be happy. But the advantage of it in the music was that there were no defenses there either.”

Profound and poignant four decades after its release, Blue is one of the greatest works of its time, one that still has the power to break hearts and mend wounds.