Yeezus is less an album and more an obnoxious sonic tantrum — the sound of Kanye locking himself in a room full of industrial screeches, distorted basslines, and zero accountability. It’s like he dared the world to stop him mid-meltdown, and nobody did. The album trades melody for machinery, soul for static, and coherence for chaos. Every track stomps around like it’s reinventing music, but all it really does is scream “LOOK AT ME” through a megaphone duct-taped to a blender. Lyrically, it’s a car crash of arrogance, sexual frustration, and half-baked outrage, delivered with the smugness of a man who thinks yelling about croissants makes him deep. Any moments that might be profound — like the sampling of Strange Fruit on “Blood on the Leaves” — are drowned in tone-deaf bravado and jarring production choices. Yeezus wants to be radical art, but it ends up as performance narcissism: loud, abrasive, and utterly convinced of its own genius, despite being one of the most unpleasant listening experiences in modern music.