Where It All Started to Go Downhill: The Kanye West Tragedy

Once upon a time, Kanye West was one of the most electrifying, innovative, and beloved artists in the music industry. A producer-turned-rapper who broke molds and rewrote the rules, he didn’t just define a generation, he changed the sound of hip-hop. Albums like The College Dropout, Late Registration, and My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy weren’t just cultural moments, they were masterpieces. With each release, Kanye seemed to transcend genre, expectation, and even gravity itself.

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment when things began to fall apart, but if there’s one undeniable turning point, it was the loss of his mother, Donda West, in 2007. Kanye was always bold and emotionally raw in his art, but after her passing, the tone began to shift. What was once grounded in vulnerable brilliance started to feel more chaotic, unfiltered, and eventually, disturbing.

Despite the cracks, greatness still followed. Yeezus, released in 2013, was Kanye’s last truly visionary album. It was abrasive, futuristic, and unsettling in a way that was somehow exhilarating. While polarizing at first, it aged into something that critics and fans alike have come to regard as one of his boldest artistic statements. That project still carried the spirit of a provocateur with a purpose, a man pushing boundaries because he had something to say.

But after Yeezus, the decline became harder to ignore. The headlines began to eclipse the music. Kanye’s persona transformed from complicated genius to full-blown chaos agent. The rants, the erratic interviews, the presidential run, the MAGA hat, it became harder and harder to separate the art from the artist, especially when the artist seemed hell-bent on setting everything on fire. Yes, he has mental health issues, but this can’t be used as an excuse. 

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Then came the darkest turn: his descent into open antisemitism, racist dog whistles, and a messiah complex that swallowed any remaining self-awareness. Kanye didn’t just play the villain—he became one, in the most unimaginative way possible. There’s no artistry in trafficking hate. There’s no subversion in parroting tired bigotry. It’s not edgy, it’s lazy. It’s not clever, it’s just… shit.

And sure, the beats still slap. The hooks are catchy. There are moments where, if you close your eyes and forget the context, you can almost hear echoes of the old Kanye. One recent track even sounded like it could’ve been an anthem, if only every single word of the lyrics were rewritten.

But that’s the tragedy: the genius is still in there somewhere, buried beneath layers of ego, trauma, and toxic performance. We once looked to Kanye as a creative North Star. Now, he feels like a cautionary tale.

I’ve held onto hope for years that this was all one big troll that the old Kanye was hiding behind the curtain, waiting for the right moment to step out and say “gotcha.” But as time passes and the damage grows, it becomes painfully clear: it’s not a joke. It’s not performance art. It’s just Kanye now, oops I mean it’s Ye, and that’s the saddest part of all.