You know this: I always want to root for Kanye West's audaciousness, his totally unparalleled ability to make white tears rush forth like Immortan Joe making it rain on his flock. His is a god dream.

But I'm no true believer. I'm impure, filled with doubts while lost in the arid desert between the oases of his artistic achievement, when all his sheep have to subsist on hot air and mirage. ("I'm trying to keep my faith.") When he does indeed climb down from the mountaintop with the newest testament—yeah, I know I'm mixing all this shit up, fuck the Bible, dog—the agitated oceans of skepticism he's engendered in the hearts of many get flash-boiled away by that "Ultralight Beam" (Philip K. Dick's pink laser visions?). The resulting steam wave is potent enough to power Doc Brown's time-train, powerful enough, we pray, to rewrite history. This, friends, is everything.

Like most church leaders, Kanye, too, is petty, resentful, self-mythologizing. His is a god dream. He really thinks women are property, trophies, fuck toys—until they belong to another man, then they're gross, soiled, used up. He slyly laughs and applauds a predator like Tyga, scoping out and hooking up with an underage girl because "he got in early"—like it's just getting the new Yeezys without standing in line. (If anything, it says a lot about how he sees his wife's family.)

With his defense of Bill Cosby—over the word of dozens and dozens of women—he's either a rape apologist or a crass conspiracist. (Not to be flip, but so are half the men I know.) His hubris is the last thing I'm worried about, but it concerns me that it's the main thing about him that upsets White America. (Don't even get me started on the Taylor Swift narrative.)

All of our heroes are failed. None of our best options are good enough—and in the final shakeout, few are even that good anymore. Still, what is there but to be kind of like Kanye, aspiring to be your own best hero—because you too are failed, problematic, inconsistent with the person you dream of being. Okay, maybe not as problematic as Kanye. And certainly: not as talented.

The Life of Pablo has a strong shot at being my favorite album from Kanye Omari West. It's like the final reel to his epic fantasy quest trilogy. In the dark, overdriven abyss of Yeezus, he found adamantium, unstable molecules, something—and bonded it to the most stirring soul he's ever summoned. The emptiness filled overfull, spilling, engulfing.

Opener "Ultralight Beam" is strong enough for an entire review—it's his "Love's in Need of Love Today." Look, y'all know how I feel about Stevie, and he ain't him, but I'd be lying right to your face if I stood here and told you that repeating it for the umpteenth time didn't break that brick wall, this grape-skin-thin membrane that holds back my own tears, which are inexplicable, nonspecific, but cleansing all the same, like they might be for you, too, if we're being honest.

I just wanna feel liberated.