Pitchfork

Contrary to popular opinion, hubris does have a righteous appeal. Those who claim Kanye West's antics hinder his work are missing the point. His self-importance is obvious, but the arrogance that comes pre-packaged with his insecurity is what makes West the most interesting hip-hop figure of the past five years. That's the reason he landed on "Oprah" and the cover of Time Magazine last week, rather than 50 Cent or Nelly or Slug. It's not sales; it's souls.

That said, at the end of the day, it's his ear, a golden instrument, and his adventurous collaborative spirit that have made him the most fully formed artist of his genre. The sprawling Late Registration is the year's most accomplished rap album, and in turn, he's done something that his heroes-- the Pharcyde and Nas, and father figure Jay-Z-- couldn't do: deliver on a promise the second time around. With the help of co-producer Jon Brion, West has taken his jumbled personae, buoyant enthusiasm, and vision for the grandiose, and transformed his chattering, seemingly unrealistic ideas into an expansive, imperfect masterpiece.

Without Brion, this album probably sounds a lot like its predecessor, The College Dropout-- full of tough horns, jacked soul, and flashes of brilliance. What the former Fiona Apple maestro brings to the proceedings, aside from a conductor's wand and a smile, is the ability to inflate and infuse West's ideas with even more life. A case in point is "Hey Mama", a track that leaked more than a year ago. The song is traditionally purty, dominated by handclaps and a flittering sample of Donal Leace's "Today Won't Come Again"; basically a trad-Kanye production. The Brion redux inserts a moaning vocoder, tin pan alley drums, a xylophone solo, and cascading synth coda, all without mucking up the heart in the middle.

Flashes like this surround the sometimes urbane, often cheeky West with a new resonance. Where would "Crack Music", a blustery martial stomp, be without its soaring choir and biblically extended outro? Probably somewhere on the Game's album. Could Kanye have single-handedly fused the showboating old school boom bap of "We Major" with its build-it-up and watch it all fall down production without Brion or co-producer Waryn Campbell? Not likely. By opening the studio to admired colleagues, he's allowed himself room to think even bigger than the multi-tracked "Jesus Walks".

On the mic, West sounds sharper and more battle-tested, though he'll never have the effortless insouciance of Jigga or teeth-gritting religiosity of Nas. To his credit and detriment he continues to surround himself with superior MCs like Common (on the sober "My Way Home"), impressive newcomer Lupe Fiasco (Just Blaze's life-affirming "Touch the Sky"), and the ineffable Cam'Ron, who continues his magical run with savant-like witticisms on "Gone". Even Houston's Paul Wall manages to fit "illuminate," "insinuate," and "caterpillar" into 16 bizarre bars on the woozy "Drive Slow". All this to go along with curious shouts from two conflicted giants, Jay and Nas, who hang like specters over the album.

Unlike the "great" hip-hop releases of yore, the productions here are so insistent that even a charismatic voice like West's can become an afterthought. Only "Roses" delivers the endearing sentimentality of "Jesus Walks" or "Family Business". "Diamonds From Sierra Leone (Remix)" offers some admirable if dubious political grandstanding, but as with every colossal undertaking, you gotta pay the cost to be the boss. The album's worst track, "Bring Me Down", overwhelms with silly orchestral pomp, courtesy of Brion. It also presumes that anyone still cares about Brandy, who sounds like she's recording her voice through a Cuisinart. "Celebration", too, is a busy, empty exercise in, well, celebrating.

Barring those two tracks, and a few innocuous if unnecessary skits about a fraternity for the financially impaired called Broke Phi Broke, the rest is aces. "Addiction" is unsophisticated in concept but inspired in delivery. "Gold Digger" is also simple but not subtle, tearing into the realm of the obvious with a Ray Charles-aping Jamie Foxx and recycled drums, but succeeding with humor and reverence. Opener "Heard 'Em Say" might be the most bandied about joint here, thanks to the presence of Maroon 5's Adam Levine, but guess what? He sounds great. Off-key and blue-eyed selling his soul, but like nearly every risk here, the syrupy pop works.

"We all self-conscious" has not taken on a new meaning post-Dropout. Conjecture about West revolutionizing the sound of modern hip-hop is mostly a fallacy. Not much has changed, though a few Brion hacks might appear to offer someone like Cassidy an oboe loop or two. In general, what makes West's sound and personality so vital is that it is completely singular. The maddening contradiction, the goofball ridiculousness, and the furious fist-raising still comprise an original voice. Though you'll notice I hesitate to use the phrase "everyman" to describe West. Not every man could have written a headphones album that'll rattle your trunk.