It’s hard not to imagine that, for around 140,000 people over two nights at Los Angeles’ SoFi Stadium last week, a sort of collective willful amnesia took place — as if the man onstage had never declared “Death Con 3 on Jewish people,” had never said “I love Hitler,” “I’m a Nazi” and “Jews were better as slaves,” had never worn and sold T-shirts emblazoned with a swastika. There were Lauryn Hill, Travis Scott, Ceelo Green and Don Toliver joining that man — Kanye West, now known as Ye — onstage; there was Chloe Bailey, posting videos of herself joyfully singing along.
Apparently, at least for those whose support for him had wavered, a full-page advertisement in the Wall Street Journal was all it took to wipe the slate clean: In January, West took out an ad in which he apologized for the above and other comments, blaming them on mental illness and a recently diagnosed head injury. Furthering the rehabilitation, his new-ish album “Bully,” which belatedly has an established record label as a partner, debuts at No. 2 on the Billboard 200 albums chart this week.
How did he come back so quickly, after so many years of divisive behavior and three years of hate speech? Yes, he made great music earlier in his career — in fact, he’s the most important and influential popular musician of this century. But without overstating the case, it’s all part of a larger narrative about Donald Trump’s America, where enough money, fame and noise can enable a person to be absolved of virtually anything.
The parallels between Trump and West are voluminous and extend far beyond their brief and, for many former fans, mortifying bromance in 2016-18. They both thrive on attention to the extent that it almost seems as essential to them as oxygen; they both make outrageous and often-untrue statements; they both have superhuman levels of self-regard (i.e. egos); they both have a charisma that somehow leads people to continue to believe in them no matter how many horrible things they’ve said or done.
It’s not as if anyone who bought tickets for those concerts didn’t know that West had said those things, just like everyone who voted for Trump in 2024 knew he’d tried to overthrow the American government — among his many other alleged and proven misdeeds and transgressions.
A reality check can be found, ironically, in a comparison with the country we fought a war to be free from. In the U.K., Prince Andrew was arrested over accusations arising from evidence in the Epstein files; the president and the Republican-led Congress have dismissed and fought to suppress the release of many of those files, presumably because of his presence in them. Similarly, several sponsors have pulled out of the U.K.’s West-headlining Wireless Festival; promoters of the SoFi shows faced no such problems.
The music world has a long history of forgiveness. Chris Brown still sells out arenas despite several arrests for violent behavior even after his 2009 assault on Rihanna; Eric Clapton made drunken racist comments onstage in the ‘70s but has been one of the world’s most popular rock musicians for over 50 years; Vince Neil of Motley Crue was convicted of vehicular manslaughter after a 1984 drunk-driving accident in which his friend Nicholas “Razzle” Dingley was killed — and then pleaded guilty to another DUI, 25 years later — but the band sold its catalog for $150 million in 2021. Those incidents seem only to have been minor setbacks in their careers.
On the other hand, R. Kelly and (for the moment) Diddy essentially remain canceled — and imprisoned — due to the multiple sexual-misconduct charges against them. But nearly everyone seemed to forget the horrifying allegations against Kelly after his case was initially dismissed in 2008, after years of delays in which he continued touring and selling millions of image-resetting records (remember “Trapped in the Closet”?). He remained free for a decade until, in another telling reflection of America, it took a docuseries — “Surviving R. Kelly” — to drum up public sentiment and new allegations against him, which ultimately landed him in prison. As Diddy’s release date — currently scheduled for April 15, 2028 — approaches, expect a full-scale image rehabilitation to be in effect.
West may not have physically harmed or kidnapped anyone — but for three years he stirred up and attempted to legitimize hatred against millions of people based entirely on their religion. And there lies the heart of the problem: Like Trump’s innumerable transgressions, lies and slurs, at a certain point, it’s just too big for people to wrap their heads around.
When the president can’t be canceled, virtually anything is excusable. A decade of Trump has made us so numb, so accepting of “alternate facts” and false realities, that people can actually overlook West’s hate speech.
Obviously, this rehabilitation didn’t happen by itself. After several years without a record deal, he recently partnered with Gamma, a company founded by former Apple and Interscope executive Larry Jackson. His Sofi concerts were promoted by Wave, a company partnered with Live Nation, the world’s largest live-entertainment company; Live Nation are also a promoter of the Wireless Festival in the U.K. Songs from his new album were prominently playlisted by Spotify, which rarely bans music but shows its disapproval by declining to place songs on playlists, so apparently they’re all good as well. Multiple publications, including this one, covered the shows in a non-negative way.
In the America we grew up in, no one can stop us from listening to the music or experiencing the art we want. Whether it’s R. Kelly’s music or fascist admirer Ezra Pound’s poetry or the trans-bashing J.K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter” books, it’s all an individual’s choice. But Kanye West’s jarring return to the spotlight sets a disturbing precedent.
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