It’s an August afternoon in 2013. I’m in Bushwick, standing on the JMZ platform at Myrtle and Broadway, a block and a half from the dumpy, poorly-ventilated loft I share with four friends. The second half of “I’m In It” is blaring in my headphones; the indecipherable combination of King Louie’s patois and Justin Vernon’s mumble-setto makes my hair stand on end. West’s sampled scream seems to skip in my headphones. It is with a heavy heart that I must announce that Kanye West is at it again.