Kanye is the best there is, and he’s still not as good as he thinks he is. Has there ever been another great album this bitter, this entitled, this abrasively unsatisfied — or this self-aware about it? (See its most-quoted joke: “In a French-ass restaurant/Hurry up with my damn croissants.”) Yeezus is brief, spare, nasty, and as charismatic as a cult leader. Its music grinds sourly or lurches like an old rollercoaster; West’s voice drips contempt or hides behind frigid Auto-Tune effects. But Yeezus, has he ever got raw power.