It took me a long time to listen to Kanye West's Xmas moneyspinner '808s and Heartbreak'. Not because the Grammy award winning rapper-producer's latest vehicle is difficult to get into, or the review CD was scratched, but on account of the stellar second cut, 'Welcome To Heartbreak'. Much less a number on a tracklisting than a repeat button magnet, sweeping oriental strings and epic celebrity meltdown chorus ("And my head keeps spinning, I can't stop having these visions") is as close to a aural movie as you're likely to come across ? scaling the Great Wall, fighting off the barbarian hordes, pondering how fame can turn one into a hermit?

A song that leaves such a strong mental imprint is a hard act to follow, but happily, the intensity doesn't let up. From the psychedelic fairground fantasia that is 'Robocop', the melancholy 'Street Lights' cul-de-sac through to the massive singles 'Heartless' and 'Love Lockdown', Kanye has the dials turned all the way up on this one. Not an inane interlude in sight.

This is not a conventional hip-hop album. The rap duties are left to illustrious guest artists Young Jeezy and the ubiquitous Lil Wayne, as the Shaman of Chi-town does his best impression of Chris Brown, crooning down a distorted production prism. And while West isn't the man to hold you a note all night long, his vocals come across as heartfelt, a rarity in a world of empty platinum disc promises.

The overriding theme of fame as an emotional assassin is not original, but the execution is faultless. After 2007's insipid 'Graduation Day', the 31-year-old makes a welcome return to form, reasserting himself as the dominant ideologue behind the genre.

Forget about dropping out, forget about never amounting to anything, Kanye deserves an honorary doctorate with '808s', an album that deserves its place alongside TI's 'Paper Trail' and Lil Wayne's 'Tha Carter III' as one of 2008's hip-hop must-haves.

A curious thing happened at the final, hidden track. There was Mr West lamenting the pitfalls of a life less private over a symphony of mass hysteria, courtesy of some rabid Singaporean fans. Now, by rights, I should be twisting the nails into this astonishing paean to self-pity. I can't though. Try as I might, and to my eternal shame, I find myself empathising with the poor prima donna, tortured by dollars, locked in the vice-grip of groupies. "Just leave him alone!," I yell at my hi-fi. And they call this pop music.