For all the mythology built around Ye (formerly Kanye West) as a singular genius, the most convincing argument for his influence has always been crowded with other people. Look closely at almost any important period of his career and somebody else is standing there: a rapper he produced for, an artist he signed, a voice he pulled unexpectedly onto a record, a peer who challenged him, a protégé who eventually became a superstar or a collaborator with whom the relationship became almost as famous as the music they made together. At Soldier Field this week, Ye managed to put an astonishing amount of that history in one place, making a compelling case that one of his greatest contributions to hip-hop might be the world he built around himself.
That world has hardly been harmonious. Friendships have fractured, G.O.O.D. Music relationships have soured and collaborators have criticised Ye publicly, often receiving plenty in return. Yet, across two nights in Chicago, the distance between those chapters seemed to collapse: Big Sean and 2 Chainz performed “Clique” and “Mercy”; Rick Ross returned for “Devil in a New Dress”; CyHi resurfaced for “So Appalled”; Twista took things back to “Slow Jamz” and “Overnight Celebrity”; Lupe Fiasco performed “Touch the Sky”; Chief Keef brought “Love Sosa” and “I Don’t Like”; and Common, Consequence, GLC, Really Doe, Future, Travis Scott, Young Thug and Don Toliver all moved through the stage before Kid Cudi arrived, bringing one of Ye’s most complicated creative relationships into the homecoming too.
Seeing the names written together almost misses what made it so good, because these artists don't belong to one Ye era, and they certainly don't belong to one version of hip-hop. Twista and Chief Keef alone represent radically different moments in Chicago rap history, while Travis Scott belongs to a generation that came of age after many of the musical risks Ye helped push into the mainstream, whereas Consequence and GLC were there when Kanye West was still fighting to convince the industry that the guy making the beats could also be the guy making the album. What made Soldier Field interesting was precisely that none of this history arrived neatly organised; instead, more than two decades of it seemed to keep walking onto the stage.
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There was something fitting about Ye’s hometown becoming the place where those timelines could meet. Twista performing “Slow Jamz” more than two decades after the song helped establish West as a rapper offered one kind of homecoming, while Lupe returning for “Touch the Sky” offered another. Chief Keef performing “I Don’t Like,” after Ye helped turn the song into a G.O.O.D. Music posse cut in 2012, completed a different circle entirely, connecting Ye with a generation that would transform Chicago rap after his own ascent. The city was not merely the location of these concerts; its evolving rap history was part of what made them matter.
The G.O.O.D. Music appearances carried a different kind of nostalgia. There was a period when a Ye posse cut felt like its own event, when “Mercy,” “Clique” or a G.O.O.D. Friday release could make his extended musical universe seem impossibly exciting. The intervening years made hearing those records again more interesting than a straightforward throwback, however, because the artists involved had become stars themselves, pursued separate careers and, in certain cases, fallen spectacularly out with the person who originally brought them together.
Big Sean provided the weekend’s most obvious example. Ye signed him to G.O.O.D. Music in 2007, but their relationship eventually deteriorated so badly that, during a 2021 appearance on Drink Champs, Ye described signing Sean as “the worst thing” he had ever done. Sean subsequently challenged Ye’s account of their relationship and aired frustrations of his own, which made their reunion at Soldier Field particularly striking. Ye introduced Sean as his “homie from the D” before the pair performed “Clique”; Sean then delivered the wonderfully awkward-in-context “I Don’t Fuck With You,” and 2 Chainz joined them for “Mercy.” By the end of the appearance, Sean had told Ye that he loved and appreciated him, with Ye returning the sentiment. Watching them enjoy the records they had once made together said more than a grand declaration of reconciliation could have.
Kid Cudi’s appearance carried even more emotional history. Their creative partnership has produced some of the most adventurous music in either artist’s catalogue, while their friendship has also broken down publicly more than once. Cudi’s contributions around 808s & Heartbreak, their subsequent collaborations and eventually Kids See Ghosts made him much more than another artist in Ye’s orbit, which is why seeing him embrace Ye before they performed “Father Stretch My Hands, Pt. 1” and “Ghost Town” carried such weight. There was no need to pretend their history had been uncomplicated; the years of friendship, disagreement and reconciliation were precisely what made the moment affecting.
Those appearances also highlighted something Ye’s reputation for singular genius can obscure: his greatest records have always depended heavily on collaboration, and much of his talent has been in recognising what somebody else can contribute to an idea. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy remains perhaps the grandest example, its maximalism emerging from an enormous cast of musicians, producers and rappers whose contributions could occupy an entire verse or last only a few seconds. Soldier Field effectively allowed an audience to see that creative instinct rather than simply hear it.
Celebrating that musical history, however, cannot mean treating the more disturbing parts of Ye’s recent history as another feud to be folded into a story about complicated relationships. His repeated antisemitic remarks and embrace of Nazi imagery are categorically different from disagreements with former friends or collaborators, and their seriousness is not diminished because some of those relationships have since been repaired. Nor should the presence of so many artists beside him in Chicago be interpreted as collective absolution; who chooses to reconcile with Ye personally is separate from the harm caused by rhetoric directed at an entire community.
At the same time, acknowledging Ye’s musical influence is not the same as excusing his behaviour, and Soldier Field demonstrated why both realities have to exist in any honest assessment of his legacy. The influence of 808s & Heartbreak does not disappear because its creator later made antisemitic statements, just as the music Ye made with Big Sean or Kid Cudi does not cease to matter because those relationships fractured. The harder, and more useful, task is to reckon with the work without allowing admiration for it to soften the seriousness of everything that followed.
That tension is ultimately what made Chicago worth considering beyond the spectacle of who might walk out next. Some of the people onstage had been there near the beginning, others entered Ye’s story much later, and several had long since built influential careers of their own. Over two nights in the city where his own career began, those histories briefly converged again, revealing both the extraordinary reach of Ye’s musical legacy and the complicated reality in which it now exists.
Ye’s independently produced global stadium run is being executed in the U.S. alongside IKON Presents, with the Chicago weekend alone drawing approximately 142,000 fans across two nights, according to organizers.
Courtesy of Mary Austin 
Linda Ramone and John Travolta Sean Sabhasaigh/Getty Images
