Kanye West has never been afraid to show the world what a mess he is. The hip-hopper's debut was called The College Dropout. He's made a habit of storming off and onto awards-show stages. He just got arrested for brawling with the paparazzi. And he openly longs to be America's next Elvis, fully aware of the cruel trappings that come with that tragic Kingdom.

It's these glaring imperfections that make West one of the most fascinating (confounding, irritating) artists in pop. You might hate him because he's a head case; I love him for that very same reason.

Our mutual opinions probably won't change much with the arrival of cracked confessional 808s & Heartbreak, his fourth album and a solemn departure from his club-banging cut-ups. Decades from now (yes, decades), when we judge West on a remarkable career, this 11-track album will stand out as an anomaly, a polarizer among fans. If you're expecting Stronger and Gold Digger, keep walking.

I was prepared to dislike 808s & Heartbreak myself. As West deals with both the death of his mother (the liner notes are a poster of son kissing mom) and the public dissolution of his engagement to designer Alexis Phifer, the star hides behind the effects of Auto-Tune, the popular pitch-correction software that makes his brash, sloppy delivery suddenly sound no more human than the HAL 9000. On the song Street Lights, he's not just a computer, but a crashing one, fuzzed and broken. First single Love Lockdown is like a futuristic take on Fleetwood Mac's Tusk.

West tells us he doesn't need money or cars or clothes; the dude needs solace, and fast. He's a wreck, and it turns out that his search for peace sounds like a trippy Alan Parsons record. Even odder, it's a breakup album in which you actually side with the dumpee. (Run, Alexis, as fast as you can.) As Kanye proceeds to sing more than rap, he's almost begging people to turn their backs.

And yet, as strange as anything else on this album, the Auto-Tune works, as do the Martian keyboards and New Wavey beats, the spacey soundscapes and percussive blasts. On Welcome to Heartbreak, over a buzzing base of icy strings and nerdy synth washes, he robo-croons: ''My friend shows me pictures of his kids / And all I can show him is pictures of my cribs / He said his daughter got a brand-new report card / And all I got was a brand-new sports car.'' It's a moving moment even if it is set in the year 3000.

On a bonus track, he equates himself to Pinocchio, longing to ''be a real boy.'' By then, it's pretty clear that West isn't sure who he is anymore. Human? Robot? Prince? He's chasing Elvis at any price, and if that means being more plugged into his soundboard than his heart, so be it. (West's heartbeat has also been modernized, or at least made as modern as Atari's Pong bleeps.)

It's telling that he sounds most like himself on the dizzy '80s funk of Paranoid, the album's closest thing to a party jam. As a jester, he can relax. He opens the song with laughter, the first time we hear West (1) without the Auto-Tune mask and (2) happy.

But on the exceptional RoboCop, the most telling new track, he's back to bitter, comparing his life to a Stephen King book as Eleanor Rigby-esque strings chirp in the background. About an ex flame, he says: ''Just looking at your history / You're like the girl from Misery.'' The song closes with him repeating the cold kiss-off, ''You spoiled little L.A. girl.''

It'd be easy to say that reviewing 808s & Heartbreak is like critiquing a brand-new artist. It's a synthetic space opera; it's about sitting and pondering, not dancing and partying. But give it time, and the album sounds more like Kanye West than ever before. Mr. Mess just got messier.