Dec 22

Dec 22 11.

Frank Ocean - Blonde

[Boys Don't Cry]

Frank Ocean’s last album, 2012’s Channel ORANGE, was a smash hit world-fame courting album. It affected everyone, from the rabid young Odd Future fanbase, to snooty critics, to whiteboys like me. Whether it was the musicality, the groove, the cutting lyricism or just that fucking voice, something hooked everyone to it. But beneath it all was Frank, a fragile mind, recently come out, still learning to deal with fame and fortune. So 4 years later, and after years of speculation he finally drops 2 albums, Endless, a bonus album full of great little bits, and Blonde, the official follow up to the mammoth Channel ORANGE.

So how does Ocean open an album with unbelievable amounts of anticipation and expectation? Pitch-shifting that remarkable voice into a frail quaver, “these bitches want Nikes,” a casual remark towards consumerism, then continues on into his normal voice to discuss Trayvon Martin, being plagued by demons, and handing over the last verse to KOHH, who raps in Japanese. Are the actions of a man who is extremely confident or extremely lost? The answer is both, because throughout Ocean never presents anything but his honest self, thoughts and feelings. It results in an album that is not as immediate nor as hook-filled as Channel ORANGE, but one that reads like a diary of his trials and triumphs of the last 4 years of stratospheric fame.

Second track “Ivy” is a perfect example of what makes Blonde so great. Over simplistic Alex G watery guitars, Frank divulges about an ex: “I thought I was dreaming when you said you loved me,” he starts, and then tracks the dissolution to the point where he admits “it’s quite alright to hate me now,” and then counters this with the joyous exclamation “we still know the feeling deep down is good!” I could go through every lyric on the album and it would somehow show you Frank’s frankness (sorry) towards his audience. Highlights include the lonely hedonism of “Solo” (“two grams when the sun rise, smoking good rolling solo”); the internet date of the glitchy and intimate “Good Guy” (“you text nothing like you look / here’s to the gay bay you took me to”); indulgent escapism of “Nights” (“Shut the fuck up I don’t want your conversation / rolling marijuana that’s a cheap vacation”); considerations of the results of his success in the soul-searching “Seigried” (“Maybe I’m a fool to settle for a place with nice views / Maybe I should move, settle down with two kids and a swimming pool”).

I could literally go on for so long. Some people will obviously miss the swagger of his previous output, but the soul of his music – to which his voice is so perfectly attuned – has never been more tangible. The honesty of the longing, existentialism, egoism and fears make it seem like Frank is right there in the room, singing to just you from his personal memories, which you feel special to be privy to. You can’t help but feel a swoon of love when he addresses his mother (and his fans) on the final track:

“Now I’m making 400, 600, 800k momma,

To stand on my feet momma,

Play these songs, it’s therapy momma,

I should be paying them,

I should be paying y’all, honest to God.”

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Below you can see my top 50 albums of the year list.