References to altered states recur on Blonde, abetted mostly by marijuana, with assists from psilocybin and LSD. It’s a trippy album, and whereas the lines about lovers point Ocean outward, there are many lines about drugs, leading him deep into his own skull. The mood on Blonde oscillates in this way from light to dark, exultant to somber, following a weird logic available only to Ocean, and yet achieving a sense of sweep all the same. There are lines about sex and about its unwanted consequences: On “Solo,” accompanied by a soft-stirred organ melody, he slips stream-of-consciousness style from a line about vaping weed into a digression on the soul-killing toll of visits to “that clinic” - whether to terminate pregnancies or treat STDs, it’s not entirely clear. “I broke your heart last week,” he sings on “Ivy,” “You’ll probably feel better by the weekend.” When the chorus comes, he spits, “The start of nothing/I could hate you now.” Ocean has an extreme facility with offbeat love songs, and can distill complex emotions: “I’m not him, but I’ll mean something to you,” he sings to a lover on “Nikes,” diagramming an asymmetrical relationship in just nine words. He approaches the subject from oblique angles, time-shifting the different phases of relationships like he’s got them loaded on DVR: skipping from the blossoming of love directly into its demise, backing up a bit, leaving out big chunks. There are other moments where ugly American history crashes in - memories of how Hurricane Katrina uprooted Ocean bubble up on “Nights” - but his main preoccupation is romance. On the lead single, “Nikes,” Ocean wraps his voice in woozy distortion and pivots in the space of just two lines from blunt loverman braggadocio (“If you need dick, I got you”) to mournfulness over Trayvon Martin’s killing (“that nigga look just like me”). The album is by turns oblique, smolderingly direct, forlorn, funny, dissonant and gorgeous: a vertiginous marvel of digital-age psychedelic pop. On Blonde, dizziness is a common sensation. The Private Lives of Liza Minnelli (The Rainbow Ends Here)įlashback: Tina Turner Covers Dolly Parton, Kris Kristofferson on Debut Solo Album If all these twists and turns left observers feeling dizzy, well, isn’t that exactly how Ocean wanted it? Apple Music, meanwhile, unveiled a different Blonde, its tracklist featuring slight modifications. The title was stylized in accompanying art as the masculine blond - a grammatical tweak that gave the LP, intriguingly, two genders at once.
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A day later, pop-up stores opened across the country, stocked with copies of Ocean’s Boys Don’t Cry, a glossy zine full of poems, photos of hot cars and hot boys and, affixed to one of its pages, a CD containing an album called Blonde. The link between music and visuals was impressionistic at best, but the subtext was clear: Ocean is a craftsman, and craftsmanship requires patience. That feed gave way to Endless, a short film posted online in which dreamlike half-songs soundtracked footage cut together from the workshop sessions. It began in earnest in early August, after a string of blown deadlines and teasingly cryptic Tumblr posts: Ocean’s site crackled to life with a bare-bones video stream capturing him in a workshop, wordlessly and methodically constructing what gradually revealed itself as a staircase.
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So it’s only fitting that the roll-out for his new album, upon us at last, unfolded as a series of riddles, unpredictable detours and winks. He made his name, after all, by dodging tidy categorization, confounding expectation and disobeying prevailing rules of genre and sexuality. Even before Frank Ocean fell quiet for the better part of four years, leaving a legion of fans to wonder when - if? - he’d ever muster a follow-up to his stunning 2012 debut, Channel Orange, the New Orleans-born pop savant was one of music’s most elusive figures.
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