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“It’s just me and no you/Stayed up ‘til my phone died, smoking good, rolling solo,” he sings vacantly in the final verse, admitting his ambivalence about being alone. On “Solo” Ocean extols the virtues of solitude, but never sounds convinced. When Ocean opens the album with “These bitches want Nikes/They looking for a check/Tell ‘em it ain’t likely,” a heavy disappointment slips through that steely coldness. There’s an acute loneliness at the heart of all these vocal tweaks and flighty exploits. It’s as if Ocean is so determined to not be defined that he extends in all directions at once, his voice his only lifeline. “I’m not brave!” he shouts on the latter, reluctant to be an icon. “Ivy” and “Seigfried,” his best performances to date, somehow topping “Bad Religion,” are just plain sterling. “Good Guy” sounds like a glitchy Skype call, Ocean’s voice barely breaking through. The opening vocals on “Nikes” flow like a jetstream, compacted and shrill.
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Throughout, Ocean’s voice is pure fluid: it compresses, expands, dilutes and stretches. The only thing stabilizing this chaos is a folk sensibility: a persistent emphasis on the power of the voice. Surf rock transforms into new wave that morphs into electrosoul that evaporates into vaporwave. Blonde is thoroughly radioactive, always unstable. channel ORANGE may have been eclectic, but it was clearly an R&B record. On Blonde past and present are nonexistent: time is blurred into oblivion, everything happening at once. On channel ORANGE the thrill of the grandiose “Pyramids” was how the song connected past and present through shared names and symbols. “Pink + White” juxtaposes escaping from floodwaters with recovering from heartbreak, never firmly establishing which one is the metaphor. “Signal going in and out,” Ocean sings, unsure of where or when he is. “Nights” drunkenly stumbles from a choppy phone conversation with a former lover into a sullen midnight stroll and then a sober recollection of Ocean’s life after Hurricane Katrina. Throughout the album, Ocean flits in and out of memories and relationships, replacing the set pieces of channel ORANGE with slipstream vignettes.
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Blonde is just as evasive-Ocean obscures his face on the album cover-but it’s his most resonant work yet, constantly pushing past profound alienation to connect, however fleetingly, to something, someone. His absence from public life has been so absolute that it has spawned memes, conspiracy theories and fan fiction about him being seen IRL. Ocean has mostly existed in suspended animation in the interim between channel ORANGE and Blonde, leaving his fortress of solitude for the occasional feature or broadcasting his thoughts from within its dungeons via oblique tumblr dispatches. It was if he had built a bridge to an island entirely of his own design and all people talked about was the bridge’s suspension cables. It certainly wasn’t a PR disaster-the album eventually went platinum-but for Frank, it had to be maddening: somehow a tiny blog post, an aside, really, eclipsed the grand vision that the post was meant to enrich. The album itself was more concerned with rich dimensions of love, loss and longing than rote sexuality, but Ocean’s sexuality utterly dominated how people talked about the album. Prompted by a tumblr note published the week of the album release, that reaction had little to do with the music. Before it was recognized as a sprawling masterpiece, Frank Ocean’s debut album channel ORANGE was pigeonholed as an overhyped album about coming out of the closet.
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