In 2010, Los Angeles hip-hop collective Odd Future started to make waves. Buoyed by front-man Tyler, The Creator’s shock-value lyrics and off-the-wall humor, the group acquired a cult following. Depending on your point of view, Odd Future’s heavy use of slurs and intimations of violence were either markers of homophobia and irresponsibility, or tongue-in-cheek expressions of adolescent angst steeped in irony. In any event, one member of the group stood apart from the rest. More mature than his peers, Christopher Breaux hovered around the edges. Where Odd Future’s ethos was to rap and have a good time, he stood apart as a singer-songwriter and vocal talent. And when he dropped Nostalgia, Ultra as Frank Ocean, it all started to make sense.
Singing and rapping over Coldplay, MGMT, the Eagles and others, Ocean paints narratives of love, loss and excess. The mixtape’s emotional high-point — the flashing-lights whirl of “Novacane” — and lowest point — the heartbroken fade to black “Swim Good” — cemented Frank Ocean as an expert storyteller and opened the door to his next project.
Nearly a week before the release of Ocean’s debut studio album Channel Orange, he penned a Tumblr post reflecting on his unrequited love for a male friend. As an institution and culture, hip-hop has traditionally been very heteronormative and homophobic. Ocean’s de facto coming out sparked a flurry of discussion — but when the album dropped, everyone who stopped talking to listen was rewarded.
A fusion of R&B, hip-hop, jazz and lush synths, Channel Orange was a study in contrast. Sexuality and gender are alternately conflated and ripped apart over the course of the project as Ocean wanders through a set of societal lenses, never stopping long enough for the listener to get comfortable. The album both sold well (it was No. 2 on Billboard’s Top 200) and was universally critically acclaimed. And then Frank Ocean disappeared.
That was 2012. Over the next four years, us Frank Ocean fans slowly starved. A feature on Jay Z’s Magna Carta Holy Grail here, a chorus on the soundtrack of The Great Gatsby there. The occasional blog post. This year, a short verse on a remix of Kanye West’s “Wolves,” presumably sent in by pigeon from Ocean’s cabin deep in the wilderness, was about it. And when hope was all but lost, he came back.
This month, he released Endless, a 45-minute visual album. He released a coffee table-style magazine. And, pivotally, he released Blonde — his second studio album.
Our culture of consumerism has turned music into a commodity and artists into the means of production. I’m guilty. But music — particularly good music — can’t just be cranked out, it seems. Fans do a disservice to artists when they try to rush the process. The wait, in my experience, is usually worth it.
And here we are: The album is out. It’s remarkable. I won’t say anything more. To the veterans of the Frank Ocean bandwagon, congratulations. We did it. Newcomers, join us. Remember that he doesn’t owe us anything. Enjoy the ride.
Jack Siglin is a senior physiology and neurobiology major. He can be reached at jsiglindbk@gmail.com.
