After four years of absence in the public music scene, Frank Ocean’s “independent” release immediately earned No. 1 on charts. Following the politically charged debut of “Channel Orange,” listeners have been anxiously anticipating Ocean’s levelheaded perspective. With a rare capacity to peel back the onion layers of an issue without shedding a single tear, Ocean reveals an objective reality reminiscent in his criticism of LA culture in “Super Rich Kids.” And “Blonde” did just that. In a woozy “Nikes,” Ocean’s reintroduction brands the iconic winged logo as a metaphor for the materialistic culture he intends to reject. With helium-filled lungs, Ocean assures those who do not attempt to predict the future are “gon’ see the future first.” Ironically, Ocean prescribes his followers withdrawal as a remedy for their concerns.
In contrast to his first album’s call for marching against the offenses of society, “Blonde” quietly reflects on the tribulations of mere existence. The album’s beatless tracks lend to a meditative audience, slightly more ambiguous than “Channel Orange.”
And meditation pays off. With time, the initial “stoner” minimalism develops into a luscious melding of sounds largely dominated by an electric piano and guitar. Via acoustic plucks of “ln Control” and the soft pop of “Ivy,” Ocean’s album fittingly mimics the ebb and flow of a tide. Assisted by legends both lost and alive— The Beatles, Elliot Smith, James Blake and Bob Ludwig, to name a few— Ocean masterfully weaves their notes into his lyrics. His innovative repurpose hints at a crucial concept in “Blonde:” progression’s reliance upon the past.
Ocean revisits this concept over and over again. In his heartbroken “Self Control,” Ocean asks that his ex “keep a place for me/I’ll sleep between you.” In “Godspeed,” Ocean addresses a contradictory American narrative in its push and pull from the singularity that is “home.” And despite the temptation of “new beginnings” in “Nights,” slurred rap condemns darkness’ enabling of a new day. A man of humble beginnings, Ocean struggles to comprehend the implications of fame. His detachment captured within “Seigfried,” Ocean admits: “I’d rather live outside/rather chip my pride than lose my mind out here.”
Call it mother’s intuition. Ocean’s first interlude, “Be Yourself,” implores him to avoid marijuana and alcohol, closing with the beep of a voicemail and “this is mom/call me/bye.” Aside from the album’s trippy feel, drug references interwoven throughout suggest their influence upon Ocean’s sense of alienation. Directly following the interlude, “Solo,” in its church organ infused goodness, reflects upon the universes’ resistance toward him shutting it out. And yet, an arrest cannot deter him from the perspectives gained in mental solitude.
Manipulating the common idiom, “mind over matter/it is magic” encourages transcendence of a material world. With the assistance of an ethereal Justin Vernon, Ocean’s “White Ferrari” reminds us that “walls that hold us in prison” are “just a skull.”
The album ends with spliced up interviews of Frank’s friends and brother in their youth. They discuss the present and the future with an indisputable romance— romance that deteriorates with the passage of time. But perhaps Frank does resemble the “god” he simultaneously accepts and rejects as himself in “Futura Free.” Despite the inherent sadness that accompanies maturity, Frank offers hope to those who can reflect upon the past. Ultimately, an unearthing of youthful ignorance, pure of societal corruption, enables escape from the confines of our own creation.