Truthfully, I was first introduced to Frank Ocean’s music in middle school through an app called
Musical.ly. To my recollection, his song Chanel was trending, and I would consistently scroll past
videos of people dancing to its lyrics. I thought the song was catchy and even memorized its
tagline (“I see both sides like Chanel”), but I didn’t think twice about it or Ocean himself.
It wasn’t until 2021, while I was a freshman in high school, that I fully listened to a Frank Ocean
album. The aforementioned album was his 2016 release Blonde, an album that I would argue is
focused on Ocean’s masculinity and its intersection with his bisexuality. Throughout the piece,
listeners hear lyrics dedicated to feelings of loss and grief in relation to relationships or even his
childhood. There is a vulnerability and fundamentally human experience found in the album that
has drawn millions of people to it since its release date; for me, almost every song on it quickly
became a staple in my listening rotation. As a freshman entering a new life stage and losing
connections back home, Ocean’s lyrics about growing up felt especially apt. It was also affirming
to hear such sensitivity come from a Black artist, specifically a Black male artist, especially in
the aftermath of George Floyd’s murder and the larger backdrop of the Black Lives Matter
movement.
When I learned Ocean was no longer making music, I was surprised and subsequently
disappointed. To me, it was illogical and unfair that such a musical powerhouse was suddenly
no longer creating art. In fact, I felt angry—I just discovered an artist that I like, finished his
discography, and that was suddenly it. I joined in on the jokes about Ocean coming out of
retirement, talked with friends about how much we missed new songs, and stalked Twitter
whenever there was a rumour of a new single. Unfortunately, these activities were in vain as his
last release was in 2020—a year before I even completely finished one of his albums.
Looking back, this attitude wasn’t fair to Ocean or his music. Per the Los Angeles Times,
Ocean’s 18-year-old brother—Ryan Moore—passed away in a single-vehicle collision in 2020.
Ocean and Moore were reported to have a close relationship, which makes it reasonable to
assume his death had a significant impact on Ocean. An impact so large that it would severely
affect his ability to produce and create music for his fans. If this is the case, Ocean’s absence
from the music industry is understandable; I would argue anyone in the limelight would take a
step back if something so heartbreaking happened to them.
However, for argument’s sake, let’s propose Moore’s death did not play a role in Ocean’s
musical departure. Is it truly incomprehensible to think and accept that Ocean took a break
away from the music industry simply because he felt like it? And if so, what does that say about
our relationship with creatives and music?
Throughout time, music has been used as a means of creative expression and shows some part
of the musician. While each artist can decide how personal they want to get in their songs,
some sort of vulnerability almost always reveals itself to listeners. In my opinion, by allowing
themselves to be vulnerable, musicians then give their listeners an avenue to be vulnerable as
well. That’s the reason why we listen to Adele during a terrible breakup, Drake during an
energetic pregame, or Noah Kahan during a New England hike; music has the ability to hold an
emotional or situational mirror to our current experiences.
It is this connection that causes us to be so selfish with artists. We listen to and resonate with
their music so much that it causes us to forget they are humans too. They love, grieve, cry, and
experience loss just like the rest of us. While it would make for great music, it would ultimately
be unfair to ask them to release new songs when they’re going through life just like the rest of
us.
It doesn’t help that we are seeing an increasing amount of comeback tours from artists that
either should have retired ages ago or decided to come out of retirement. Often, these tours
aren’t even about the music, but rather about generating nostalgia to sell out shows and
generate profit. The vulnerability from the music is no longer there and is replaced instead by
corporate greed. Their music isn’t allowed to gracefully rest, but rather forced back into the
mainstream.
Or maybe, it is indicative of a larger cultural problem that our society is facing. For many,
something ending is so heartbreaking that we completely disregard the good moments we had
while it existed. The ending leaves a foul mark on the entire experience, instead of being a
closing to a story. Even though I am still working on cementing this belief myself, I would argue
the possibility of something ending or something ending entirely – whether it be a friendship,
relationship, or musical run – gives it meaning. It makes you look back on your experience with
a fondness that wouldn’t be there if you had it forever. It makes you grateful for the
relationships you have now, knowing you could possibly lose them at any moment. It makes you
appreciate the music that your favorite artist is currently putting out.
Ocean’s current discography has more emotion since he probably won’t be releasing more
music. It makes belting Thinking About You in the car with your friends more enjoyable and
crying to Ivy in your bed more sorrowful. It gives the experiences more emotional weight.
You can’t guarantee that your favorite artist won’t announce their retirement tomorrow. You can’t
guarantee that your closest friendship won’t suddenly combust into flames. You can’t guarantee
that your childhood sweetheart won’t break it off with you. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s the
lack of certainty that makes the experience ever more meaningful.