It turns out when you take a living person and build them into a myth, they might not return for you on time, or they might not return for you at all. There is no drink that will satisfy this moment’s eager and open mouth. This is the Frank Ocean tipping point, the one that we have been racing toward since we convinced ourselves that Channel Orange was more than just an album. But I am interested in the point where thirst gives itself over to the wildest edges of our imagination and becomes unquenchable. I care very little about what carries Frank Ocean to the wood shop, or what he may or may not have been building.
I am strictly interested in thirst and the manners in which it manifests. Frank Ocean has become a blank room, which we can decorate any way we choose. Instead of a discussion or appreciation of the music that exists, the talk is now of the empty space the music has left. I know many people who talk about Channel Orange and few people who still listen to it.
When an album was beloved upon its release, imagine, then, what becomes of it once time sinks its teeth into that album and pushes down on it. When I hear and read and talk about Channel Orange now, it barely sounds like an album, more like a machine of inevitable greatness. I found it bloated in spots, but still worthy of praise. Some of the songs were great, and others were lacking, sacrificing quality for concept. Very little of the talk about Channel Orange, then or especially now, is about how it holds up as a collection of actual songs. The music was R&B in flimsy classification only I was drawn to its casual and effortless stretching of genre. His very clear and obvious ear for songwriting, which existed before the album, seemed to turn a sharp corner all at once. When I think about all of the things I enjoyed about 2012’s Channel Orange, I cannot detach myself from its underlying aesthetic - the way it relied on clear and detailed narratives to evoke emotion, as opposed to resting every emotion on home-run vocals.
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