9.0

GENRE: R&B/Pop    
YEAR OF RELEASE: 2012

An observer extraordinaire, Frank Ocean captures small details of life, of people, of daily scenes and freezes them, turning each little frame into a movie of its own. On his major label debut, Channel Orange, these scenes are put onto gigantic screens—a taxi ride becomes a forbidden love manifesto, materialistic kids become characters in a sad drama, heartbreak inside a car on a rainy day becomes an optimistic perspective on eternal first love. While on Nostalgia, Ultra, his debut mixtape released for free a year before, Ocean embodied most of his stories by re-voicing songs from other artists, on his first proper LP, he employs his slinky vocals over mostly original productions—“Fertilizer” is a cover of Californian singer James Fauntleroy’s homonymous song, and there are some subtle samples and interpolations over the record.

Weaving nonmusical sounds as interludes into the album’s narrative and mixing them in electro-funk, pop-soul, jazz-funk, and psychedelic arrangements, Ocean departs from the pop-leaning R&B sounds of his first mixtape and dives deep into more eclectic waters that range from guitar solos (some of which are played by John Mayer) to neo-soul vibratos and live drums. His songwriting, too, is different on Channel Orange: his nostalgia turns into half-fiction stories told with lenient empathy. With superbly written songs, he depicts dark characters and talks candidly—sometimes metaphorically, sometimes literally—about unreciprocated love, class, struggles with sexuality, drugs, and decay through descriptive narrative.

Ocean uses surrealistic imagery on Channel Orange, but his songwriting never gets overwhelming. When he warbles long cinematic verses like, “As we march to the rhythm on the palace floor/chandeliers inside the pyramids tremble from the force/cymbals crash inside the pyramids,” he does it without any rush in a 10-minute long song. But he never slouches: his voice alternates from free-form flow to falsettos to tenor registers, and maybe that’s why the record doesn’t feel tiring. With the dynamism of his delivery and the effortless inflection of his timbre, he catches your attention and keeps you interested in what he’ll say next, and with his melodies, he grabs your gaze and refuses to let go. Take “Pilot Jones,” where he sings of toxic love in a song where distorted synthesizers and prismatic keyboards create a tuneful atmosphere you can’t escape from.

Channel Orange is built from Ocean’s penchant for telling stories, but it rapidly unfurls the singer’s panaromic opinions on delicate matters. In his tales, most of which are inspired by (but not necessarily based on) his own experiences and of those around him, the characters are never judged. Instead, Ocean sings from their perspective, sometimes confusing listeners about whether he’s singing about himself—so big is his commitment to making justice for his subject matters. When he reflects on America’s “war on drugs” on “Crack Rock,” he talks from the perspective of an addict, inspired by his attendance at NA and AA meetings with his late grandfather. With “Lost,” he tells the story of a drug dealer’s girlfriend who spirals into a lavish lifestyle derived from illegal money over. She is helpless, but the bright melody, made up of bouncy indie-rock rhythm, narcotic bass melody, and whistling synths, contrasts her story.

All these drug-related problems that he sings of are derived from social injustice and inequality. With the sardonic trilogy “Sweet Life,” “Not Just Money,” and “Super Rich Kids,” Ocean makes a cinematic critique of class and consumerism embellished by thumping pianos and French horns. The first is about how money and wealth make people aloof toward problems happening outside their houses; the second is an interlude about the value of cash and the stability it can bring; on the third, the Earl Sweatshirt-aided “Super Rich Kids,” he gives you setting, characters, and tone, singing and rapping with astonishing gumption about the luxurious and empty lives of kids recklessly partying and wasting their parents’ money.

In some of the songs, Ocean’s lyricism points explicitly to himself. On “Sierra Leone,” he sings about sex and unwanted pregnancy, revisits the theme of fatherhood seen on Nostalgia, Ultra, references John Lennon (who became a stay-at-home dad), and reflects upon the paternal love he didn’t have. On the atmospheric and tender “Thinkin Bout You,” he keeps his cool to talk about a dusty old love with a breathy, falsettoed chorus. During the guitar-tinged bridge, the helplessness of his voice pushes your head down your own memory lane. On “Bad Religion,” Ocean signals at a man as his love interest for the first time in his career. “I can never make him love me/Never make him love me,” he croons about his forbidden, nonreciprocal love on what is perhaps the best and saddest song of his career. On “Pink Matter,” he metaphorically suggests discovering his sexuality (“Now I ain't got no choice/Blue matter”).

To be a good storyteller, one must be an excellent spectator. It takes real sensibility to see beauty in the small, often overlooked details of life and turn them into songs that pinch the corners of your soul and thump the floors of your heart. Ocean does just that. He knows which programmed beats will make your computer vibrate and which live drums will make you tap your feet involuntarily. He knows when it’s time to impress, when it’s time to seduce, and when it’s time to shatter your heart into a million pieces. And the stories he tells, though diverse, are not uncommon. Perhaps that’s why Channel Orange has made so many Best Albums of All Time lists and found a home in so many people’s hearts—everyone can find a song on it to identify themselves with. After all, some way or another, we’ve all been there.

Listen to Channel Orange: