An infinite azure of romantic wilderness encompasses Frank as he tentatively steps into a realm of insecurity and shallow endings. The near- drumless masterpiece, bobs rhythmically to the slow tempo of an orca’s heartbeat. A deviation from nostalgia, Blonde deals with an episodic present. Each song, a facet to Frank’s growing anonymity, a beacon into the understated complexities that comes with being a bisexual man in a world that doesn’t quite understand the value of his orientation. I thought that I was dreaming, when you said you loved me Frank laments on Ivy, exuding a blotch of yearning, a past love in which both players were far from flawless. His cryptic articulation remains a potent style of storytelling which seeps its way into his choice in production. Blonde bears no sense of immediacy, a dainty echo that pleads you to listen closer, as the lyrical substance can appear superficial at first, but marry together beautifully after a lengthy period of digestion.
The palette of Blonde, unlike Channel ORANGE whose international flair painted a story spanning both time and space, is far more insular and selective akin to Sol LeWitt, where colour booms in blank spaces. The otherness that finds itself integrated masterfully, such as the electric panache of Andre 3000 on Solo (Reprise) or the light rose fragranced hues of Beyonce’s late vocals on Pink + White. Frank’s continuous reference to “white” parallels his headspace, withdrawn and cloudy. A man that can supposedly do no wrong is deeply conflicted, he struggles to remain on the same plane as his peers and potential love interests- Wish we’d grown up on the same advice/ And our time was right, a crushing sense of helplessness, poetic and cruel. Sexual exploration remains a narrow and almost taboo subject of discussion, leading many queer people to have to regain the momentum of puberty later in life, while others are already far more experienced. The distorted shrill vocals are a sonic testament to the “whiteness” that Frank is attempting to communicate. Good Guy is a heartbreaker. Shaky and drunken, understated devastation at the prospect of love only for it to be thwarted by differing intentions. A pocket into the carnivorous secret world of hollow egos and passing attraction.
The pounding low lit club bass, swallowed wholly by a dizzying chemical imbalance, the threshold seldom reached, the rushing blood marries artfully to the theatrical crescendo of Pretty Sweet; a chance encounter, futile and dreamy, leaves a pensive scar underneath Frank’s Chanel shirt as he moves back into the conscious realm and re-joins his compadres at the party. The weighty length between Blonde and Channel ORANGE was not spent lollygagging. A deeply layered eulogy of the events leading up to the release. Sonically mastered, mentally unfinished, the longing stretches of whimpering agony cement an ongoing crisis. The constant vocal inflections, departing from one sound to another, reimagine the players creating the stories, the angel and demon that listen closely on his shoulders. The beauty lies in the spaces in-between: the pauses, the rare sporadic notes and unorthodox rhythm schemes. Detailing Blonde’s identity will only breed discontent, as the album, much like emotions, colours and sexuality, is a spectrum of wildly real yet fluid concepts that will continue to develop and unravel as time goes on.
zoid media 