Ten years ago, Frank Ocean told us we’re not that different. From a window seat thousands of feet in the sky, somewhere between New Orleans and L.A., the musician summed up life on earth in a few, aching lines. “Human beings spinning on blackness,” he wrote. “All wanting to be seen, touched, heard, paid attention to.”
These words open Frank’s historic July 4, 2012 Tumblr post, originally intended to serve as the liner notes to his groundbreaking debut album Channel Orange. As it turned out, the artist would share his thank yous (and much more) sooner than planned, revealing a story of “malignant love” tinged with unstable desire, endless summer nights, and blossoming queerness. “To my first love, I’m grateful for you. Grateful that even though it wasn’t what I hoped for and even though it was never enough, it was,” he wrote. “I won’t forget you. I won’t forget the summer.”
A decade later, Frank has kept his promise.
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Today, Frank Ocean’s discography offers abundance when it comes to careful, emotionally layered renderings of falling in and out of love. In addition to the standouts of his studio releases, which largely approach queerness through a gauzier lens than his singles, we now have the playful tea-spilling of “Chanel” and the unadulterated sexuality of “DHL.” His following among queer and trans audiences is as prolific as it is ardent. For years, we have delighted as much in the music itself as the world it creates — a world in which we debate nostalgia, Ultra versus Channel Orange versus Blonde, where we revere the great heist that was his release of Endless, where we trade iconic remixes, live reworkings, unreleased material, and in-studio videos of the artist at work.
And it all started six days after Frank shared his truth with the world, when he released Channel Orange, a prismatic work brimming with expertly drawn characters, timeless grooves, and, yes, tender riffs on the pangs of queer longing. If Ocean pledged to never forget his first love in his open letter, lyrics like, “This unrequited love/ To me it’s nothing but a one-man cult and cyanide in my styrofoam cup/ I could never make him love me,” ensured that neither would we.
