Blonde is definitely one of the most perplexing, contradictory, and fascinating records released by a major pop star, not just this year, but any year. Identifiable bangers of the type Ocean has churned out for others or himself, most notably on his 2011 mixtape Nostalgia Ultra are noticeably absent. The sound is subdued and introspective, full of spectral guitar and devoid of any sort of percussion, not just hefty beats. Drums are absent from more than half of the 17 tracks here.
Blonde features a roster of collaborators unlike anything else you’ll hear in 2016 such as Beyoncé, Kendrick Lamar, James Blake, Amber Coffman, and Radiohead’s Johnny Greenwood. Despite the fact that André 3000 takes center stage on Solo (Reprise), the majority of them are barely noticeable. Instead, they’re used as session musicians or low-key production hands. Beyoncé’s position on Pink + White is reduced to outro backing vocals, which, if nothing else, demonstrates admirable audacity.
Blonde tends to be a series of scribbles waiting to be pounded into form by a no-nonsense maker at first listen. Good Guy is nothing more than wobbly chords played under rushed memories of a hookup in a New York gay bar, and it all comes crashing down in under a minute. Before a passage of semi-singing, White Ferrari wanders aimlessly across a line ripped from the Beatles’ Here, There, and Everywhere. Ocean appears to have given up entirely.
Blonde’s mood is dislocated and druggy, with frequent references to marijuana and psychedelics, but the songwriting is unconventional rather than unfinished. Nights’ shapeshifting structure and Ivy’s minimalist guitar, a song in which the difference between verse and chorus is almost imperceptible can catch you off guard at first, but their subtle hooks will reward your patience. Lyrically, it’s a jumble of Creole slang and Shakespearean allusions that gradually coalesce into hazy portraits of Ocean’s youth, before fame and maturity brought unseen stresses. “We didn’t give a fuck back then,” he reminisces on Ivy. “I ain’t a kid no more, we’ll never be those kids again.”
Blonde is rife with inconsistencies, and this is yet another, how can such an ostensibly personal album be so devoid of information or revelation? These muddled signals, however, aren’t the product of haste. Blonde’s shortcomings, ambiguities, and loose ends end up being its strengths.
