Morning Coffee Music: Boys Don't Cry

Revisiting Blond or Blonde by Frank Ocean

In 2016, I was a card-carrying passenger on Chicago's Transit Authority, which may be why I did not treasure Frank Ocean's psychedelic, introspective sophomore project, Blonde or Blond. For the sake of ease, I will call the album Blonde.

When the album's lead single, "Nikes," crept onto radio waves in the last great summer I can remember, my ears sobbed. Grieved by the lofty beat and the Stevie Wondered vocal performance, I decided Frank Ocean did not create this album for me. Channel Orange was, and is, one of my favorite albums because of its precise clarity. Channel Orange is explorative, pondering, and exact, unlike Blonde. At the time, Blonde felt like listening to a friend who could never finish their sentence, like sonic edging - afraid of climax. But maybe I did not enjoy Blonde in 2016 because I heard it on a train, not in a car.

On May 14th, 2025, I landed at Chicago's O'Hare Airport as a newly appointed visitor. Still floating from the essence of the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds, I headed to pick up my rental car. Blown away by its emotional depth, instrumentation, and deliberation, I added Pet Sounds to my favorite album listens of the year list. After grabbing the keys to my temporary Jeep Wrangler, I connected my phone to CarPlay and scrolled through Apple Music to play "Don't Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder)." This is a stretched-out yawn of a song with a little percussion. I could sense remnants of Frank Ocean through Brian Wilson's composition. So I decided to give Blonde another try.

I think I needed to listen to Blonde in a car.

Frank Ocean, a nomadic Southerner like me, is familiar with cars; often animating Ferraris or memorializing Hondas in his sometimes languid music. He compares his lovers to fast cars, and recalls family day trips in New Orleans before water swallowed the city, scattering its people across the nation. And I understand it. The South is generally unwalkable. Our cars become our safety nets. Our cars double, or triple, as places where we sneak into adulthood, experiment with stoned thoughts, flirt with our neighbor, and bump that real good shit. In listening to Blonde, we bear witness to Ocean's attempts at navigating masculinity, heartbreak, loss, celebrity, fame, and triumph. At times, it seems we eavesdrop on a private admission or a fading confession, only to be gifted complete lucidity with the next track.

Listening to Blonde in a car allowed the tenderness of "Ivy" to seep into my pores. I could understand his words now. Now that I have loved and lost many times again, I understand what it means to dream of love; to be shaken by the brutal reality that love existed vibrant only in my mind. And I asked my sweet God above, similar to how Frank asked on “Godspeed,” how could I release unrequited desire? I remember how: I creaked my hands open to deliver myself from the pain of a changed mind; I just cried until the feelings died as tears on my kitchen floor. And "White Ferrari" is a song child of my favorite band, The Beatles. Frank interpolates "Here, There, and Everywhere," the fifth track from their best, yes best, album, Revolver. Both songs, obsessed with love, lovers, and the sweetness of desire, explore the permanent sentiment of an eternal crush. I get that now. Some crushes never go away. The butterflies live on.

In 2016, when Blonde first hit the scene, I didn't own a car. Perhaps the noise of the CTA distracted me from being in tune with longing, lost, loving lust. I could not rest my head against the window to remember love's tender touch. Maybe I was too high to connect with how wanting left me raw. And I wasn't successful yet, so I couldn't relate to wrestling with the privilege of being paid to do what I love, not yet. But now, I can sit in my car with my head against the window, replaying the defeat of cashing minimum wage checks. Lonelier now, but cushioned by material and kissed by my bank account, I can understand the layered nature of Blonde. When I sit in my Jeep and press play, I relive the moments when I tied my wrists in the name of affection. And just like Frank, I would submit myself in pitch black night, saying, "I would do anything for you," only to open my eyes and realize I was dreaming when I heard "I love you."