And there was also, of course, so much merch.įrank Ocean is likely very rich. At another party, he teased yet another new song with British rapper Skepta. Then came two surprise episodes of his Beats 1 radio show, Blonded, on which he premiered “DHL” and “In My Room,” his first original releases in over two years. On the first night, at Knockdown Center in Queens, Ocean brought out special guest DJs Justice and Sango to tease two, still-unreleased songs. In October: invitations to the aforementioned recurring after-hours club night, PrEP+ arrived (or not, if you’re most people). Did something bigger loom on the horizon? What could have stirred the recluse from his somnolence. The spring brought another interview, the summer yet another, and the late summer, for good measure, one more. Just a few months later, he appeared on the cover of this very magazine, participating in a rare (at the time, at least) on the record interview. “Finsta no more!” he seemed to proclaim, greeting the world shirtless in his inaugural public post and sending a fervent pocket of the Internet into a frenzy. In November 2018, Ocean unlocked his previously private Instagram account.
The tide, it appears, has finally come crashing in. After years of near starvation, fans of the singer suddenly find themselves flush with radio shows to listen to, ( controversial) club nights to attend, new singles to stream, exclusive 7” vinyls to order, expensive t-shirts to wear, posters to hang, and printed square silk scarves to drape over their faces. In recent weeks, Ocean-the man whose only means of contact with his fans for years was a Tumblr page that you’d periodically refresh in the hopes (almost always in vain) of finding a new stray thought or link to some old car commercial-has transformed into a full-fledged content machine. This fall, we find ourselves in the midst of another deluge. It deterred no one not a single person abandoned the line, in hopes of getting through the doors to hear the Gospel of Frank. Frank Ocean was playing his first show in support of the just-released Channel Orange at Terminal 5 that night, and the five boroughs were caught in a torrential, wind-whipping derecho. Seven years ago, a line of rain-soaked fans clogged the blocks surrounding, arguably, New York’s worst music venue.
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