Real Hits Only

Something we as listeners tend to do is build up artists in our imagination. It’s hard not to, especially when they impact us in a way that’s often intangible through their voices and music. We build them up as idols, as untouchable, as godlike figures. Music is often an escape, and building up artists like this helps us dive deeper into that diversion; to imagine an artist as someone on our level can take us out of that escape. This behavior of placing artists on a pedestal only intensifies when the artist leads a private life. And there probably isn’t a better example of an artist who leads a private life than Frank Ocean. 

Four years ago, he dropped two albums within 48 hours, had one interview, performed at a handful of concerts, and dropped off the face of the planet again. He’s resurfaced for air every now and then, releasing amazing singles (“Chanel” and “Biking” are my personal favorites) but the air of mystery that surrounded him for four years prior to releasing Endless and Blonde is still very much intact. But a deeper listen of these albums, specifically Blonde, reveal an intimate, deeply personal confessional over its hour runtime. On the 4-year anniversary of a generational masterpiece, and one of my favorite albums of all time, I want to dive deep into Blonde and the rich tapestry that Frank paints for us over 17 tracks. 

To go to a Brockhampton concert–ah, concerts, remember those?–is an experience: mosh pits, heartbreaking ballads, crowds singing along to every song, fans being invited on stage and being told to rap their favorite verse, and even 12-year olds jumping around, expelling all of their enviable energy, supervised by their disapproving parents. I’ve been to three of these concerts, each one more wild than the last. The fervor of the fans only grew, as did the size of the venue. But one thing remained constant: Brockhampton, the 13 or 14-member boyband that basically formed on the internet (this is a link to a popular Kanye fan forum site, KanyeToThe, or KTT for short. Kevin Abstract, the leader of the group, posted under the username “Harry Styles” asking for people to join his band), knows how to put on a show. The energy was palpable; often, the band would trot out in orange jumpsuits, paint themselves completely blue, and have a good fucking time. 

Back when the days were still low enough to count, the idea of quarantine was scary. The historical precedent, the looming uncertainty, the sudden disruption of basically everything we had taken for granted. In the (somehow only) four months since, that fear has been morphed into a nauseating feeling of perpetual bad and disheartening news, of stunning incompetency, and of absurd stupidity. Escapism is what we need, what we crave; and for once, that feeling is felt universally across the country. Artists often delve into their work to escape, as do listeners; it’s easy to forget that these people feel like we do. They’re just better at presenting it in a way that makes us think of them as different. 

So when an artist is able to present their feelings in a way that is so utterly relatable, it’s a special thing. When an artist can bring themselves to their audience as an equal, it’s unique and refreshing. Pop auteur Charli XCX does just that with the exemplary idea of art under quarantine, her DIY album how i’m feeling now. 

Riding the train has always been my favorite mode of transportation–a way of rolling through the world, watching different kinds of scenery pass me by in a smooth, uninterrupted rhythm. Perhaps my favorite time to take the train is in the months of winter, after it’s rained in the Bay Area for a few weeks. During this season, the rolling hills that pass me by as I ride the train from San Francisco to my hometown have taken on a lush green color, dotted with trees and houses, teeming with life before they turn back into an arid brown for most of the year.

On these hour-long rides, I’m usually listening to some kind of music, and usually at a high volume to block out the screeching sounds that unfortunately de-romanticize taking the train in the Bay Area. I try to very intentionally choose music that will accompany the scenery I’m watching during these rides, both inside and outside of the train: the people that are all traveling somewhere to carry out their own objectives, as well as the rolling hills and parking lots and suburban sprawl that fly by me. Probably pretentious, but it makes the one hour pass by a lot quicker. For this ride, I chose to listen to electronic producer and savant, Four Tet.

In 2015, Jacques Webster, better known as Travis Scott, made a statement that’s been evident in every one of his performances since: “This stage is sacred.” He goes on to say that it’s when he’s at peace, before proclaiming that he’d give his kidney up for any of his 2000 fans that come to see his shows (a number which has only increased in his meteoric rise since). There are literally compilation videos chronicling the chaos and madness that surround Travis’s concerts, where mosh pits are the norm and when injury might be more likely than not. Not to mention, he’s the only artist I’ve known to make a Jimmy Kimmel crowd go crazy (with an absolutely mind-blowing visual set design as well). 

All of this makes it hard to believe that Travis Scott was once an underdog; once a polarizing figure in the trap rap scene, but now unquestionably one of the biggest superstars in popular music today. There was literally a Fortnite festival revolving around Travis Scott. When he released Rodeo in 2015, his first debut studio album, the reception was lukewarm–there were complaints of Travis biting off of his influences (Kanye, his mentor, was often mentioned as one of the bitees, along with Future and T.I.), of Travis not having an interesting story, not being an alluring-enough MC. In the years since, Travis has rapidly ascended to superstardom, with 2018’s ASTROWORLD debuting at number one on the charts (have you heard of “Sicko Mode”? Underrated track.). But I think Travis peaked with Rodeo, an album that stretches the limit of trap rap to aspirational levels. It’s woozy, atmospheric, sparkling, grandiose, cinematic, striking, and above all else, engaging.

During this quarantine, I’ve been separated from my beloved apartment tower speakers and as a result have resorted to listening to music through semi-decent headphones. Thankfully, I don’t have to use laptop speakers, but I miss the enveloping feeling of listening to music through those towers, letting the sound wash over me. Whenever an opportunity comes to make an album-length drive of thirty to forty minutes, I jump at it; I need to hear music through real, powerful speakers again. So many albums come to life when they can really breathe, and fill a space, rather than get blasted directly onto your eardrums. My most recent drive was soundtracked by Yves Tumor’s Heaven To A Tortured Mind, a towering, thundering achievement.

The first time I felt like I was truly online was probably sometime around 2005-2007. I was nearing the end of my elementary school days, and I would often rush home to get on the computer. I wasn’t rushing to play a video game; I wanted to instead log on to a MapleStory fan-forum called MapleTip (a sad shell of what it was in its glory days). I had several friends on this forum, you see, and as a sixth-grader who loved computers and was just discovering the true potential of the Internet, to have “internet friends” was extremely cool (maybe just to me). They were scattered all over the world–London, Vietnam, all over the USA–and apparently across a wide spectrum of ages (but we probably all said we were a bit older than we were). 

I’d log onto MSN, and talk to these friends for hours. About what, I have no actual recollection, but I remember having a great time and thinking, okay, the Internet is amazing. Here I was, a prepubescent kid in his bedroom talking about who knows what to friends across the world, all because we liked a free-to-play MMORPG that, frankly, was bad. That sweet joy of the early days of the Internet are gone now, replaced with an endless feed of TikTok dances and Instagram sunset stories (of which I admittedly contribute many to). I’ll often think to myself: Gen Z doesn’t know what it missed out on (after a few weeks in quarantine, though, I’ve decided that TikTok is amazing). Us millennials, we knew what it was like to explore the Internet in its wild west days. Maybe that’s why 26-year-old Dylan Brady and 25-year-old Laura Les (better known as the duo 100 gecs) created one of the best albums of 2019 with 1000 gecs; they tapped into that energy. 

I remember stumbling upon the album in my college freshman year dorm room after a few music blogs I followed posted about it. Never having heard of the artist, I downloaded the album off of Bandcamp and hit play. A Harry Potter sample (specifically, the “come on then, let’s go lower” by Harry and the “oh no” by Ron) blared out of my speakers, supported by alien-like guitars and blown-out drums. Hearing my childhood presented in this way intrigued me enough to keep listening. About twenty seconds into the second song, I was hooked.