I won't forget the day that Frank Ocean came to town.
All afternoon, people alternated between sitting, standing, leaning and crouching outside of D.C.'s 9:30 Club. The line -- peppered with American-flag bandana wearing Stans, pseudo-hipsters and Urban Outfitter frequents -- started as early as noon. At 7 pm, when the doors opened, the masses piled in excitedly, only to wait a little more.
The rumor of him not coming on until 9 p.m. (or later) circulated like catch-fire, and people switched from foot to foot to dilute the swelling pain in our ankles and foot bottoms, myself included. I couldn't imagine the fate of those wearing heels. I was pissed because they wouldn't allow professional cameras into the venue 'per the artist's request,' the girls behind me were squealing in excited decibels for a solid hour before he came on, and a wave of fatigue (the itis) came over me.
The house was packed, and impatient fans were hot and bothered. Everyone's minds seemed to be in the same place. It was 9:02. "Where is he? If he doesn't come on 'til..." The lights dimmed mid-sentence. The crowd went batshit. All previous ailments were numbed as the man of the hour made his way up the side of the stage, with his staple headdress knotted just so. He walked past the stack of flickering television sets decorating the stage and took a seat on the stool that was patiently waiting for him. And suddenly the room was ORANGE.