Frank Ocean's headlining set at Coachella was a disappointing comeback that tested the boundaries of celebrity

• Frank Ocean took the stage at Coachella on Sunday as the music festival's final headliner.
• He delivered a brief, unconventional set that seemed designed to push the limits of fan loyalty.

Frank Ocean has always demanded the right to do whatever he wants. In many ways, this relentless quest for freedom, both artistic and personal, has made him one of the greatest artists of our time. But on Sunday, his fans at Coachella became collateral damage.

From the moment Ocean's long-awaited performance was slated to begin — his first since 2017 — it seemed designed to test how much he could get away with.

The reclusive star arrived to the main stage almost an hour later than expected. When the show finally began, the audience was greeted with a procession of men in hoodies, silently marching back and forth. We were left to guess which one could be Ocean, or if he was even there at all.

The stage had been transformed into one huge screen. Ocean's set included microphones and keyboards that were tucked into a small area at the back, like a cave inside the LED display. Ocean and his band were largely invisible to the crowd, save for some lucky fans in the first few rows. When the camera did show him, it was often the back of his head, or his face was obscured by shadows.

The first time Ocean's face was shown clearly on the big screen, people shrieked and chanted his name: "Frank! Frank! Frank!"

Right away, it felt like Ocean was experimenting with boundaries — staging some kind of performance art piece to gauge the intensity of our devotion — or he was trolling. As is often the case with elusive geniuses, it was impossible to tell the difference.

After nearly 10 minutes, he finally performed his first song, a shortened remix of "Novacane," before launching into a little-known, unreleased track that premiered via Blonded Radio two years ago — a meditative piano ballad that precious few in the audience would recognize, let alone know the lyrics to.

The show continued in this vein, teasing the crowd with scraps and glimpses. Ocean would exit the stage for long stretches of time, leaving the camera to focus on DJ Crystalmess or New Orleans bounce artist Ha Sizzle, who was disguised as an enthusiastic security guard. Ocean changed the arrangements, speeds, and melodies of his well-known hits, defying the crowd's attempts to sing along.

For fan-favorite tracks like "Chanel," "Nikes," and "Nights," Ocean didn't offer live vocals, opting instead to play their studio versions and mouth along while walking around the stage. At one point near the end, Ocean debuted a new song but was offstage the entire time. Instead, the camera was trained on a young pianist whom Ocean introduced as Josiah, meant to represent his "inner child."

The evening certainly had its highlights. Ocean delivered a euphoric remix of "Solo," sang "White Ferrari" for the first time ever, and dazzled with acoustic versions of "Pink + White" and "Self Control."

There is also something to be said for the feeling of exclusivity; Billboard described the performance as a "one-night-only, live documentary" that gave a rare peek into Ocean's creative process.

But for me, the overall vibe was eclectic at best and self-indulgent at worst, detached from the hopes and expectations of fans who spent hundreds of dollars to be there. In contrast to the traditional festival experience, Ocean's show asked us to watch, not participate — almost like a play instead of a concert.

Then, after about an hour and 20 minutes of music, Ocean issued a devastating announcement: "I'm being told it's curfew, so that's the end of the show."

The statement was so blunt, so unfeeling, many people in my corner of the crowd believed it to be a trick. One even suggested to me that it was a "social experiment," daring less dedicated fans to leave. Some refused to abandon their posts, screaming Ocean's name and begging security guards to reveal his true intentions. But he didn't return.

Ocean has toyed with the notion of celebrity before — the inordinate amount of faith that fans place in their faves, the fawning that always follows. The most notable example is his visual album "Endless," which premiered exclusively on Apple Music in 2016.

"Endless" was a black-and-white livestream that showed Ocean building a staircase, set to ambient music and instrumental tracks. It arrived five long years after Ocean's beloved debut album, "Channel Orange," so he knew the world was watching.

The effect was intentionally underwhelming. "Endless" fulfilled his contract with Def Jam and was immediately overshadowed by "Blonde," which he released via his own label shortly after.

In the years since, Ocean's disinterest in touring "Blonde" and his elusive social media presence have only amplified his mystique, imbuing his scarce moments of fan service with even more hype and reverence.

But when Ocean left the stage on Sunday night — offering no apology for the show's abrupt end, or even a goodbye — his limits came into clearer focus.

It's unhealthy to put a human being on a pedestal, especially a person you've never met, and it can be downright dangerous to conflate talent with morality. Ocean's mythology has allowed him to skirt criticism in a way that many celebrities would dream of, but that doesn't inherently make him a better person.

What does an artist owe his fans? The truest answer is nothing. But there is a relationship that's established between performer and crowd that many, including myself, would call sacred.

When a relationship is pushed to its limits or taken for granted, it's always worth reevaluating the dynamic.

It's tempting to defend Ocean's performance as a grand artistic vision, too profound for an average crowd to appreciate, but I think that gives him too much credit. It's just more painful to come to terms with the power imbalance — that the artist you idolize likely doesn't know you exist.

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