“If you’re all about the destination, take a fucking flight”
He’s right - Frank’s always right - and the 13th of April in 2012 was the climax of a rise unlike any other. No airplay. No TV appearances. Scant column inches. No matter – your boy Frank will sell out Wembley Arena, anyway. One in the eye to all those who said no to him, and two fingers up from of us who banged the drum to achieve success. Fuck ‘em!
*Images courtesy of Gregory Nolan
Seven years on, it’s a feat that still beggars belief, not to mention one that remains largely unchallenged. From his Nambucca residency, where many would turn up for Beans on Toast, Frank hotfooted it all the way to Wembley. Folk-Punk-Rock doesn’t do this. To see the above grace the stage with Dans Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip and Uncle Billy; even a mother couldn’t be this proud. His was, she joined on stage to play the harmonica!
That Friday the 13th was Spooky. Twelve-and-a-half THOUSAND people crammed into a corner of North London to shake a world whose obsession was largely with that of b-list people and pastimes. This was about love, last minutes, and lost evenings. The dreamers, the habitually optimistic, were given everything rock’n’roll promised and more: hope, freedom, togetherness, glory, and love.
For everyone who was lucky enough to be at Heaton Park to see The Courteeners massive shows, or has designs on Gerry Cinnamon’s absolute monster at Hampden Park next summer - just remember – it was Frank who kicked those doors in. Every decade has its own Spike Island. This was it.
The “people left behind” phrase is becoming one that is all too familiar while the current political landscape remains the way it does. It’s an accurate concept, though, with elitists masquerading as men of the people they exploit. Not unlike the music industry; the more the media fractures into various niches, the more the truth becomes dispensable. More and more people are forced into margins as Television and Radio augment reality to fit their own narratives.
One such instance came from my former career in Music TV. In a meeting where blood spewed from eyes, arguing in 2007 that The Enemy and The Courteeners were the real deal and Scouting for Girls and Hoosiers were shameless drivel. I lost that argument. Truth became disposable long before that fucking bus! However, with Frank, and later with The Courteeners, I, the alternative community won the war!
How the name of fuck did it happen though? Easy. You make your own luck, that’s how. Frank celebrated his 2000th show this decade. In his 18 active years gigging, no one has worked harder or shown more endeavour. His criminally underrated debut album, ‘Sleep is for the Week’, came at a time when those who arrived too late for the Britpop bus were patiently waiting on the voice of their generation.
Tales of drunken woe, emotional heartache, and family strife cut deep, with searing honesty lighting up lives that had been forgotten in excess. Turner’s four albums up to that moment in 2012 continually found ways to ram home the point that Beatles mania had finally bitten the dust, and with it, the 90s hangover his fans had had to endure.
So in tune with this generation’s angst and hope is he, Frank could have walked on stage, simply raised a fist in the air, and bellowed “We have won!” - and still walked off a god. But he’s not an A-Level philosophy student, and nor is he a wanker; he is an artist and a poet, and a damn fine one at that. Sonically worlds apart, the spirit of bands like Pulp and Suede loomed large that night in North London. The outsiders, the write-offs, the freaks, and everyone in between came together as one to sing every syllable as though their lives depended on it.
Yes, the old model of “making it” is gone. Yes, the new one is shit. But, when the victories come, they taste sweeter and they live longer. There aren’t many things that unite the people of this country anymore, but you can still give them two things they all love; music, and an underdog.
What metal music fans endured for decades had come for the mainstream of alternative music, kicked to the sides, and told to fuck the fuck off. Arguably, it was the best thing that ever happened, pathways emerged online from those who cared so much it woke up them at night. Yes, we all need stitching back together somehow, and yes, a lot of the ill-informed gatekeepers are still running the show but, clearly, their grip has loosened.
We all manned the barricade that evening, it was together that we made the world shake. When it stopped it was haunted with the ghost of Frank Turner. A folk-rock punk god that not only bucked the system, he bucked it for generations to come to enjoy. When Gerry Cinnamon plays Hampden Park next year, raise a glass to Frank. When your favourite band you never hear on the radio sells out an academy venue, just remember, Frank kicked the doors open for them.
Or is he called Frank!
*Images courtesy of Gregory Nolan