Album review: Frank Turner: 'Poetry of the Deed'

FRANK TURNER: 'Poetry of the Deed' (Xtra Mile)

Okay, let's get one thing straight: this is not, I repeat not, Frank Turner's album. As the wandering Winchesterian is likely to insist, 'Poetry of the Deed' is a collaborative effort, with his backing band playing just as important a role as his beloved acoustic guitar. Oh sorry, did I say 'backing band?' I do apologise. What I meant, Mr. Turner, was 'fellow members of your super-duper, egalitarian, not-at-all-secondary folk rock outfit'. Yeah, that's better. Didn't mean to offend anyone, you understand. Didn't mean to underestimate the importance of wonderfully enigmatic percussionist Nigel Powell, or delightfully curly-haired guitarist/mandolin-plucker Ben Lloyd. They're all unquestionably talented young men, and they all bring their own distinctive style to the mix; but you see, it's just that, well, they're not really credited, are they? Oh sure, their names appear inside the album booklet - hell, they even get to thank their nearest and dearest - but whatever happened to acknowledging them in your recording moniker? Where did all of those 'Frank Turner and the ________ Band' (fill in the blank as you please) suggestions disappear to? If memory serves, you spent an entire tour in late 2008 hunting for a suitable name for your new group and now, as their album is finally unleashed on the general public, you keep hogging the limelight? Where's the fairness in that?

Perhaps this may be a little persnickety, but it certainly seems to matter when one considers how much of a swerve this record is from Turner's previous material. From the moment that the ivories are first tickled in the opening seconds of 'Live Fast, Die Old', it is quite obvious that 'Poetry' was arranged and rehearsed with the full band, as opposed to Frank simply recording the majority of the music himself. Ben's distorted guitars, Matt's sombre organ parts, and Nigel's penchant for the old tambourine and maracas create a character of their own, one that owes more than a great deal to the sort of folky wistfulness of Americana. This isn't necessarily a bad thing in itself - hell, the style is responsible for giving us bands as disparate and remarkable as The Gaslight Anthem and The Band - but when introduced to Turner's strengths, his uncanny knack for transforming introspection and melancholia into something universal and euphoric, it just doesn't seem to gel. Instead, it threatens to swamp his voice, to negate the ordinarily evocative power of his music. Simplicity has always been the key to the guy's success - tracks like 'The Real Damage', 'I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous' and 'Long Live the Queen' strike such an incredible chord because they strip everything down, communicating heartfelt, sincere emotion without ever seeming contrived. Here, as his acoustic gets lost in the mix in favour of lashings of fake piano, half-arsed harmonica and intrusive harmonies (guys, those 'oooooohs' in 'Journey of the Magi' are embarrassing), Frank is in danger of losing the essence of his music, the heart and soul of what he does.

At times, it almost feels like he's trying to hide behind his band, as if he isn't comfortable with the spotlight bearing down so overwhelmingly on him. Tracks like 'Sunday Nights' and 'Our Lady of the Campfire' would have positioned Turner squarely at the forefront on previous records, but here he is bogged down by a curious desire to sound like Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, circa 'Born to Run', a feat that it would take nothing short of a miracle to achieve. It's tempting to speculate that he has perhaps lost confidence in his own abilities, although such psychoanalysis is somewhat unfair. It may simply stem from a desire to move on, to not regurgitate the same successful formula, which is certainly no bad thing; it's just rather unfortunate that this new avenue doesn't appear to suit him. Songs like 'Sons of Liberty' and 'Richard Divine', the record's biggest departures, are ill-advised: the poor excuse for a jig in the former seems throwaway and pointless, while Turner's attempt to turn into an observational storyteller in the latter only demonstrates just how much better he is at turning the magnifying glass on himself.

Things aren't all bad, mind. For the most part, Frank sticks to his tried-and-tested lyrical concerns, with the majority of songs falling into one of two distinct brackets: the self-reflective and the didactic (minus anything remotely political, which is a bit of a shame, although the jury's out on how long he could've milked the whole 'disillusionment' thing anyway...) His strengths as a wordsmith generally shine through, once again demonstrating how even the most mawkish and cliched couplets can harbour great beauty. 'Faithful Son's wistful ode to the ol' parentals is unashamedly cheesy, but all the more endearing for it. 'The Road' has the corniest chorus of the year ('to the east/To the east' ... 'To the west/To the west' ... etc.) but its lugubrious tale of a fast-moving, unrelenting life is irresistibly expressive. 'Poetry of the Deed' is charmingly celebratory, finishing on the wonderful line 'life is too short to live without poetry/So if you've got soul darling, now come on and show me.' And then there's 'Dan's Song', a perfectly simple two minute ode to the joys of friendship that sounds the most like Turner as we previously knew him, and 'Try This At Home', 1:57 of purest rabble rousing, raising the spectre of 'Back in the Day' with its abrasively fast pace and delectable call-to-arms. The track is by far the best thing on the album, instructing the listener to 'tear down the stars now and take up your guitars', while also throwing in the odd dig at certain types of 'musician' for good measure ('there's no such thing as rock stars, there's just people who play music/And some of them are just like us and some of them are dicks').

It's possible that I have been a little harsh on poor Frank Turner. 'Poetry of the Deed' is by no means a bad album; hell, judged on the standards set by a great many of today's most successful alternative artists, it's a pretty good one. And maybe the style change has just thrown me for a loop. Two or three months down the line, perhaps I'll be waxing poetic about its brilliance, about how it simply takes the listener some time to get adjusted; but then, that's a distinctly disappointing notion in itself. 'Sleep is for the Week' and 'Love, Ire and Song' are such immediate records, they strike you with such an almighty suckerpunch on first listen, that it's hard to feel satisfied with 'Poetry of the Deed's mild shove of your shoulder. Only 'Try This At Home' and 'Dan's Song' really have the instantaneous timelessness of tracks like 'Prufrock' and 'Worse Things Happen at Sea', and it's significant that these are both the simplest and the most familiar sounding tracks on the album. Frank's desire to further incorporate the members of his live band within the recording process often overshadows his own artistic expression, masking his talent with over-production and intrusive and unnecessary instrumentation. For all this may be a brave departure, it's one that can only be judged as partially successful. (6.5/10)