“I’m tired of only ever trying to do what I can, the secret is to try and do the things that you can’t.”
–“Punches”, Frank Turner
It was show 2,892 for Frank Turner. It was show four for me. He and The Sleeping Souls had played 219 live sets between this recent concert and the last one of theirs I had attended – one in which I had the privilege to speak with the singer-songwriter.
Frank Turner & The Sleeping Souls entertained Denver for a two-night stint at Summit on June 3 and 4. It was more than just a rock show for at least one fan, however.
“The need for guitars and drums and desperate poetry”
Let’s begin at the beginning … on second thought, let’s not be hipster about this and pretend I knew Prufrock.
I still believe, I will always believe, in the impact of rock and roll. Yes, this week I may have drifted toward the back of the venue like my hair has transitioned into gray as the dominant strand. Perhaps it is amusing that I purchased a CD of Turner’s new album, “Undefeated.” It was for sale, wasn’t it? So what if I still have a CD player in my car and a massive collection of old technology that will not serve any value to the lucky recipient who acquires it in my will. And, yes, maybe I should have brought earplugs like I keep intentionally forgetting to place in my pocket before starting my route to any show.
I guess I should confess that things have changed, but not just in me, in the crowd as well. The pit has shifted form. The confined gathering has favored the running wheel or a gentler, fleeting bounce and ram than before, and I have not seen a crowd surfer on these increasingly brittler waves. In contrast, the amount of drunks being escorted out of the venue by security detail has grown. I watched each pass by me toward the exit as I worked on my second beer – a non-alcoholic IPA. Things have changed, indeed, from habitual to ritual.
Though the same could be said for Turner in some way, shape or form, it was appreciated that what does not change is his and the rest of the band’s devotion to music and putting together unforgettable shows. Though I am starting to get old, I still have a memory, and occasionally memory is where you can find your closest concept of home and comfort.
I moved to Colorado from New Mexico last summer. It has been an overwhelming transition, and the community, despite its presumed reputation, has not been the most welcoming. It could be considered a farce, in a way, revealed through misconception and failed expectations. People say the right things but are guarded in action. They claim understanding but flash status and shared interests through pretentiousness. They promote uniqueness but are all the same. They try desperately to gain attention from outside circles, only to not reciprocate recognition of what has become the new unique: the old normal.
This is not true for everyone, by the way, probably not even most, but still some, unfortunately. And, frankly, it does not necessarily faze me and this is rather a note for future relationships that could be formed in the community.
Uniqueness is relative, which means we all have similarities. Are we not all human? There is one similarity right there. We do not have to get into the obvious functions society shares. Music is a similarity, especially if you purchase a ticket for a show. Like sports, even among rivals, you are gathered together to share a similar interest and experience. Like uniqueness, culture, experiences, knowledge, tragedies, vices and accomplishments are all relative.
This general commonality at a music venue takes the role of home in the moment and memory, and Turner never fails to exceed expectations no matter the show.
“Time may change a lot but some things may stay the same”
It was late one evening when I first heard Turner. He was performing “I Still Believe” on Conan. It was instant fandom. Fortunately, I read in the Albuquerque Journal that he was performing two nights later in the city. The ticket was an instant purchase.
The small venue was full but not packed. The crowd was a lively bunch of strangers to me. This is when I first experienced this communal notion of obvious but ignored similarities. The sing-a-longs, the maestro behind the microphone requesting unified clapping and movement, and the proverbial page in which everyone seemed to have engraved their night’s story.
The second time I saw Turner was an intimate acoustic marathon in a space normally reserved for live theater. Again, it was not packed, but the loyal crowd listened intently to a set that spoke of journey and change. It was different, yet familiar.
Now, the third time holds more personal meaning because I was able to preview the show for the Albuquerque Journal, which presented the opportunity to speak with Turner. Though he may not remember the conversation because he has dealt with many members of the media throughout his busy career, I remember the chat for myriad reasons. First, I am a journalist, so remembering things is what I do. Second, this was the start of an important milestone in my career as a journalist. I had worked many beats, wrote many words, conversed in many a dialogue, but I was finally at a point where I could report what I wanted to report on, I could use my voice and no pitch would be rejected. It was also a time that coincided with the beginning of my very own column – a valued industry achievement.
Third, Turner and I were at a similar point in life, relatively, of course. We are only a year apart in age, and the album he was touring in support of, “FTHC,” was one of self-reflection, which is something we spoke of though I did not include much of that banter in the article. It could be argued mid-life has already passed, is currently being served, or may be in the near future, and the phase brings a certain view of the past. Ethically, I will not include any quotes from our conversation in this post because that interview and piece was for the Albuquerque Journal, but it was a small interaction that made a big impression – for me, of course, the lowly journalist.
That Turner show remains my favorite Turner show in memory, not just for what Turner and his bandmates accomplished during that tour – playing 50 states in 50 days – but for my own accomplishments that I rarely boost or share. My one regret is that I was unable to shake his hand and say “thanks” in person.
This week marked my fourth Frank Turner & The Sleeping Souls concert. Another album, another tour, another certified genuine experience of admiration. This time, however, I was able to see him where a more loyal following of various punks and rockers reside, which offered a different perspective.
The point, through all this rambling, is though Turner is the same artist, each show is different. Sure, he may say the same things between songs and play the hits, but he has opened with a different track each time, his new material is seamlessly mixed in with his old. That old material remains a staple, however, because there is always a new audience member present, and it is homage to the lyrics and chords that shaped the course of his career – a narrator vividly and philosophically sharing his journey at the same time we experience and reflect on our own. And then they clash harmoniously.
Turner has always possessed the innate ability to capture life and melodically relate it to listeners. It is a slice of familiarity through the shifting phases of existence. Familiarity within variation: what a strange concept.
You see, things really have changed; they change even within the comfort of habitual – perhaps ritualistic now— expectation. It is slight, somewhat so obvious it is overlooked, similar to similarities. A bar is reached, set and concretely sturdy, similar to a home.
That is why I am a Frank Turner fan.
“In a world that has decided that it’s going to lose its mind, be more kind”
Rock and roll, among the critics, cynics and occasional negative connotation, saved me in a way. Perhaps it doomed me as well at one point, but it has been a constant. And considering changes have occurred while this constant was shadowing growth, it could be argued that rock and roll was more of a savior than a sin. And we all have our sins – another similarity.
The similarities are piling up, so a moral dilemma is presented to concertgoers, and they have the ability to showcase the change they tend to preach more so through words than action. Is a musical act not a stranger wherever they visit? They are not in the circle, but are welcome through a shared influence, but perhaps even more so through status. Therefore, similarity (human being) or status (ego) becomes the true differentiator in acceptance. The latter is strong with this crowd, is it not?
Yes and no. Inside the dark walls and among the sticky floors, people gather as a group with similarities. Outside the doors, they separate and return to their pedestals, wherever and how high that may be. They leave home.
Please let me clarify something: I am not implying that a rock show, and all its antics and surroundings, are home. It is a figurative home that offers the comfort, stability and sense of belonging of a literal ideal home. No matter where I live, I can see a concert, and if said concert involves an act I admire and have seen before, then those few hours offer comfort, stability and a sense of belonging, do they not?
I still believe in other things than rock and roll, but it is becoming harder to validate. I still believe we can recognize relation, or perhaps that is just a desperate line. Being more kind and accepting everyone should not just be limited to in the moment or within a space. It goes beyond a show, just like Turner’s devotion goes beyond an album or tour.
So, for novice ears of intrigue to veteran venue dwellers of the artist’s following, go see Frank Turner & The Sleeping Souls. Any show will do. Maybe you will get something out of it you did not expect.
Perhaps Turner and I will eventually meet someday outside of a phone call, perhaps not. However, if Turner promises to continue to make music and tour, I will promise to listen and attempt to attend – with earplugs, or maybe a hearing aid by then.
I want to keep dancing. We all should … maybe even together.
Carl Lawrence Knauf 