Michael Franks on the Bandstand

Just back from seeing a Michael Franks show at a local venue. Out with the wife, who was looking fantastic tonight in her just-right-tight tan slacks and white blouse (she even indulged me by undoing just one more button in the front, so sexy), delicious and wonderful.

The local hall is a great place, with a long history of supporting music, well-run, clean, with great food and great service. Had the red beans and rice, just like the last time we went—great, as usual, although they skimp on the rice. I ordered a side of rice to bring it up to full volume (and they charged me $3.00). Threw a bunch of hot sauce over the top, and was all set. Been to this place quite a few times, as it’s close to the house and they consistently book great acts, and always look forward to a show there.

MF in town for a charity fundraiser—good man. And he didn’t disappoint, and he never has, not in any of the many times we’ve seen him, all the way back into the 80s.

Mr. Franks, Michael, Sir, on the off chance that you might encounter this, that someone in your management organization, or if someone in that personal six-degrees-of-separation constellation runs into it, here’s my message: Thank you for the work you’ve done, and what you continue to do. I’ve been listening going on 30 years now, and have never had a negative thought or impression. Mostly, I’ve felt envy, for your musical and poetic talent, your imagination, your ability to express yourself, and what I can only imagine to be a full, varied, and incredibly interesting life experience as a world-traveling jazz musician. Even before I had a real girlfriend, before the first marriage, and into the second, your music has been there as an influence, setting a tone, setting a kind of hoped-for standard of mutual understanding and respect. I’ve struggled with communicating my vision of what I’ve called a “Michael Franks love life” within the pedestrian, mundane life I’ve lead and still do. Your music has been an escape, another place to go for brilliant, creative, evocative, poetic, and magnificently romantic enunciations of love and longing, of life, and of just being hip-ly ‘there.’ Thanks for what you do and have done; love your work.

Okay, the show was great, opening with “Antonio’s Song.” MF promised to “play as many hits as (they) could get to,” and pretty much lived up to that. The combo was the traditional jazz trio, with a guy on horns and a female backup vocalist. They had a great sound, but so much of MF’s officially released music has been so incredibly arranged and produced, I really missed the rhythm guitar in there, a few more horns, a thrumming electric bass. They worked in “Rainy Night in Tokyo,” “Tiger in the Rain,” “The Lady Wants to Know,” and a number of others, finishing the 85-minute show with a single-song encore (ahead of the 10:00 pm show) of “Popsicle Toes.”

Me, I really wanted to hear some of my favorites, like “The Camera Never Lies,” with those fantastic drum and bass pops at the top of the chorus, and that stinging rhythm guitar. I really wanted to hear that rocking escape of “Island Life,” and the string-infused “On My Way Home to You.” I really wanted to hear that rumbling, rolling groove of “Coming to Life.” I really wanted to hear the incredible samba of “This Must Be Paradise.” I was disappointed not to hear them, but it’s no big deal. Maybe next time.

I noticed two subtle lyric changes in MF’s songs, and wonder if these are permanent, the reflections and exercise in judgment of an older and more experienced artist, someone more in tune to recent times and altered sensibilities. Subtle, but I picked up on it. The first change was a tiny one in “One Bad Habit:” instead of singing the line “. . . You’re like a hit of something uncut,” clearly a drug reference, which in the late 70s was a totally hip thing to throw in, MF offered “ . . . You’re like a foreign film that’s uncut.” Subtle, and interesting, especially when the “. . . even after we’ve mainlined” lyric remained in the following verse.

The second change was in “Monkey See Monkey Do.” Instead of singing the line “Every night we fuss and fight, like Arabs and like Jews,” we got “Every night we fuss and fight, like spoiled children do.” Interesting choice, and if you ask me, the right one. No sense in singling these two groups out for the song, despite that fact that the lyric remains as accurate today as the day it was written.

As always, couldn’t keep my eyes off the bass player. Coolest guy in the band, every time, always, regardless of the band, venue, or genre. This guy was on a traditional stand-up double bass. Pretty cool in his trendy dark-frame James Spader skinny glasses and a cool jazz-artist goat bushing out there on his chin. He had a couple of rather long solos, but they didn’t really rock me. Too high in the register, too twangy, not the down low rumblings that a bass should be putting out. He was having fun, though, and I envied him, sitting in my seat and watching his mouth and jaw work as he made his music.

Also, as always, I couldn’t help but think of what it might be like to live their lives, to be a musical artist. Having just retired from my first career and begun a second, I actually entertained the thought of going back to school, getting a BA in music, actually learning to play formally, being a real-live musician. But who am I kidding? How does that pay the mortgage or put the kids through college in another 9 years? I mean, seriously. It was fun to think of, but my opportunity to be a serious musician passed me by a good 20-odd years ago.

Having played only in garage bands, for friends and wives and girlfriends, never having been paid for playing, I’ve always been intoxicated, always shocked by those first magical notes when four or five folks start playing their own instruments in key and in rhythm and out comes music. It’s fascinating, something new and wonderful is being made, and it’s the collaboration and cooperation that’s doing it. Invisible threads of people’s lives and beings, meeting and weaving in space as they make music. Being a part of that bit of collaborative creation is a rush, even for a bunch of low-talent yutzes yowling away in a Saturday night garage. It would be so much better to do it professionally, to deliver seriously rehearsed and produced music, for an appreciative audience; what an addictive thrill I think it would be.

But then again, being a musician is a job like any other. Gotta get up, put on the uniform, get and maintain the equipment, and deliver for the customer. The only difference between a musician and any other worker-bee is the venue and the product. Tonight alone, MF and band tonight are playing two shows, all of 2 ½ hours apart. Two shows with cool, improv solos, back to back. How can you work up your enthusiasm to play a song for the first show when you know you’re going to do it again in about 2 hours? How do you build and maintain your excitement over a song you’ve played maybe 25,000 times in a 25-year career? How do you take the stage knowing that your paycheck and continued good will of the audience is riding on delivering your core competency, that is, playing the hits, when maybe you don’t want to play them, you’d like to jam or play something new, something obscure? How do you deal with the forced repetition of playing the same song over and over, year after year, in rehearsal and on stage? How many times has MF sang “Popsicle Toes” in his lifetime? How many times a year does he sing that song, like 300 times? Does he still love and cherish it, or does he secretly, quietly despise it, just absolutely loathe hearing it?

None of this is a slam on MF or his band, who did their job and did it well this evening. I got my money’s worth, and am satisfied with the transaction, as I’ve always been with him. MF was, as always, a laidback gentleman, entertaining and open with the crowd, quiet, almost shy in his delivery of his wonderful work. No over-the-top theatrics, no top-of-the-register wailing and hammy thrashing away up there, no prancing around. Nice to see a mature, well adjusted artist up there doing his thing.

These are the things I wondered as I sat there, watching them make their art, make their public product, make their music in the very public conduct of their chosen professions.