Frank Turner – Poetry of the Deed Review.
At a recording pace of around one album per year since being signed as a solo artist, Frank Turner is definitely an artist for whom I have a fair amount of respect: his punk ethic has not been lost since his change of pace from Million Dead to his folk-rock efforts as Frank Turner. The quality of his output has rarely wavered since Campfire Punkrock and starts off strongly once again in this album.
The album opens with the upbeat piano, overdriven electric guitar and drums of Live Fast, Die Old, a song resonant of the will of humans to run and ruin their own lives. Turner’s voice is as beautifully hoarse as it has always been, and the newfound addition of an organ to proceedings adds a delightful new dimension to his music. The chanting of the song is somewhat reminiscent of Death Cab for Cutie’s Transatlanticism, and is just as effective in highlighting Turner’s voice as it was Gibbard’s. The certain ability which Frank Turner holds in being able to motivate in his songwriting is shown once again through lyrics in this song such as ‘it won’t last, so be bold/live fast, die old‘; with the crescendo of drums at the end serving as punctuation to this universally applicable message. Try this at Home is Turner’s brand of meta-music; whilst it’s lazy music-about-music, it’s witty and incisive cleverly brash punk-ethic propaganda; the beat which carries the song along is unapologetically folk-punk to the extent which it would make the early work of Billy Bragg blush.
Dan’s Song is a Summer song if ever there was one: a song with an acoustic guitar in a major key about friends and drinking in parks; the very epitome of British Summers. The development of the instrumentation as the song goes on is also symptomatic of aspersions between this song and Summer: the bright tones of a harmonica cast rays of melodic delight upon the resonant ground of acoustic guitar chords. Poetry of the Deed is a return to Turner’s more sonorous work: electric guitars deliquesce into the mesh of Turner’s voice with the percussion of the track. The refrain of ‘life is too short to live without poetry, if you’ve got soul darling, now come on and show it me’ is perfectly demonstrative of Turner’s continuing theme of the importance of the Arts and living life rather than being the passenger of time. Isabel is a more downtempo track, and is ultimately a let-down compared to prior comparable efforts (see Jet Lag for comfirmation of this point) – it’s not downtempo and compelling, it’s downtempo and dull. Dreadfully so. Even Turner’s typically wry and insightful lyricisms miss their mark here,m which is a rare occurrence.
The Fastest Way Home is a return to form, and a song of devotion made more than believable by Turner’s borderline scream in places and a drop to muted guitar strums amidst ‘darling, oh my darling you know that everything that I do is to try to make me good enough for you‘: the drop to barebones-strumming making for Turner’s voice to appear more naked and more poignant. The oscillatory guitar lines add body to the whole experience and work wonderfully alongside Turner’s vocals. Turner’s penchant for pseudo-political commentary is resurrected in Sons of Liberty, with little positive to say about it. Much of the commentary seems forced as it has become expected of him; the melodies too familiar within the genre and vocals lacking Turner’s individual charm. Zane Lowe’s call of The Road being the ‘hottest record in the world’ wasn’t far off: Turner’s vocals return to their sometimes haunting, sometimes transfixing norm, with vocal faults intact; swirling in symbiosis with delicious guitar parts.
Another shortcoming of the album comes in the form of Faithful Son: a song, whilst delicate in instrumentation and even Turner’s voice, most drab and another ‘plodding’ song; the tale of faith through paternal strife is an overplayed concept. Richard Divine is another carbuncle on this album: it features a strange rhythm which Turner’s vocals seem unable to keep up with, and little in the form of lyrical content up to his usual standards. Sunday Nights and Our Lady of the Campfire do little to improve the quality at the tail of the album, and they’re both weak songs lacking the fire which Turner is so capable of delivering. Journey of the Magi makes sure that the album ends with a squelch rather than a band through its lacklustre delivery and pacing.
From its strong start, it truly is a shame to see the album end so poorly; but it’s more than likely symptomatic of an artist looking to evolve from the formula which has come to be expected from him and faltering short of the mark. All that can be hoped for is a return to form for album number four.