Review – Frank Turner – England Keep My Bones
FRANK TURNER – ENGLAND KEEP MY BONES
(Epitaph)
(8/10)
ENGLAND’S FOLK-PUNK LAUREATE FINDS STRENGTH IN FRESH PURPOSE
IT’S DIFFICULT to believe that Frank Turner is a mere 29 years old. Four records into his solo career (not to mention the two released with Million Dead) and what already seems like half a lifetime spent on the road, you’d be forgiven for thinking this is a man who’s already peaked.
He hasn’t done himself many favours in this respect; a canon of disenchanted laments and road-weary travelogues doing little to break the illusion of an artist as creaky as his instrument. Even here we’ve got posthumous instructions (One Foot Before The Other), historical ballads (English Curse) and the kind of soul-soaked rabble-raiser that’d have you believe he’d seen the rise and fall of rock n’ roll (I Still Believe) but, crucially, this is the record on which Turner finds the drive, purpose and patriotism on which to build the lifelong career he so clearly desires.
Working through brass-led intro Eulogy to both full-band and acoustic numbers, the sound is handsome throughout; there may not be quite the same stylistic coherence as on Poetry of the Deed but the looser experimentation ties well with the sense of freshness, the occasional sprung-step and the overall energy of the piece.
It’s an energy that pulses through the flesh of the music but it seeps, initially, from the bare bones
First and foremost, Turner is a songwriter. The tale to tell or point to make is the prerequisite hook on which everything else hangs. Attack the vocal shortcomings, attack the simple sounds, attack the Etonian, silver-spoon background; as long as the words are enough to hold a room rapt – with only the help a microphone and an acoustic guitar – the songs will be bulletproof.
While the collection at hand isn’t perfect – there’s no Long Live the Queen here – there is a newfound purpose. Whether singing the praises of his country (Rivers) or his hometown (Wessex Boy) – so much for ‘the road’ being home - or composing contemporary humanist hymns (Glory Hallelujah) there’s a real sense of belief in his causes. That belief’s a crucial, heartfelt keystone – one that’s certainly never lacked in Turner’s songwriting before, but it’s great to see it steeped in positivity. For a man percievably incapable of reinvention, rejuvination will do; spiky sounds and spikier ideals (the aforementioned Glory Hallelujah’s chorus of “There is no God” plays like a better-willed but no less provocative Slayer) marking a transition into the big league with feet still firmly on the ground.
A patchwork triumph that stands by itself and hints at even greater victories yet to be won, the true value of England Keep My Bones will be told only by the passing years, but for now – with a huge Autumn UK tour already announced – The Road beckons once again.
Sam Law
