Tapedeck heart3/11/2023 ‘Plain Sailing Weather’ in particular is replete with super catchy chorus and is well structured enough that its relatively staid lyrical content is excusable. Instrumentally there is the standard Turner blend of stripped down acousticeering mixed with piano-embellished full band climaxes and ironically for a man oft portrayed as a traditional one- man-and-a-guitar act it is in these musical expanses where ‘Tape Deck Heart’ is at its best. Oh, “lacklustre scenesters from Shoreditch” are shit too according to ‘Four Simple Words’ (where was that flat you were blacked out in again, mate?). It’s a feeling of calculatedness that pervades throughout - there is a hilarious line in ‘Polaroid Picture’ about The Astoria closing down and the government building a train track where it once stood which leaves you feeling as though Mr Turner has gone through the ‘big book of causes dear to the London rock fraternity’ and tried to tick them off one by one. The first track, hell, the first LINE of this album sees Frank “blacking in and out in a strange flat in East London” now, if that ain’t a sign to fire up the cliche klaxon I don’t know what is. It feels so wilfully antiquated, such a cynical play to the twee punk rock mythos of anachronous formats that it becomes difficult to really take it, or any of the tall tales in the songs that fall under its header, seriously at all. In fact, lets take that album name for a starter. They, of course, remain too lazy to find out that the likes of Sam Russo, Al Baker and Giles Bidder all plough similar furrows with a deal more earnestness than Frank yet are about a billion miles away from getting anywhere near a gig at Wembley.īut a convenient story does not a good album make (just as sketchy politics don’t always make for bad records) and you suspect that the detractors will find little on ‘Tape Deck Heart’ to change their minds. No doubt part of Turner’s rise to prominence is the convenient Angry Young Rocker From Million Dead to Acoustic Storyteller narrative arch which has proved such a convenient hook for the mainstream press to hang their hats on. For every fervent supporter who cites him as a man who through the sheer force of hard work has clambered the greasy pole to the point where he can headline the nations stadia there seems to be a critic vociferously shouting that he never was punk, never will be and is, essentially, a Radio 2-friendly charlatan with a questionable line in politics. Turner also reprises his 21st century folksinger role but with a twist, meshing Arthurian legend and youthful alienation on “Fisher King Blues”.For rock fans in the UK Frank Turner is quite the opinion splitter. “Four Simple Words” has already become a firm favourite at shows, and the point that the song transforms into a full-on rocker with a “hi ho hi ho we’re off to the punk rock show” is no less raucous on record. So it’s with a quirk of scheduling genius that the only song on the album which can properly be described as light-hearted follows, with a piano flourish and a touch of cabaret. On “Tell Tale Signs” it’s everywhere poetic lyrics telling of scars both literal and metaphorical. On “Plain Sailing Weather”, with its clever pop culture references, the pain is in the delivery - a quiver in the voice, a nihilistic curse in the chorus. Yet those are easy listening compared to some of the rest of the album, which contains some of the rawest songs Turner has ever written. It’s a trick he pulls a few times, on songs that document the loss of friendships (“Polaroid Picture”) and the loss of youth (“Losing Days”). On first listen, “Recovery” comes across as upbeat indie-rock-by-numbers but its jaunty chorus and effervescent wordplay hide a desperate song about heartbreak, coping mechanisms and - yes - recovery. It’s been billed as a breakup album so it’s not surprising that loss of the romantic kind features right from the opening track.
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