Let's Be Franks

Michael Franks is very nearly a weirdo, but in the nicest possible way. He's got a voice that'll either make your skin crawl or hook you right in; a breathy jazz-lite whisper that never strains for a note or hangs on to it past its sing-by date. You could, if you were feeling uncharitable, describe it as a tad precious, with top-notes of wimp. And you'd file him away in the nothing to see here file, and it would be your grievous loss. Maybe he was canny enough to adopt the style because he knew it would last his lifetime - his latest album shows no signs of ageing except the white hair (and the hands suspiciously clasped over a bald spot) on the cover. But that gossamer-weight delivery hides lyrics with a bitingly sharp edge, playful wit, and a surprising sexuality. Floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee.

This, his eponymous [big as a horse - Ed.] first album from The Year Of The Singer-Songwriter 1973 wasn't his breakthrough - that came with the second, The Art Of Tea. But it shoulda oughta. Chock full o' tunes, top flight musicianship from the cream of the LA cream, and anti-Jesus lyrics - what more could you want? It got re-released a decade later, with the standard cheap sleeve "update" that dumbass record companies think will make for an attractive new product, and predictably re-nosedived. It's so under the radar it doesn't even rate an Allmusic review (neither does his new one, ironically). You might have enjoyed his stuff for years and ignored it because everyone else did, like I did. Do me a favor - kick my ass - I'm not asking, I'm telling with this - kick my ass.