Before you hear him, you're not sure you really believe Frank Fairfield. And it's not his fault.
I suppose what we're saying is that by this time, we're on to those who use folk as a gimmick—those apocryphal circuit riders coasting into the next venue on their luxury bus liners, who—other than buying the occasional femo-beaded spittoon from Etsy—don't quite practice what they preach.
Nay, but how we fall smitten for and respond to those who have taken the time to learn the genre, and for those who actually play from the heart. Because that's the foundation of folk. Ain't nothin but campfire smoke and mirrors if it's not heartfelt. And sometimes amid all the buzz, heartfelt is hard to discern.
With Frank, it's easy as pie.
Brylcreemed, stiff as a sepia tintype and loathe to any kind of verbal excess, Frank is here to do one thing—play his songs. He plays them like a grasshopper that's been possessed, with herky jerky bursts of limb and reverent bow. He flickers like a candle. You can hear a pin drop. Even the ghosts are listening, spellbound.
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filmed + edited by
The Art Dept.
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