Songs in the oddly bouncy key of maudlin make for a self-deprecating delight.

Release Date: 22nd March 2024

Label: Archtop Records

Format: CD / vinyl / digital

You may be unfamiliar with the name, unless you are a habituee of the Southampton circuit, where the Hampshire based musician has been honing his craft for a decade or so, encompassing periods as a an in-house songwriter for hire. Alternatively, should you have seen recently the estimable duo of Ferris & Sylvester, Francis may well have caught your ear, as their support act. Indeed, the link is stronger than that, Archie Sylvester being the producer for this, Francis’s second album, reprising the role he took for the first. Even if you are in neither these categories, pay attention, as he has one of those creamy voices that bridge any choral classification. Allied to the shimmer of a woozy country tinge, which percolates through his guitar based melodies, and, gentlemen (and ladies), we have a contender!

Promised Land kicks off with a shimmer of keyboards and guitar, with a measured backbeat. Nothing to do with Mr. Berry, it oozes a melancholic yearning that is instant catnip to those who love low key . A rousing chorus then suggests the intent as being more than aspiration alone, and there is a lovely old school feel to it, replete with a guitar solo and a, are we still allowed to call it, girlie bvs. Well constructed and perfectly crafted, there is a distant hint of Clive Gregson in the scaffolding, which is never a bad thing. With that hook drawn under the skin, he’s off, with the amiable choogle of Tired Of Trying, a song very much in the style of Nick Lowe, with the keyboards pure Bob Andrews. Irresistible. One senses self-deprecation and disappointment are each familiars of this singer, if tinged with an understated hope: “Cover me up and don’t let me down, because I’m getting tired of trying“.

Mercy starts with a touch of funky tropicalia, the backing singers now providing a sashaying sway. The mix of electric piano and organ are enticing, even if at odds with the “down on my knees” sentiment. For Me Alone might strive to be more cheerful, with Francis hanging on to what fingerhold he has, but the repeated refrain, over a drawn out organ, retains that cry for help. “I just want a little bit of your time, for me alone”, before ending with a soberingly swift stop, effectively so. How does mis sound so damn good? Lifeline has a more muscular content, a forward driving progression, if actually saying much the same, if with greater determination. And that, itself, is enough, more than, to prevent any of this becoming an all encompassing poor me sadfest.

21st Century Man is a hazy, lazy piano blues, again with some wonderfully evocative organ hues. Francis lists a litany of those ills, underwitten now so deep into the troubled psyche of a 21st century man. A midpoint highlight of the album, it is a beautiful reminder of how and when the Band were the prime influence of any and every band out the traps. That same mood filters on into Failure, if in boogie form. Francis brings out his best writing for this one, recycling those well worn phrases any jobbing muso is likely to have heard, that variation of the “it’s me, it’s not you”, so beloved of promoters: “I love your music but I just can’t sell it…..” It’s a cracking song, and, if you’re reading this, Jack, remember many of us prefer the milk to the cream.

Forever Alone again bucks the gravity of the words with a bouncy melody, a tasty guitar motif weaving alongside his chorus. But this is a knowing song, insight alongside the anguish, with Francis describing its genesis as “a song about self-reflection, confusion, regret, sadness and a horrible feeling that you are misunderstood by the people closest to you. You’re left wondering if it would be better for yourself and others if you were to navigate life on your own.” Because sometimes you are. This leads into one of the slowest songs here, Under The Bright Lights, a weary waltz with, this time, a different sense of longing expressed, this time for home. And wife And dog. A road song, then, homesick and lonely. (But, of course, given “half a chance and I’d do it all again“.)

Merry Go Round isn’t particularly, with more akin, across several levels, to the wall of death, the waltzer of life the theme in question. A gloomy song, cheerfully sung, by Francis’s standards anyway, realism trumping any optimism. The slide guitar chicanes around the trackside to give added textures of tortuosity, as fairground metaphors extend and implode. Uncertain who it is on the howling skirls of near feedback, possibly Francis himself, possibly Sylvester, but it’s good. Closing with, appropriately, Curtain Call, this is more pastoral fare, fingerpicked guitar and voice, before the familiar instrumentation slips slowly in and alongside. It’s a muted fanfare to what is described as Francis’s “navigating modern society and fallen dreams“.

This is a rather lovely recording, crafting art from emotional dissarray, however tongue in cheek we are assured the lyrics are. To paraphrase another songwriter, let’s now hope failure can make a success of his home.

Talking of, here is the track, Failure:

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