Hugs for the Unhuggable

“if you’re all about the destination, take a fucking flight. We’re going nowhere slowly, but we’re seeing all the sights.”

Last night in Lawrence, Kansas, Frank Turner played his 2405^th show. Since leaving his punk band in 2005 for a solo career, Turner has played roughly a show every other night. For thirteen friggin years.

That is a grueling schedule. I assume. My 5^th grade band, the foggy goggles, never got a chance to take our hit, "your mama is a beached whale", on tour. Well, technically, none of us knew how to play instruments either, but I can’t even imagine 2400 shows.

And the thing is with frank, he’s stayed true to his punk roots. In his song “Father’s Day”, he tells the story of him at 16, giving himself a mohawk, because he wanted to “walk the walk and not just talk the talk”. But, he used “kitchen scissors” on the sides and it was a “bit of a disaster.”

That’s Frank. Real. Raw. Genuine. Self-effacing. Quick with a joke. A born entertainer. A great storyteller.

So, why have you never heard of him, right? He’s a big deal back home in England. His last 4 albums have peaked in the top 5 of the UK charts.

But, he didn’t sell out a small place in Lawrence last night. I’ve seen him play in a 300 capacity room in Des Moines. And a 400 cap space in St Louis.

It’s criminal that Americans haven’t fallen for him and yet he still tours here religiously. He walks the walk. He’s not in this to make hits. He’s not trying to be the next Lady Gaga.

He’s me. He’s all of us who struggle with mental illness. He has nothing figured out. So, he writes his way through his shit. Same way I do with the blog.

Something fucks with me. In a good way, like a song lyric or movie pulling at my heartstrings, I write. Or in a bad way, a relationship goes wrong, I write. I have to. I go from feeling uncomfortable and/or down to taking control back. I try to take the irrational emotion out of the situation and more calmly work through it via the written word. Most of the time, when I’m done writing, I feel like myself.

It takes me from ARRRRGAAHHHH!!!! to AHHHHHHHH! Mind-fucked to peace of mind. Writing for me is the cathartic process of unfucking my mind.

And it was profound last night, to hear Frank articulate that same thing. He’s a songwriter because he has to be. He’s a songwriter to unfuck himself. He told a room full of strangers that he struggles with mental illness.

His songs help him through his battles. Things he’s fucked up. Relationships gone bad. He is homesick on the road and longs for the road a couple days after he’s back home.

We’re the only ones who have to live with the crazy shit our brains put us through. We had pain as kids, it comes out now in weird ways as adults. We can feel great about ourselves in some phases of life, but one little reminder of past fuck ups or the one phase we can’t seem to get on top of sends us spinning out.

And what’s the culturally accepted way to deal with that? Put a picture on Instagram and feel a little bit better with each like we get. That or drink red wine. I’m guilty of both as long as we can sub bourbon for wine.

Okay there…I never really know where I’m going when I start writing, but lacking popularity is what I’m trying to get up to. Whereas, our Insta-world mistakes likes for bona fide self-worth, Frank plays shows for 300 random people in fucking Des Moines, Iowa. the world's formula of insta likes > frank shows is so backwards. i want to find the pockets of people who live to flip that equation.

I had to move off to a booth at Louise’s by myself so that I could have a proper cry last night, because a fellow Frank fan was willing to give me a hug via facebook messenger. Something about our brief exchange brought me to the concept of giving hugs to those who were brought up to feel unhuggable. And as a result, I needed a few cocktail napkins to wipe away the adorable combo of snot and tears.

But, that is a Frank show in a nutshell. A massive hug to all the fellow fuck ups he sings to and/or about, who show up every time he’s anywhere near their hometown.

It’s an experience. Oh shit. Yes….so, my possible favorite part last night was going “facebook live” towards the end of the show. I kept my phone low and watched with my eyes, but was excited by the thought of my fb friends getting a glimpse of frank.

Three songs later, I looked down and saw the “start live video” button, which I had failed to press.

It was meant to be. His shows are supposed to be experienced live, not through a tiny screen or written about. I can’t do the night justice. It’s interactive. It’s inspiring. It’s not designed for him to stand there and get applause and screams as if he’s some kind of god. That’s more of a taylor swift thing.

Fuck popular. Give me real.

frank writes brilliantly. He could be a hit maker. But, instead he’s chosen to give us intimate access to his life instead. “give me one fine day of plain-sailing weather and I could fuck up anything” “until the moment you close your bedroom door and all that’s left is you” “be what you believe” “I could have been anyone, but a comfortable me.”

I could write separate blogs about any of those sentences. How many times have I closed that bedroom door? And all that’s left is me. A lot. Better learn to like myself. Better keep writing. But, that’s the thing. I don’t think people like me and Frank ever get there.

And that’s what draws me to him. he’s not an expert. He’s constantly in the writing lab trying desperately to find the answers to life’s painful questions. He says he could have been napolean, could have been beethoven, literally any great figure....except a comfortable version of himself.

Fuck yes man. I don’t say Amen as much as I used to. but, I loved the video frank posted to facebook describing this run of shows. He said they’ll be somewhere between the bar and church. Preach!

So, he writes about his own hurt, but also concedes that “in the end the journey brought joy that outweighed the pain”. There’s value in the journey of self-discovery. We don’t have to solve it. we’re not a god-damn rubik’s cube.

But, we need to pay attention to the things that pull on our heart strings. He calls them “the aching amplitudes that set our needles all aflickering”.

Like the other day, something got to me about Riley doing play by play for her school’s soccer game. So, I wrote. And I got my usual 3 likes. But, I made one buddy’s eyes “kind of dusty”.

That is a life worth living. My needle flickered. I responded with a heartfelt blog post. And another human being’s heart needle flickered too.

Fucking amazing. Did frank turner stop playing shows because Ed fucking sheeran is more popular than him? hell no. should I shutter the blog because the vast majority of humanity will never take a look. Never. I do it because it breathes life into my broken soul and if anyone at all gets the slightest comfort from it, I’m in heaven.

Frank and I write for the same crowd…people who are like us. frank puts it better than I could, “we’re all broken boys and girls at heart. come together. fall apart.” The fucked up thing is, that’s all of us. it’s kind of heartbreaking that so few are willing to wear their broken hearts on their sleeves.

The myth of instagram is that anyone has it together. Envy is a killer. Every damn one of those instagram posts are coming from a broken hearted person. And every time we see people who don’t look like us. who look better than us. who have a dream life. We feel like less thans.

But, see…instagram doesn’t ever capture the “moment you close your bedroom door and all that’s left is you.” I came home to an empty hotel room last night after the show and it gutted me. I could have talked for hours. But, not pictured is the soul mate character.

So, I write through it. and realize that even all the pictures of me and past girlfriends at shows weren’t as great as they looked. It’s fun to have a show buddy. It’s not fun to have a chaotic relationship.

But, my moment came after the show. I sat for a minute in the balcony after everyone left. A weird, tiny room in kansas. Frank turner stopped by and affected me. It was powerful.

As evidenced by matt crying at a bar by himself a little while later. Tears come. I write. Shit happens to frank turner. He writes. And in a fucked up way we’re both blessed/cursed by the concept below…

“Parents don't be too kind to your kids, Or how else will they grow up to be Louche Parisian sinners or Nashville country singers, Singing about the terrible things their parents did.”

we couldn’t write things that mean something to other broken hearted kids if we had an actual insta-perfect childhood.

So, for me and frank, it’s here are my scars, may my stories help you in your battle against mental illness. And Frank writes about other people who are like us, “she woke up screaming in the middle of the night, terrified of her own insides” “the patron saint of the waifs and strays” “we’ll never be famous”.

Frank’s newest album is about random, but profound women from history. It’s fascinating. A big UK star, telling the stories of historical/forgotten women. Every story is worth telling. And that is frank.

Okay so, that idea of a comfortable me. Never going to happen. but, a single fb message/comment/meaningful conversation means the world. It says I wrote something that hit home. And if it hit home our stories have common ground.

I love. Love. Love that shit. The time I spent languishing in the church was agony. I have a built in desire to be real. but, felt like it was a world just as plastic as Instagram, with a helluva lot more judgment. So, meet me somewhere between the bar and church. We’ll start a charity that gives hugs to the unhuggable and we’ll all have frank turner to thank.

People like us don't write for glory. We don't write to be popular. We write because it's who we are. We write to make it through the day. And if anyone at all reads/listens and it actually means something to them, well then, that's just a bonus.

How many among us have been tricked into the instagram model of self-worth? do that all you want, but the self-worth there isn't going to measure up to the feeling you get creating something new. music. art. a silly little blog.

start with nothing. create something. well, there's no chance at starting from nothing. we have pain. we have pasts. we have burdens. so drop all the shit from those things into art. pour your heart into it. or hell, just conversation. the kind that starts with "i'm fucked up". it feels good to say that and if you get an "i'm fucked up too", then there's a chance at something beautiful.

don't fucking do things like dragging kids to the pumpkin patch that they actually hate so that you can get that perfect fall shot that will be the envy of prairie village. do things that make you feel something. go nowhere slowly. see the sights. try different things. keep trying things until you end up alone at a bar in a pool of tears. heartfelt, meaningful tears.

okay, fuck that. you don't need to follow my model. i suck at life. but, follow your heart. quit watching mainstream nonsense and watch stuff that makes you feel something. listen to music from actual songwriters rather than the pop that our idiot generation eats up.

experiences are greater than stuff. quit wasting money buying shit you don't have time to use (stole that quote from another brilliant songwriter...Taylor Goldsmith). take the trip. go to the show. take lunch at the park. call that old friend.

life is meant to be lived man. one day, there'll be a 21st century poetry class taught that'll be the work of frank turner, taylor goldsmith and conor oberst. they could have been bankers. but, they chose to package their pain in a manner that matters to other fuck ups. i can't even imagine the number of unseen "heart likes" that they've gotten over the years.

frank played a song last night that he made fun of for having the most abrupt ending. and i should have pulled that move hundreds of words ago. but, without a chance to process the feelings that last night's show inspired via conversation, i get the pleasure of one-way streeting my thoughts in a blog that no one reads. bedroom door closes.