“This is my ninth record and there are no clichés about ninth records,” Frank says. “There’s no such thing as the ‘difficult ninth album’ – that’s just not a thing. And indeed not that many people get to a ninth record. There is a part of me that wakes up blinking and surprised – most days, actually – at the fact that I’m still doing this and that we’re in contention for the Number One slot [on the UK album chart]. And that’s crazy. It’s nuts. I’ve been doing this for 25 years. What have [my detractors] got? Some 25-year-old who writes for a certain music magazine that will remain unnamed who wants to slag me off? It’s like, ‘I’ve been touring almost since before you were born. Whatever.’ And there is a freedom that comes with that that’s hard won, of which I’m very proud.”
He should be. On a cloudy morning in the dog days of January, Frank Turner addresses Kerrang! from his home on the Essex coast. Speaking at a speed normally associated with tobacco auctioneers, at least for today the 40-year-old’s life doesn’t appear all that different from the irregular iterations of his hectic past. He has an hour, an hour and a quarter, in which to speak, after which he’s off to Norwich to have a portrait of the cover of Rancid’s imperative …And Out Come The Wolves album tattooed on his leg. He recalls playing at a festival at which the Berkeley quartet appeared on the bill. Weezer performed that day, too. The Sleeping Souls preferred the latter group, but Frank couldn’t see past Rancid. In other words, at heart he was, and remains, a punk. FTHC, indeed.
But what kind of punk? And what kind of artist, even? Part of his problem at last autumn’s Slam Dunk was the permeating sense of dislocation that he had been cast adrift from both one thing and the other. “There was a thing that was nagging away at me during the day, which was like, ‘I’m in the weird middle-period of my career. I’m not young and hip and exciting, but I’m not a heritage act, either,’” he explains. “So what kind of clichéd role am I supposed to fulfil? I was walking around [the site] feeling a bit like a spare part for some of the day. I was watching both the young and exciting new acts and the heritage acts play. I was like, ‘Well, I don’t really feel like I’m either of these things, so what am I?’… I was having an issue finding a place within all that.”
Here, at least, Frank Turner has things that are on his side. The unilateral vision of the solo artist means he isn’t prey to the near-universal truism that a band produces its best material in the first seven or eight years of its career. He isn’t reduced to becoming a heritage act for which nostalgia is the only valid currency. This is the reason why FTHC contains some of his best compositions. It’s the reason its 14 songs represent his best lyrics – overall, at least – since the Tape Deck Heart album, from 2013. It’s also the reason why some of his albums in the future might yet be better still.