Let’s start with the obvious: I really wish I hadn’t branded the wall so well at my previous job.

I shot this on the day “Poetry of the Deed” was released. Frank came in that morning to join me for the CNN webcast from my office at Current and then played a few more songs afterwards. The whole experience was a shining example of how much the media and music industry have changed over the past few years. My favorite artist from the UK came into my office in LA and played a song that was skyped into the studios in Atlanta and broadcast live to the world, and all it took was a guy with a guitar and a Mac with a webcam. That’s pretty badass.

A few weeks earlier, we ran Frank’s video for “the Road” on the segment and told people to go get “Love, Ire and Song” to prep for the release of “Poetry of the Deed.” The next day, Chris, Frank’s American wrangler, @’d on twitter asking if I wanted Frank to play in my office. Fuck yeah, I did.

After a few messages under 140 characters, we set it up. Frank rolled in somewhere around 9 AM, tuned his guitar as we waited for our cue from Atlanta and I begrudgingly had to explain who John Gossling is and why he was the top story of the day, which basically amounted to “because everything’s bullshit.”

Over the past few years, I’ve shot and interviewed a lot of musicians, and from what I can tell, there’s basically two types: the good ones and the rest of them. Hell, I’ve interviewed some people who didn’t even want to play a song, as if they earn their living from talking about themselves. Not Frank, he was all aces. When I told him that he was going to sit in a desk chair and sing into a webcam and then answer a few questions from the anchors as it was broadcast to the world live, he just said “cool,” as if that kind of thing happened everyday, and then he nailed it, and I just sat their grinning like a stoned Cheshire cat.   

Truth is, I think you could put Frank anywhere and he’d put on a hell of a show. I’m pretty sure if you handed him his acoustic guitar, a parachute, and put a foot to his ass at 14,000 feet, Frank would hit the ground and immediately put on a show that the locals talked about for generations. You’d be a dick for doing it, but he could probably pull it off.

Later that week, I was lucky enough to see Frank play at a house party. He played until the cops showed up around 5 AM. Or I guess, technically until a little after the cops showed up. Once the fuzz got there, I kept drunkenly whisper-shouting “Keep playing! Keep playing! C’mon, you gotta keep playing!” which was probably really annoying, but I was about 12 hours of beer deep at that point, and sometimes I get excited.

I’m not telling you that story in a “la-ti-da I get to go to Hollywood parties kind of way,” but rather in a “you could be there too” kind of way. After playing sold-out shows at clubs and theatres, Frank will play house parties for pretty much anyone who gathers a crowd and gives him some beer and a place to sleep for a few hours, which finally brings us back to the song above.

Every lyric is pure gold, but “…thinking that you’re better because you sit up on some stage, if you’re oh so fucking different, than who cares what you have to say? Because there’s no such thing as rock stars, there’s just people who play music, and some of them are just like us, and some of them are dicks” is fucking brilliant and it really sums up all my experiences with Frank better than this post could if I rambled on for another 8 pages, so go listen to it again.