Music had been the most important thing in the Frank and Walters’ lives, but now the silence was deafening. It wasn’t merely that the Cork group weren’t performing: once one of hottest bands in Ireland and Britain, they hadn’t released any new material for three years, and lacked even a record deal. And it wasn’t the long-simmering tension that had led to the guitarist Niall Linehan to storm out on his lead singer brother Paul and drummer, Ashley Keating.
No, by the end of 2003, silence itself was the problem. Communication had ceased to the extent that the Frank and Walters seemed no more, even to its remaining members. “Paul was living in Wicklow and I was living in Cork. There wasn’t much contact,” Keating says. “And I was almost afraid. I thought the band had ended, but I didn’t want to hear it from him.”
“The band had never really ended in my head,” says Paul Linehan. “But it was a bit touch and go because we’d lost Niall and our record deal. But, luckily, we met (the independent Irish label) Fifa Records about two years ago and that was the catalyst — they said they wanted to put out an album.”
Three years on, the Frank and Walters have found their voice again. They’ve emerged from the wilderness years not only intact but rejuvenated, with the release of their first studio album in six years, A Renewed Interest in Happiness. The heavy-handed title aside, it marks a welcome return to the effortlessly bright guitar-pop that made their name. More importantly, the newly self-sufficient Frank and Walters — Linehan, Keating and a new guitarist, Kevin Pedreschi — have realised where their strength lay all these years.
“We still thought old-school, that you needed a whole system around you, not like the kids today who put records out themselves. We’re only copping onto that,” Keating explains. “We’re an indie band. We’re never going to cross totally over to the mainstream — your general popular music buyer is never going to be interested in us. And we’re fine with that.”
Produced by Dave Couse, the former frontman of A House, the new album runs the gamut of alternative guitar-pop. But despite its quality, some may wonder about the wisdom of the band soldiering on. Where once they used to appear on Top of the Pops, now their weekends consist of arriving at regional French airports, waiting anxiously to be picked up by local promoters in, as they put it, battered Renault Clios. But having heralded their return last year with the release of the compilation Souvenirs, the band seem genuinely enthusiastic about having the opportunity to play again, even on a reduced scale.
“It’s all become fun again,” says Keating. “We don’t know whether this is going to sell a million copies or three copies. There’s none of this stuff of only staying in four-star hotels. We sleep on people’s floors; we get to the venue and there’s no PA. We’re back to square one in a sense, making music for music’s sake.”
Such idealism would sound unlikely coming from a hip young indie gunslinger, much less from the likes of Keating and Linehan, both 39 years old. But it could be that the Frank and Walters are only now realising their good fortune. “We’ve been through so much in the past, when we did take stuff too seriously, so we realise that it’s pointless, you’re only upsetting yourself,” says Linehan.
Certainly, when they started playing around Cork in the late 1980s, a career was not high on their agenda. “I think it was just boredom,” says Keating. “Cork was an unemployment black spot and none of us were working or anything like that. We’d been messing about in bands for years.”
Gradually, however, the band’s singalong style built a local following. “People who we didn’t know had started to come,” he says. “So, to prove we were taking it serious, we went out and bought orange polo necks and purple flares. And then we actually got the phone call, in 1991, from Setanta Records, saying they wanted us to come over to do an EP. So we said, ‘Sure, if we’re sitting on our arses doing nothing, we might as well be doing it in London as in Cork.’”
It was a smart move. With their wide-eyed melodies, the band’s first two EPs were critically lauded, while their goofy image stood them apart from their earnest shoegazing peers. Despite themselves, by the time the Frank and Walters released Planes, Boats and Trains, their 1992 debut album, they had become cult favourites.
“Before we knew it, we were in the social columns of the NME and the Daily Mirror,” Keating recalls. “In 1991 and 1992, we were so happy at suddenly being out of Cork, having a deal, releasing records, just being able to afford to buy a burger and chips, that sort of thing, that our enthusiasm and naivety carried us through. Then, suddenly, (the 1992 single) After All was a huge hit, we were on all the pop shows and children were asking for our autographs. That’s when it got scary.”
Realising that they “weren’t cut out for fame”, Keating says they “fled back to Cork, to write the second album”. They didn’t know it, but the band had already passed their high-water mark. It would be nearly five years before they released their follow-up, Grand Parade: by then, the happy-go-lucky ethos was a distant memory.
“A lot of the seriousness happened when we joined (the British label) Go! Discs,” says Linehan. “It was a major label, and they were putting us under a bit more pressure. And you can get lost in all that red tape.”
Certainly, they seemed to lose their direction. both creatively and professionally: back with Setanta, the band’s subsequent albums, Glass and Beauty Becomes More Than Life, were marked more by uneven experimentalism than winning melodies. By the time they released their Best Of, in 2002, it seemed like a swansong, and not just because it was their last disc for Setanta. The relationship between the Linehan brothers had reached breaking point.
“We couldn’t stand the sight of each other,” says Linehan. “We couldn’t be in the same room. It was because we were two brothers working together in the music business — when you’re playing a gig or recording, those can be very intense situations, and the least thing can start an argument. There was the sibling rivalry as well — maybe I might have got more attention, being the lead singer.
“But now we get on very well, since we’re doing different things. He’s got married and had two children, and is happy with his life. And, as time goes by, we’re getting closer. Which is nearly more important than music.”
Linehan’s reconciliation with his brother has gone hand-in-hand with a fresh, almost heartfelt sense of purpose: “When I felt our backs were against the wall I said to myself that if I’m ever going to write music again, it’s going to be music that’s positive, because I don’t want to bring misery to the world. And that was when I made the decision that we’d carry on.”
Such sincerity may be at odds with the indie world’s default settings of self-conscious seriousness or retro irony, but then the Frank and Walters have been out of step with prevailing fashions from the beginning. Having survived accidental success, the band aren’t planning to fall silent just yet.
“We’re definitely in it for the long haul because we can’t do anything else,” says Keating. “As for goals, I just want this to sell enough so we can make enough money to make the next album. Obviously, there’s an ego thing, where you want as many people to hear the record as you can. But that’s out of our control.
“If we weren’t in a band, we’d crack up. It’s weird to be hitting 40 and hopping on planes, wondering is some fella is going to pick us up at the other end. But you wouldn’t change it for the world.”
A Renewed Sense of Happiness is on Fifa Records
