Frank’s Got the Funk have a song called Frank’s Got the Funk. You can tell it kicks ass because it’s got a skull in it. It’s five minutes long and starts with big butch drums. When Frank starts singing you feel your IQ go into a sudden, steep dive. Blind good fortune helped me level out near the lower single digits; I may not be as lucky the next time.
There aren’t enough lighters to wave in this world, nor sleeveless leather vests. I’ve sprained my fingers doing the devil’s horns and I can’t control the trickle from the corner of my mouth. The tattoo shop says my skinny arms won’t do for the heart-and-anchor I have in mind; my girlfriend’s just packed up and left, she says she can’t take this abuse any more, but who needs girlfriends when you’ve got the funk?
They don’t make them like this any more; it’s as if the eighties had never ended.
Frank’s Got the Funk is no ordinary funk: your average derivative small group may steal a little here and drop a platitude there; at worst the results are banal. Frank have cut a stratospheric arc over this sort of simple-minded unambitiousness. Weep ye common or garden copyists, this Godzilla of a band has mined every cliché known to man and welded it together in five gruesome minutes of clenched-gut choruses, sub-Zeppelin syncopations and foot-on-stage-monitor guitar soloing, bulldozing over any petty niggles like taste or subtlety on their way into Poland in this glorious year of 1939. This isn’t a song, this is a bloodbath.
Frank’s Got the Funk will mow down the competition; their solos are longer and their biceps, better oiled. They’re a monster truck driven by allosauruses with bazookas. Chennai’s Mini Cooper groups don’t have a hope. The Fish-Eyeds worry frenziedly about their place in the world, the Rays kick up a twanging racket, the other talented little kid is probably concerning himself with overdubbing flutes or some such as we speak: Frank will funk them all back to the bedroom. Serve them right for declaring war upon cliché, this is cliché’s revenge. And I, for one, welcome our new dinosaur overlords.
Frankly – o ho ho ho – if I were you, I’d listen to this on repeat forever and ever, amen. Those other records you own, they’re past their time on this earth. This is Frank’s Got the Funk, no less. Puts the hairs in your arse-crack, this one.