Roddy Frame
Surf
Cooking Vinyl
2002
Adam Stelmach knew how to answer a question. When I played the hell out of Coxsone Dodd’s Musical Fever and asked what was next, he went to the rack and pulled out the Studio One LP, The Best of The Clarendonians. Of course there are many Studio One recordings from the 1960’s that would suffice, especially when you’re 18 years old and pretty new to reggae music. But there was something very special about this selection. From the two guys on the cover in razor sharp suits to the scratching and popping of the poorly pressed vinyl, this was the exact record I was looking for. Adam knew it too, as he set the needle down and strolled to the back office. I’m still not sure if he walked away so that I couldn’t contest his selection, or if that just happened to be the record he wanted to listen to at that moment.
I played Ryan Adams’ Heartbreaker in the store nearly every shift for over a year, not to mention the countless times alone with my headphones. I enjoyed Gold, but as most critics wrote at the time, it wasn’t “Heartbreaker 2.” I knew every word on Heartbreaker. I knew every drumbeat, every organ swell, every vocal inflection. I knew every word in the liner notes, and paid close attention to the photos, which for the first time since I was introduced to Clash records, actually meant something. They were haunting in their focus and faded light. A young man with long hair, western shirts and tight jeans, sitting around an empty motel room. I wanted to start smoking. I wanted to be lonely since, when you’re 18, you must be lonely to create something so starkly beautiful.
One night, I went to Adam and asked my usual question, “If I like this, what else is there?” He responded, “Roddy Frame.” I had no idea what that meant, so I went to our computer and searched for a band called Roddy Frame. When I couldn’t find it on the rack, Adam told me to look under Aztec Camera. Surf. I found it, opened it up and put it on the sound system. The acoustic guitar picking began, and the singer started singing. Disappointingly, I thought, “This isn’t like Heartbreaker at all.”
I’d read everything there was to read about Heartbreaker and Whiskeytown and the influence of country music and punk rock. That was one thing that I loved so much about that record: it was punk and country and folk, and you could hear the gruff and twang in his voice when he wanted you to. But then comes Roddy Frame, with his Scottish accent, almost speaking as if he’s singing show tunes. And there was no reverb, no depth, no sonic element of sadness or loss. I was thoroughly confused as to why Adam would choose this, since knowing I’d open it, that I’d have to pay for it.
I felt like I had suffered through the first track. I needed something good to happen, not only to satisfy my musical desire, but to restore my faith in Adam’s taste. Then came the title track. Again, the finger-picking and dry delivery, not unlike contemporary adult pop and singer/songwriter stuff that I was adamantly against (being a young “punk rocker” of course). But then, the chorus: “When I was young the radio played just for me/ It saved me/ Now I don’t want anyone who wants me, baby.” My ears perked up. Through the dryness, I felt like this mature voice knew exactly who I was, and exactly what I was looking for, and was fully prepared to deny me that pleasure so that I might keep coming back. “If life was like the songs/ I’d surf across the curved horizon/ And forget her and be gone.” I was hooked. And every line that followed was better than the last. “So I check my map for tiny signs/ Of where she’s at and where she’s been/ But it’s made from scraps of stupid lines/ From songs and scenes in magazines/ It doesn’t tell me what it means/ Take her face out of the start of the day for me/ I’m half crazed wondering if I should follow/ Or let it go.” The song ends with a variation on the chorus, “If life was like the songs/ I’d surf into the waves/ And in a splash of silver, she’d be gone.”
While most of Surf walks that line between folk and contemporary adult, I found it, on repeated listens, to be nearly flawless in its craft. The instrumentation never strays from acoustic guitars and vocals, but it doesn’t need to. There’s a certain sense of obsession in the lack of instrumental variation; an “I know I can but I’m not gonna” attitude.
I spent a lot of time looking at the cover art: a high-rise city skyline in purple twilight. It is the hour that people are going out for the night, but there is only one person Roddy Frame is thinking of. She’s out there, somewhere within or below those lights, getting in with the crowds. That skyline, in that light, was just as sad as any dim motel room. Adam knew it.
Listen: Roddy Frame- “Surf”
