It was May of 2003. EXIT (as we were called at the time) had just recorded our first demo. One afternoon, I was listening to a mix CD of Irish bands that a friend in Dublin had sent, while hanging artwork in my bedroom. A song came on that caused me to stop what I was doing, and kneel in my front of my stereo. It was “Lay Me Down” by The Frames. Halfway through the next track, “What Happens When the Heart Just Stops,” goosebumps overtook me and I began to weep. This had never happened to me before, not like this, not from a band I had never heard.
A few weeks later, they were playing a club in LA called Spaceland. EXIT was booked to play The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland and I couldn’t make it. I was gutted.
My pal Conor then sent me a full copy of their most recent album, For the Birds. A few notes into the first track, I was sold. I didn’t know what it was about this band, but it was deep, instantly. I still feel this way when I hear Glen Hansard’s voice — like he sings of things I’ve felt that no one else has been able to describe, and also of things I can almost-but-not-quite remember, from another life.
Over the course of the year, I collected everything of theirs I could, and began pushing it onto a group of online friends. One of those friends was Shannon. She’s the one who eventually started running a Frames archive website, not me (with our friend Jenn, whom she later also sucked in).
In spring of 2004, The Frames returned to the states as support for Damien Rice. Ahead of the LA gig, they played a small record store in Long Beach called Fingerprints. My friend Cheryl offered to drive, and by the time we were there, she was a converted fan too. After the set, the band hung out to sign posters. I was hushed, humbled in the presence of their music. There was only one thing I could say. “Thank you,” I managed, and Glen was suddenly holding my hands and offering me tickets to any of the other gigs I was seeing on the tour. The gesture stunned me. I didn’t need tickets, but his sincerity was compelling. Two weeks later, in Indianapolis, I went up to the stage to thank him, and he greeted me warmly. I legit exclaimed, “You remember me?!”
Thus it continued. My friends and I traveled to see them as much as we could. I was working a menial job, and paying rent to my parents, but I didn’t have any debts or responsibilities. Nikki, our singer, had just left EXIT. I felt like I was at sea - everything I had worked toward for the past four years was dead. I needed the energy their shows exuded, but worried about being too in their faces. I have trouble taking up space; I never assume anyone wants me around. But I loved this band so much, and they made themselves so accessible, and us so welcome. I became fast friends with Cherie, who was manning merch. It was a new and beautiful world. It felt like something had forever changed, or was going to change, in a way that was big and undefinable.
Over the years the relationships and comfort deepened. With the success of the film Once, and Glen and Markéta Irglová subsequently winning an Oscar, things shifted with the group’s lineup and also name - they were playing under The Swell Season, and then later under Glen Hansard. (Within my own band, we were dealing with more fraught lineup issues.) But there were no fundamental changes in how the band, crew, and surrounding community had begun to feel like home, like family. Bruce and his warm, giving heart. Zoran and his sharp eye and sharp tongue. I’d find myself in the cities where we could see gigs together - in Denver, with Cheryl. In Chicago with Andrea and Kyle. In New York with Emma. San Francisco with Ana and Lisa. There were online friends too, like Ivi, whom we met on MySpace, and only later were able to spend time with.
Photo by Zoran Orlić, Veli Drvenik, Croatia
When OrderintheSound.com was built for The Frames 20th anniversary in 2010, it opened our world further, to Avril in Cork, Fleur in London, Jackie in Dublin. I could turn up in a city halfway around the world, and there would be a friendly face or a place to stay. I once went to London for 48 hours to see two shows by The Who, and Fleur put me up. Our gatherings were no longer necessarily centered around seeing a gig (although, of course, it is the best excuse). One summer, Ivi, Lissie and I spent a week at Zoran’s family home in Croatia.
Through it all, the songs marked and buoyed us. I’ve watched the sun rise over the Grand Canyon listening to “People Get Ready.” I’ve watched the moon rise in the dark of the desert with “The Moon” as my guide. I’ve stood crying on the shore of Lake Michigan with the first listen of “This Gift,” at its seemingly personal reminder that I needed to keep working at music. Last year when recovering from eye surgery, it was This Wild Willing whose company lent the most comfort.
Ballintubbert, Ireland
In 2018, I got stuck on the notion that I needed to disappear. Like, from everyone and everything. I was convinced no one gave a shit about me. I couldn’t find it in me to tell anyone except Shannon that I was going, but I turned up in Ireland to see The Frames play in a tent in a field in a town called Ballintubbert. Hearing those songs in the company of people that were actually delighted to see me healed me in a way I’ll never be able to describe. My friends even threw me a surprise birthday party in the apple orchard.
When I found The Frames, the lens through which I viewed a life in music shifted. Until then, those I’d looked up to were giants: Queen, The Beatles, U2. Those bands never suffered from members coming and going, or fought for as long to reach a wider audience. Getting a peek into The Frames’ smaller operation - even doing some work for them - allowed me to reassess my goals. All I’d ever wanted, from age 13 or 14, was to earn my living as a musician. With each loss of a singer and writer in my band, that became less of a possibility. These guys taught me that the joy of playing must be your fuel. They showed me how to step into the leadership role that I’d always avoided.
Whenever I was struggling in those different phases of EXIT or Xs & ARROWs, the lads consistently offered advice and words of encouragement. I’ve been pulled on stage and pushed out of my comfort zone enough times for them to have accelerated my growth as a musician. I’ve had enough challenging moments and conversations with them to have accelerated my growth as a human. Most extraordinarily, and most importantly, they have extended hands I never expected in times of doubt and darkness.
When I was younger and more bitter, I would have told you nothing is more important than music, because it, unlike humans, will never leave or betray you. It’s possible, however, that the best thing that has come from finding The Frames 17 years ago is friendship.
Here’s a wee tribute to them and to those who’ve kept me company along the way. Today we would have been celebrating their 30th anniversary in Dublin. I’ve got my eye on 31.