Frank

Frank wouldn't want to be in the spotlight of this essay.

Frank would rather be on the edge of the stage of this blog, shouting along to every word of the essay as he bangs his head and pumps his fists (and likely jostles everyone else around him with a bit of collateral beer spillage). Because that's what Frank does... he reminds us all why we love what we do, he reignites that same, fresh inspiration to do that thing in the first place, whatever it may be that we do, be it singing, drumming, feather-bowling or writing...

When Frank is in the audience for that thing, you're no longer doubting yourself, you're suddenly charged up (because HE'S charged up...). Is he an angel, like this? Like Clarence, a guardian garage rock angel? What if... (continuing with that It's A Wonderful Life analogy)...Frank wasn't here, in this scene...? Imagine every show you've experienced, maybe something he performed or maybe something where he just stood (and jumped and wobbled) beside you... Take him out of that scenario and it's like the vibrant technicolor sunshine is drained and becomes pale, bleak...boring...

No one could pinpoint what it is that Frank gives this scene (and by extension, gives each of us) and yet...at the same time... his name could easily be a one word answer to the question: What do you love most about the Detroit scene, right now? Because whatever it is that you're getting at is probably embodied, heart & soul, by this four limbed, orange-haired, wild-eyed Tasmanian devil-tornado-fit of a human being... He could walk into any room (or even the boundless outdoors) and supernaturally emanate the enticing electric clangor of a guitar riffing outward and stimulating the ether... The man is a rock n' roll song onto himself... Egoless, without a mean bone in his body, and talented in his own right...he's essentially rough-hewn muse that this music scene needs ...

If we're all part of a parade, he's the Marshall... If we're a baseball team then he's somehow The Babe and the Phillie Phanatic at the same time! (Blasphemous that I didn't make a Tigers reference here... sorry, Frank...but I'm rolling....and if I'm rolling...then it's because you inspire me....)

Ray Thompson once called Frank "...a one-man audience..." There could be four or maybe five people there when you're set begins and maybe there's only six when the set ends...but if that sixth person wound up being Frank Woodman? It was a good set!

To Frank!