Music

Frank Fairfield: Frank Fairfield

Frank Fairfield is a modern Miniver Cheevy -- born too late, a man who loves the days of old. His debut album sounds exactly like Depression-era folk and blues, right down to the foggy field-recording sound.


Frank Fairfield

Frank Fairfield

US Release: 2009-09-29
Label: Tompkins Square
UK Release: 2009-10-05
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Amazon
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There are throwbacks, and then there's Frank Fairfield. Hey, everybody loves some kind of revival, and it's fun to wrap up in musical nostalgia now and then. But if you're into the garage-rock revival or the neo-soul movement or new-traditionalist country, for instance, you're only harkening back to the 1960s. Frank Fairfield will see your 40-year throwback and raise you another 35. Fairfield plays solo spitting-image recreations of late-'20s to early-'30s field recordings of folk and blues music, sounding like he was caught and captured on wax cylinders somewhere in rural Appalachia. What's more, Fairfield makes no attempt whatsoever to update the sound or the arrangements on his 11-song eponymous debut. Quite the opposite, in fact: Fairfield mimics everything exactly, from the bygone-era field-holler drawl to the grainy, muffled recording technique. It's the musical equivalent of a tin-type photo, baffling in its attention to precise mimicry, sounding indistinguishable from the songs compiled by Harry Smith on the venerated Anthology of American Folk Music.

Which is all pretty bizarre. For one thing, Fairfield is only 26 years old. For another, Fairfield isn't kidding around. This is no half-reverent, half-smirking parody. There are others who've done something similar -- Baby Gramps is a bearded gnome of a fellow, looking chipped fresh from the mountain and putting on a time-traveling show up in the Northwest, but he does it with a wink and a knowing sense of humor. Even the great John Hartford, who dressed in dustbowl getups and obsessed in steamboat lore and tapped out his own rhythms while playing century-old fiddle tunes, displayed a modernist’s sense of irony. If Frank Fairfield, on the other hand, is playing a character, it's a lifestyle commitment to a role not seen since Andy Kaufman. The guy is deadly serious in his Great Depression redux, a staid routine that makes for straight-faced, sunless readings of these mostly public-domain songs. It’s a nifty trick that he’s pulling off, but there’s not much fun to be had listening to the record.

Fairfield is the only musician on the album, accompanying himself on guitar, fiddle, or banjo. Merle Travis’s “Nine Pound Hammer” opens with a clatter of clawhammer banjo before Fairfield starts singing, and once he does, the effect is eerie. On one hand, one has to admire Fairfield for excavating a style and sound that is increasingly being forgotten, and he’s helping to keep that tradition alive as a walking, singing, picking Smithsonian artifact. On the other hand, why should one listen to Frank Fairfield affect these vocals, when Blind Lemon Jefferson and Mississippi John Hurt, original and authentic artists who actually were of those times, can be heard instead? The answer, of course, is that you can see Fairfield do it in person; he's a deft intrumentalist and puts on a superior show, bringing his retro Silver Dollar City act to the stage, sitting in an old wooden chair and sawing on his fiddle held down on his forearm. However, as a studio album, particularly with the deliberately fuzzy recording method, Frank Fairfield is a remarkable simulation, but an exercise in redundant imitation nonetheless.

5

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If The Prince of Nothingwood will popularly be remembered for celebrating the creative spirit of its star Salim Shaheen, it is equally an important communication on Afghanistan, it's culture and its people.

"Now I am just more tired and poor. So no, I haven't changed. I'm just older and more tired," says French radio journalist and documentarian Sonia Kronlund, as she looks back on the experience of making The Prince of Nothingwood (2017).

Joining Salim Shaheen, the most popular and prolific actor-director-producer in Afghanistan on his 111th no budget feature, Kronlund documents the week-long shoot and the events surrounding it. She crafts an insight into a larger than life persona, yet amidst the comedy and theatricality of Shaheen and his troupe of collaborators, she uncovers the heavier tones of the everyday reality of war and patriarchal oppression. If The Prince of Nothingwood will popularly be remembered for celebrating the creative spirit of its star, it is equally an important communication on Afghanistan, it's culture and its people. Alongside the awareness of the country cultivated by mainstream media news outlets, Kronlund's film offers an insight into a country that can humanise the prejudice and xenophobic tendencies of a western perspective towards Afghanistan.

In October of this year at the UK premiere at the BFI London Film Festival, Kronlund spoke with PopMatters about being driven by questions rather than inspiration. She also reflected on the subjective nature of documentary filmmaking, the necessary artistic compromises of filming in Afghanistan, and feeling a satisfaction with imperfections.

Why filmmaking as a means of expression? Was there an inspirational or defining moment?

Not really, no. I have always done documentary. I used to write scripts and TV series but I only make documentaries myself for radio and television. For this story, I figured out after a while that it deserved a bigger ambition and a bigger screen and that's why I don't very much believe in inspiration. To be honest, I made this film because I had to do something. I didn't have a big project where I thought: I want to make this. I went there and I found a little money and at the end the ambition and the inspiration came along the way. But there was not an urgent necessity to make this film. It fits with a lot of things that I'm interested in, like popular culture -- What does art stand for and why do we go to the cinema? What is the purpose? This is a question I'm interested in, but inspiration, not so much.

Has The Prince of Nothingwood provided you with the answers to those questions?

It has, and I hope it helps people to think about this question. It tells you that there is an urgent need to make images, to make films, even during war,and even if you don't have the money. And even if the films are not very good, they will find somebody who will like them. So something is going to happen, and I think that's very touching. I don't like Shaheen's films, I hardly watched them -- I paid somebody to watch them. But I'm very moved by all these people that do like his films, and it makes you think about the value of art and the purpose of why we make cinema. I used to study aesthetics in London, so it was one of the questions I had and while the film is lighter than this, that's what was in mind.

The film uses Shaheen as a doorway, beginning as a story about one man which becomes a story about Afghanistan, its people and culture.

Yeah, but it's not so much about Afghanistan and it's not my purpose is to say things about the country. There's one guy like him in Iran who makes cowboy movies in the Iranian desert and there's also a guy like that in Tunisia. I mean you have this person with an urgent need to film whatever they have under their hand and since it's war, then it tells you something about the war. But it's not so much interested in him.

There was a lot of editing, 148 hours that you haven't seen [laughs]. Making a documentary is really telling a story and I don't have any idea of objectivity -- it is my point of view on Shaheen. Some people say to me that they would like to show his films, that they really want to see his films, and I say: "You don't see how much I have edited. I show you the very nice parts of his films." People think he's a great filmmaker and that's the story I wanted to tell -- but I could have told another story.

To my mind, objectivity is a human construct, a falsity that does not exist.

Except mathematics maybe, and sometimes physics.

The purist opinion of documentary as objective is therein built on a faulty premise. From the subjective choices of the filmmakers that bleed into the film to the subjectivity of the subjects, it's not purely objective. Hence, it calls into question the traditional dividing line of the objectivity of documentary and the subjectivity of narrative fiction.

Totally! It's the editing, and why you chose this guy, how you film it and what you show, or what you don't show. It's not only subjectivity, it's storytelling. Not many people ask me about this, they take it for granted that it's the real Shaheen. But I'm not lying, I'm not saying things that aren't true, but I am telling a story, a fictional story out of what I filmed. I took scenes that happened one day and I put them with another story that happened three months later and that's why we had seven months of editing with three editors. So it was a lot of work.

One of the striking aspects of the film are the light and comedic moments offset by a darker and heavier sensibility, which include moments when, for example, Shaheen talks about arranged marriages.

We made 70rough cuts and there was one version we tested and you couldn't believe you were in Afghanistan. People would say: "Oh this is too funny. You don't see Afghanistan, it's just a bunch of crazy guys." I then said: "Let's put in a little more darkness." You then have to strike a balance and to me, if it's not perfect, I'm happy.

Shooting the film in a dangerous and volatile part of the world, was the approach that once you had enough footage you then looked to shaping the film in the edit?

It's not when you feel you have enough, it's finding a balance between security and artistic concerns. That's it. You have a plan and you have an agenda. There are things you want to do, but it has to be balanced with security concerns. The real story I was going to tell about Shaheen I found in the editing room and in the end, I only kept five days of the shoot. The whole film takes place in Bamyan (Province), nothing in Kabul, although I had weeks and weeks of footage there that I had to take away.

There's a moment when Shaheen asks if you are scared, which sees him verbalise our silent recognition of your boldness and courage to bring this story to the screen.

It's very difficult and it's not like you are walking in the street and there's a bomb. This is not what's difficult. The difficulty is to cope with your fear and to have rules and to follow or to not follow those rules. There are many foreign people that never go out at all in Kabul -- it is forbidden. You have British diplomats who do not even drive their car from the airport to the embassy -- they will take an helicopter that costs £2,000 each way. Then you have foreign people who walk in the street without a scarf -- these girls get kidnapped.

In between these you have Shaheen, who is telling me all the time that I'm too scared, because it's a man's value to be brave and he's a brave guy, there's no question about that. He was in an attack two weeks ago. There was a bomb in a Shia Mosque and he helped to carry out the bodies. So there's no kidding about the fact that he's a brave guy and he has to be because he's been fighting to make his films. But you are in the middle of this and I'm not a brave person at all and I don't think being brave is a very important question. It is, but I'm not brave, I'm very scared and so in the middle of all of this stress it's enough just to manage to not go crazy, or to not drink too much [laughs].

Salim Shaheen and Sonia Kronlund (courtesy of Pyramide Films)

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