LP Edition of 500.
FOUND THE LAST BOX…
Frank Hurricane is a steward of benevolent mischief, and there is no slowing his holy roll. He has inhaled deeply from a wide swath of this country’s bizarre atmospheres, and when he exhales one gets the distinct impression that he might actually be making some sort of sense out of an entire host of experiences that might otherwise simply confuse and confound.
Frank has yanked terms such as “spiritual” or “haunted” down from their ridiculous alters and placed them into tactile, more nuanced tonal motifs. The words don’t take on new meanings per se, but they do exhibit new shades, new hints of character. And character is something sorely lacking in these rotten times. Frank Hurricane gives such terms breath, and through that breath they live anew. That’s what literature is, I think.
There’s a propulsive thrust here, a bottom end, a deep bass bed, and above it everything else does soar and fly. Frank’s legitimately unique storytelling abilities are allowed to swim to their own peculiar rhythms.
It’s trite to say that any artist (let alone musician) marches to the beat of their own drum, but in this case the phrase becomes not only accurate but necessary.
All told, this is some sort of distillation of a vision. You distill some things, and you end up with bullshit – dogma, restrictive formal constraints, hate. You distill things another way and you end up with holy whiskey. Or love.
No matter your poison – yeti, racquetball, tennis, pool, whatever – all are welcome at the Hurricane’s table.
-Matt Krefting, Holyoke, MA, 2016