L.C. Franke

At his writing table facing the window, the staccato rhythm of L.C. Franke’s typewriter keys pierce the sound
of the gentle ocean breeze. It’s a warm day in Antibe and the sheer curtains appear to slowly dance, creating
a Gaussian blur to the waves and Mediterranean Sea outstretched below. Sheets of song lyrics are strewn
across the table, with a yellowed copy of a Paris Review and the lace of a charmeuse camisole peaking from
below the freshly inked pages.

During the day, L.C. Franke alternates between espresso and tequila, when the evening stretches into night,
he switches to rye whiskey and the occasional break with herbal tea.

He’s fine left alone with his thoughts but enthusiastic while in the acquaintance of small company. He’s
connected, gotta-a-guy for everything, but doesn’t brag about it. His witty sarcasm endears him to people
and seems to get him what he wants without having to ask a question. He prefers poetry to politics but
does the right thing when no one’s looking. And he’s religious only in terms of obsessions; “communion” is
what L.C. calls a long Sunday bath to the soundtrack of Lester Young or Nat King Cole.

Recorded with a full orchestra over the course of two long weekends in Central Texas, L.C. Franke's debut,
much like himself, is full of mystery, romance, and a sense of haunting timelessness. His voice is at once
smooth and gritty, vulnerable and powerful, and perfectly complemented by the lush orchestral
arrangements and rich atmospheric backdrop.

Welcome to the world of L.C. Franke.