Jamie Webster ft. Billy Bragg – Fickle Fran Review

Plain toast music strikes again – the passable nothing of Jamie Webster pairs with the folk-punk hero of decades before. Fickle Fran is their paired effort just months before Webster headlines an outdoor venue. It is fascinating how, like Gerry Cinnamon, he has a grasp around the throat of culture and is tightening his grip without ever truly leaving a mark with his work. Name a Webster song. Not this one. Who knows. A quick Google proves fruitless too though Instagram adverts aligned to fans of The Reytons. Pub cover fans rejoice, for Fickle Fran sounds like a boozed-up edition of a song you probably heard elsewhere. Sadly, this is original, technically. It sounds all the same even if he does align himself with Liverpool F.C., as Kasabian did with the Premier League all those years ago. 

Webster is the pub grub of music, cheap and serviceable songs for people on the go. Fickle Fran is no different. You can enlist all the legends of the political music movement you like; it does not change the unrefined simplicity at the heart of this. The obvious is laid bare for those who need the simple starts of cultural discourse spelt out for them. Warning signs show rather clearly when tracks like Voice of the Voiceless are self-proclaimed rather than assigned. For Webster, he sees himself as this champion of the masses and to do so must stretch his musical style and quality thin. Barbaric and threadbare, the work on this single with Bragg alongside him is a miserable one. Fickle Fran is a fickle song. That much should be obvious. 

From its “ba ba ba” opening of people in the city being on it, the terminology and cliché once more orchestrated by Webster is flatlining at the best of times. He still has a small band brain, thinking his songs are just for those in the back of a pub rather than an implosive tour. Sam Fender without the power. The Libertines in their current form. Defeat is the topic of conversation though it would not sound it – through soft repetition and generalised feelings of getting back on your feet and being back on it with your pals, Fickle Fran has not a moment of interest to it. Stick all the string sections you want into this, it isn’t going to pad out the emptiness. Half-hearted attachments to the culture around him, where Webster has dipped his toes into the scene and assumes drinking is the main and only draw.  

It tends to be a symptom of all the bands and musicians of a similar ilk to Webster. His music is made for those whose hobbies include watching the football at the pub, watching the football at home, and going to the pub. A monthly gig thrown in there to stomp around to bands who proved strangely popular a decade ago and now cling to their top spots through notoriety and one hit alone for good measure. Fickle Fran appeals to this simpler mentality and at its core there is nothing to it. A cry to return to the pubs, an emptiness not expected when Bragg attaches his name to this one. Relaying nothing, and expecting everything, Fickle Fran is a miserable experience.