On Friday 30 August, we’re releasing our first album as Ragtop Down.

Late last year, our friend Roger Askew gamely agreed to record one of our songs – Slide, Charlie Brown. The plan was simply to document our stripped back, three-strong string band sound. But over a few sessions, Lyle broke out his formidable instrument arsenal and we roped in Hjordis Moon Badford on percussion. At the last minute, Roger improvised a playful piano part and suddenly the song came alive: here was that Vince Guaraldi Peanuts vibe that it had been crying out for all along. And after ten years making music, we finally had a proper recording - something that said “Look what we did”.

So we decided to just keep on going.

Gaby and I trawled our sack of songs – going right back to the early days of Franklin – and chose a number that we’ve been kicking around on stage and at the Dipstick table sessions over the years. Lyle tweaked (and even transformed) some of the arrangements. Hjordis came back for more. Roger was saintly patient throughout, layering the parts, piecing the songs together and crafting our sound. And we wrote a couple of new songs for good measure.

After months of recording and tinkering, we sent the mixes to Denis Blackham at Skye Mastering. The album is finally done and here’s the release teaser.

It’s a snapshot of where we are right now, with echoes of what we used to be and a hint of where we’ll go. And it’s been thrilling, frustrating, exhilarating, emotional and a complete and utter joy.

I can’t wait to start the Difficult Second Album.

One final thought. My favourite moment happened during the second recording session for new song Summerland. While we recorded most of our parts separately, for the song’s outro Gaby, Lyle and I stood together around the mic, singing harmonies, clapping - and beaming. We hope you enjoy it.

For nearly ten years, Gaby and I have been playing - as an acoustic duo and trio, as a full electric band - as Franklin.

Without rock star names ourselves, we figured we needed a band name. And Franklin is just a word I liked: favourite characters from Sesame Street and Peanuts, a famous Benjamin, perhaps a vaguely American frontier town. But it never really meant more than the sound we said when announcing ourselves on stage in a little London club.

So when we finally decided to record an album, and with multi-instrumentalist Lyle securely on board, it seemed like time for a change. Okay then, we’d just have a quick think, find a couple of words that encapsulate everything about who we are and what we’re doing, and then start using it. Simple.

You should see the list. Anything and everything got thrown in and kicked around, from the painfully earnest to the extremely silly. A never-ending sea of possible and improbable noms de tunes. None seemed quite right - apart from those that did seem to fit but were already taken.

What do you do at these moments? Like Inigo Montoya, you go back to the beginning. Gaby unearthed a decade-old list of thoughts and ideas about who and what we might want to be, and one phrase jumped out: ‘listening to music in the car on a sunny day’.

Next time we’re playing, come say hello to Ragtop Down.

Gaby, Lyle and I finally recorded Slide, Charlie Brown at the end of 2018, thanks to Roger Askew (production and keys) with Hjordis Moon Badford on percussion. 

Whatever the song might be about, it’s absolutely nostalgic. I visited my family in Canada and found a box of 8mm film that my uncle Brian shot over the years. I brought a few reels back to London to have it converted, and was transported back to all those idyllic summers. So of course I couldn’t resist using it here. Our friend Rob then filmed us rehearsing just to bring it right up to date. 

Slide, Charlie Brown - Ragtop Down (2018)

We hope you enjoy our song - and a little bit of time travel.

Merry Christmas and a happy new year!

Love Ben, Gaby and Lyle

Springsteen famously released the demo of his home-recorded Nebraska album because he felt that the studio recordings didn’t recapture its raw, haunted sound.

In that spirit (but maybe not quite to such acclaim) we’ve added Big Black Crow to our music page. Recorded in the clifftop town of Varkala in southern India in 2014, it features Gaby improvising with her new best friend, a loud-mouthed crow sitting with us in the roof-top garden. It’s rambling and unfocused - Gaby at her joyful, irrepressible best.

We thought about trying to write something a little more considered and then re-record it. The crow insisted that we’d nailed it on the first take.

It's 50 years since Charles M Schultz introduced Franklin into the Peanuts neighbourhood.

This article at Kotaku looks back on the highs and lows.

I’m away with work. It doesn’t happen very often, so it’s always an adjustment leaving behind the things that matter. More and more, my first thought is about how to avoid letting music slip out of my temporary life. And this time, I have a secret weapon: Gaby is with me. 

Someone suggested that we bring a guitar. Now, we love an audience - we’re pretty shameless, partly because it feels like we have nothing to lose, but also because we love to play. But there were a couple of things that held us back.

We have a crew of about 20 people working together on a challenging project for three weeks. We all seem to be getting on: they’re an amazing group of people, some we’ve known for years, some for days and - importantly - some we’ve known for days that feel like they’ve been around for a lifetime. But what if we’re wrong: what if we do untold further damage by presuming to entertain people?

Here’s how it goes. We play something we’ve written. Everyone applauds: they’ve just witnessed a dog walking on its hind legs. Then we play something else we’ve written. The novelty fades. Someone asks if we know Homeward Bound. No, sorry, but here’s an obscure cover: Jackson as reimagined by Hem. Some people like it, but others aren’t so sure. What about anything by The Beatles? Er, no. 

We really have to learn some standards. Suggestions on a postcard ...

All roads lead to Springsteen, so I first knew about Nils Lofgren because he was a member of the E Street Band, parachuting in to replace Miami Steve on the Born in the USA tour. 

When I discovered his own music, I fell hard - trawling second hand stores and record fairs for albums with his band Grin, bootlegs, solo studio work and live records. And I went to the still-missed flagship HMV store on Oxford Street on the day of any new release.

But the big thrill was the live show. On Bruce's rare visits he was a dot on a distant stage. Nils toured tirelessly in between visits to E Street and I saw him and his band this close at the Town and Country Club and Shepherds Bush Empire. I even bumped into him in Blackheath Village before a show in the Concert Hall - a stage phantom gliding through the streets of my childhood. 

Then he started touring a smaller show with multi-instrumentalist Greg Varlotta. These were wonderful showcases, but I missed the power of the full band, began to skip tours and listened to his music less.

Which brings me to the other night and the front row of the Barbican, ready to re-engage. The show was a joy. Nils hasn’t somersaulted across the stage in many years, but his musicianship is spectacular and powerful, his voice is sweet, heart open and he clearly loves performing to an audience that has been by his side (on and off) for decades. And then there are the songs …

Now that I’ve been writing for a few years, I listened in a different way - and it was a revelation. Beautifully told stories, powerful themes, intriguing concepts and arresting lyrics. So now, like Inigo Montoya, I'm going back to the beginning, listening more carefully and learning from someone who - while not an icon in their own right like Springsteen - has quietly created decades of beautiful and exhilarating work. I’m as excited now as I was 30 years ago.

What makes a song? I’ve been listening to the R U Talkin’ REM Re: Me? podcast as they assess REM’s entire back catalogue. They judged Out of Time and found it wanting: one of the Scotts went so far as to say that a couple of the songs weren’t really songs at all. 

But why? They use musical instruments, vocals, melody, harmony. My songs - and I’m talking about the ones I’m predominantly responsible for, rather than Gaby’s - have those things. They also have a verse, chorus and bridge in various appropriate, hopefully pleasing and balanced combinations, tonic relief, and solid (if unadventurous) rhythm. Surely you can pick 'n mix from anything on that list and claim to have a song.

So why do my songs often feel like a musical Pinocchio: they want to be real songs but somehow they aren’t?

It might be the execution. I was lucky enough to have one of my songs covered by a friend. It was transformed from a simple and jaunty guitar tune to a sweeping, piano-powered delight. It didn’t hurt that she’s a wonderful artist. 

Another friend and collaborator said that’s just how it is: there’s little perspective on your own work, get used to it.

For now, I’ll keep an eye out for Jiminy Cricket.

This is one of the many reasons why we love the community of musicians that we're so lucky to be a part of.

In early 2018 we helped out our friends The Bearing on a couple of music videos, and they very graciously invited us into their studio to do a little recording. It's been a while for Gaby and Ben but Lyle is rarely out of a studio, so between us we managed to get our act together and make some sounds. The results were demos of two new songs, a one-take quickie on another and an absolute joy of a day.