Snoopy Presents: Welcome Home, Franklin

 

AIRDATE: 2/16/24

STORY: Franklin Armstrong is a kid without a home. He's the sole child in a military family, and as such, lacks the emotional ballasts that other children may take for granted. Landing in Peanutsville, USA, he bucks up and explores the neighborhood, a sweet young boy intent on making the best of yet another less-than ideal situation.  10

MUSIC: With no disrespect intended to Jeff Morrow's contributions, the inclusion of songs by Billy Preston, John Coltrane and Chuck Berry (intended to evoke the late Sixties period when Franklin joined the strip) is more than enough to warrant a 10. Not in the tradition of Peanuts to depend on popular tuneage, certainly, but in this case the exception rules.

ANIMATION: Nothing groundbreaking. Smart shading, lovely coloring, and some tasty lookin' slices of pizza. 9

VOICES: Everyone delivers. Fittingly, top honors go to Caleb Bellavance as the boy of the hour.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

--That Franklin feels utterly lost until he meets Charlie Brown says it all. They bond over baseball, music, and soap box derby racers. It's nice to enjoy some modern media that doesn't feel compelled to dilute its sweet nature with misguided spoonfuls of self-awareness.

--Helping the Schulz family and Scott Montgomery on the script is Robb Armstrong. At just three years old, Armstrong told his mother he'd grow up to be a cartoonist. At age six, he along with millions of other readers worldwide, witnessed the desegregation of Peanuts. 

Twenty-one years later, Armstrong saw the syndication of his own strip. Still going strong, Jump Start gave readers a glimpse into a side of black America Armstrong saw represented nowhere else: the loving, hard-working, middle-class family. His work caught the eye of Charles Schulz himself, and the two men struck up a friendship that lasted until Sparky's passing. 

The dedicated student dreams of impressing their teacher, and so it went for Robb Armstrong one day in the early 1990s, when Schulz called him up with a request. A new Peanuts special was in the works, and Franklin needed a last name. "Could I name him Franklin Armstrong?" Although this last name appeared only in You're In the Super Bowl, Charlie Brown, never in the strips, it can be securely stated that a last name suggested by Schulz himself, and with such a personal meaning, it is indeed canon.

A BAD PEACE

--"Pizza? Of course! Who doesn't like pizza?" I'll tell you who doesn't like pizza, Franklin--losers. Or people with allergies, who are also losers, but losers I feel sympathy for. 

--The fourth-wall break near the start of the show would work with no other character.

--This isn't some rote animation of original strips, though. The warm vibes of Welcome Home, Franklin cannot abide this energy:

--Count me among those tickled by the "retconning" of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Unnecessary, sure, but what grade of jackaninny is offended by a scene in a children's TV program made with the express intent of promoting kindness and comradery?

SCORE

Much like Monie Love listening to Dilla beats, I get "the feel good" watching Welcome Home, Franklin. Back-to-back smash hits from the Apple era. 10

In Here, In Here! or, Back To The Well For Some Bittersweet Water

Influence.

It’s easier than ever for a person or a collective to impose influence; harder than ever to avoid influence. Well, alongside great wealth get a gander at great responsibility. I hope, for their sake, that the hot Tik Tok dimwit of the minute is holding themselves satisfactorily accountable. My doubts are seeds dropped out of gnarled hands onto well-tilled earth, doused with water from a hot length of hose….yet, my pantry is still stocked in case of surprise molding.

Industry.

Food, fashion. Health, travel. Music, movies, games and dogs. Thirteen Banana Bread Recipes That Contain Invaluable Life Hacks. Twenty Fun Things To Pair With a Wet Skirt. Smash Diabetes On a Budget. 70 Songs That Prove Why The 70s Were The Actual Best Decade For Music. Ten Dream Vacations For Americans Too Weird To Get a Passport.

I’m proud to say that I did not wonder how my all-time fave band might fare in the age of bedroom critique, when the writers compete with talkers whose own popularity sometimes dwarfs that of the artists whose work they are reviewing, of my own accord. It was a hypothetical thrust upon me, and for a while I let it have its way. Then I realized: I’m better than this. Do I really care, how Anthony Fantano would score Daydream Nation or Goo? Do I really care, whether or not “Youth Against Fascism” could catch fire with the politically-inclined mononymous prodigies so adored by the actual youth?

No. No.

Instead.

I turn, once more, to the music. Not just of Sonic Youth, but of those acts, born this century, who’ve twisted to SY for inspiration. Not simply the longevity or the advocacy, but the music itself. Like guys, I’m glad you clocked in thirty years by the amps, it’s super how you traveled Oz and decided to hang with the Munchkins while your flannel-flyin’ friends galloped forward, but what about them tunes? Kids these days don’t care about Forced Exposure.

I’m thinking of women who record under brilliant pseudonyms. Lindsay Jordan, Katie Crutchfield, Sophie Allison. Snail Mail, Waxahatchee, Soccer Mommy. I’m thinking of Horsegirl, three teenagers in Chicago bonding over their fascination with a bygone era, the era of indie record labels, fanzines, “scenes,” landline phones, record stores. The era in which SY reigned supreme. The era in which, for a lot of folks, the band reached its artistic pinnacle. 

You know how far aback it threw me when Snail Mail proclaimed an affection for Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star in an interview? When she expressed her fondness for the “emotionally vulnerable Sonic Youth”?  To say nothing of the clear lifts from 2006’s “Incinerate” in two of her own best songs.  Sonic Nurse, at least, garnered praise from critics and fans distressed by the two low-energy offerings preceding, so I wasn’t bowled over by Soccer Mommy pulling the vinyl from her Amoeba bag. And Horsegirl getting two members of SY to play on their album? Of course, why wouldn’t they, if you’re going to live the dream then live the fucking dream. Don’t just wear shirts and hope the producer gets the hint.

Indie.

Independent. Under-heard, under-seen, under-paid. Not as much, not as long. Before the majors, before the money. The “salad days,” except the lettuce is greasy, the tomatoes are leaky, and apparent shredded cheese is actual dead skin. Those days when the tour itinerary included such exotic, never-again-visited locales as Charlottesville, VA, Tuscaloosa, AL and the entire FL. This version of the band is the one recalled most fondly, not merely for their sonic fearlessness but for their willingness to champion creators they believed in. Not just bands, but visual artists and writers. (Oh, the writers! You could make a tidy library out of SY book recommendations dropped over thirty years worth of interviews.) It’s arguable no group had a larger influence on America’s underground music scene, three dudes and one girl in a band reinventing the guitar and alienating the “right people” in the process. SY stepped off stage without a single RIAA certification to their name (making them unique among the acts featured in the "Homerpalooza" episode of The Simpsons), and I am not even attempting hyperbole when I tell you that the list of hit singles released by opportunistic Memphis DJs is longer than the list of hit singles released by Sonic Youth.

The most successful of their proteges, Nirvana, stood out among their peers in ways unconnected to units shifted. Kurt Cobain “Louie Louie”’d the shit outta his lyrics because the likes of “Never met a wise man/if so it’s a woman” and “Broken hymen of your Highness” are not meant to compete with the music. They are meant to antagonize the music, irritate the listener into thought, and you can’t do that while expecting commercial success. So you mumble. You slur. You die. You live forever.

Which isn’t saying any of the aforementioned active artists are comparable to Nirvana or their linchpin. Nor are they akin to the bands who slogged it out alongside the Youth in the van days. These aren’t sloppy, sneery contrarians working through their Mommy issues. Yes, you’ll hear muffled vocals and layers of distortion, but you’ll always catch the pretty confusion stirred up most artfully by purveyors of folk-country and drowsy pop. There is imagination equal to passion; there is heartbreak equal to lust; there is joy equal to pain; there is serenity equal to chaos.

In other words, there is roll equal to rock.

Such is the result, when someone listens to Sonic Youth and end up moved more by "Disconnection Notice" and "Dude Ranch Nurse" than "Silver Rocket" or "100%." Inconceivable! Except. (I kinda can’t get over Snail Mail’s fandom an album generally regarded as an under-baked oddball in the discography, a lightweight entry crammed between the band’s failed commercial fling and their triumphant return to noise rock glory.)

I was there, so I tell you here. Murray Street on, a casually-referential phase of their musical life where they prioritized melody over maelstrom. SY albums were no longer must-listens, to the point where the likes of the Village Voice felt comfy imploring one of NYC’s most formidable racket-gangs to hang up the pedals.

The quality of the music was, of course, a matter of opinion, but the quality of the band itself wasn’t. Sonic Youth were cooler in terms of temperature, and colder in terms of cultural impact. The group did not lose their edge so much as they accidentally-on-purpose left it in a winter wheat field. I never stopped loving them, even when Rather Ripped insisted on maddening inconsistency. I hoped, not exactly fervently, that these latterly releases would receive their due bouquets. 

And so they have.

Interestingly. 

Rock doesn’t matter as much anymore. Hip hop, pop, country, all these genres have surpassed rock as commercial and cultural forces. Arguably, rock peaked in 1994, when guitar music was so hot the mainstream media even threw the broads a bone, pretending to care about the Riot Grrl movement and proclaiming it “The Year of Women In Rock.” The likes of Hole, Veruca Salt, and the Breeders sold well, but never reached the multi-platinum heights of the boys (fuck’s sake, Live’s Throwing Cooper moved eight million units!). So yeah, join in the party, but it's our house, ladies. 

The last fifteen or so years has seen the so-called "death of rock and roll." Hip hop, pop and country rule the charts, and well, why not? Where are the angry young men, strapped up and howling? Rock is moribund, washed. That this dire proclamation comes as the genre's best offerings are being made by women is telling. Silly me, I thought that those Dave Marsh-tested, Jann Wenner-approved masters no longer dominating indicated a welcome shift. And it does. But damn do some people not like to share. 

In conclusion.

Bear it or bust it, but I ain’t lyin’: the girls are right, and the guys can’t deal. The girls were right about the Beatles, they were right about Duran Duran, and by the bow of Artemis, they are right about the “irrelevant” period of Sonic Youth. It mattered. It is worth its weight in revelation. It can be heard in some of the best music being made today.