Frank Lloyd Wleft and his Orchestra - The Actual Kids in Actual America Review

Frank Lloyd Wleft and his Orchestra’s ‘The Actual Kids in Actual America’ exists outside of a place and a time, feeling like an ode to the beat generation poets of the United States past without losing its London punk charm.

Native south London Frank Lloyd Weft and his Orchestra has managed to create a record that feels distinctively American despite not being from the country himself. It’s a touch of Americana that flows with the rural folk country of old; a concept album structured around classic American artforms on a solo coast-to-coast US trip in 2022. His sense of wonder and awe is felt in ‘Of Liberty’, which has him tell us from the off how he keeps his camera pointed at the sky: looking up, basking in adoration that all is new. It’s an ode to New York from the perspective of an Englishman looking up overwhelmed in awe and wonder – growling akin to Phil Ochs in places and other protest folk singers of the 60s with an effortless tune that blends punk spirit with that of country and spoken word poetry that captures the thrill of a 24 hour pizza restaurant for the first time and the cultural differences that come with an American.

This tells the story of a man’s infatuation with America; rolling onto Nashville from New York, and the journey that takes him across America it feels like you’re experiencing this story, this journey with him in the passenger seat. It’s a snapshot of the United States culture that reveals all the gnarling bite of a London post-punk band, tapping into the country and western nostalgia of the time. He switches gears with his orchestra for the sense of a Travelling Band-type feel, “You’re teaching yourself honky tonk songs on your mother’s old piano” creates a sense of instant warm nostalgia for better days – and it really fits in with that spirit of bands like Westside Cowboy that have taken the American approach and made it distinctively British.

The cultural references are ever present in the jangle pop, early stages instantly feel like a call to mind of Lou Reed. Without the 60s folk heroes of the likes of Bob Dylan this record wouldn’t exist the way it does – yet the London charm and uniqueness captures the spirit of Walthamstow just as much as Nashville. It’s a record tied down to two places despite largely existing just because of one man’s journey throughout America – a road trip that has its heart and soul poured into. It’s the poetry of the beat generation and you can imagine authors like William S Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, in addition to Allen Ginsberg – capturing the essence of the subculture movement that started in the post World War 2 era and the Silent Generation. Inject a healthy dosage of Pop art that emerged out of the 50s and flourished in both countries for a similar time capsule – this feels like a record that exists outside a place and a time.

The record allows itself to have a bit of fun and the pop art influence comes through; especially with Nashville Skyline and electric-era Bob Dylan rockabilly on ‘I Have Been in the Desert So Long’ that tells the journey of the enveloping, all-encompassing free-spirited nature of Antonioni’s intoxicating ‘Zabriskie Point’ style allure of the sun and the sense of false freedom and escape that comes with “the palace of the desert” where you can go anywhere but there is little to do, and survival is precious. “I built a palace in a snowstorm,” the juxtaposition takes us on a journey of unpredictability that remains over the course of the record – showing the contradictions of America on its sleeve. When we get to ‘How Do I Let Myself Fall So in Love With You’ it harkens back to the old days of Johnny Cash and June Carter’s duets with a twisted reverse energy to it - in the sense of appeal and ode to Albuquerque. It’s at this point; if you haven’t already questioned Frank Lloyd Wleft’s nationality, you’re ringing up the HM Passport office to make sure – this feels incredibly romantic on the surface but ultimately doomed; lovers bickering after the honeymoon period has gone.

No major American city is spared from Frank Loyd Wleft’s influences, each with their own story to tell; his sense of romanticism for LA is felt on ‘Postcards from LA’ – but at the same time there is a sense of time running out and that you can’t stay away forever. It captures the homesickness and the time being spent in the US and missing the cultural impact of London and the UK and the sense of familiarity that comes with it; and not really appreciating the city that you live in. Postcards from LA talks through America’s overreliance on car and is the longest on the whole record, stretched out to a lengthy but earned eight minutes as the record dovetails into experimental territory. As much as ‘The Actual Kids to America’ exists as an ode to LA; ‘Postcards from LA’ is a longing and a sense of homecoming – it’s the simple things, like being completely alone, and wanting to hear someone so calling their number but “neither of us were at home”. “I sent postcards from LA,” Frank Lloyd Wleft sings: “But I had nothing to say.” He’s spent so long now in America that he misses a smile; a sense of familiarity – and how they’re both going the same way, but in different directions. It’s deeply resonate, powerful and affecting and speaks to the skill of Wleft’s craft.

 As with any good tale; ‘The Actual Kids in Actual America’ ends with an anthem: a six minute barnstormer of a catchy; upbeat “I’m innocent… living on the map” dialogue that weaves and weaves. This is where the Magnetic Fields influences are felt: the nostalgic DNA of ‘The Saddest Story Ever Told’ is ever present towards the back half; with a dreamy melody that’s magical and second to none. This music holds up live; a Shacklewell Arms show a while back with Zac Lawrence of Deadletter fame struck a chord; and the experience Wleft has gained from working in the London scene as a gig regular really pays off on the record. It feels like an accomplishment and a work of art that’s at once timeless and fixed to such a unique setting that it creates its own world; pulling the listener along so you feel like you’re sat in the backseat of a car driving down the open highway with him; pulled away from home on one great big adventure that despite it all; you know can’t be eternal.

The lyrics of “The Actual Kids in Actual America” stuck with me long after this chance encounter in the Shack: “the fall of America, shot on iPhone,” Wleft repeats over and over again – pulling you in and keeping you there with a sense of steady hypnotism that paints a brutal picture of the real state of America that is visible even to a tourist; the brutal gut punch of “Shot on iPhone” to end each verse over the six minutes establishing a real sense of poetry at its finest and most gifted. Maximising this with his Orchestra, ever present throughout the record - it crafts one of the most singular unique voices of 2026 so far.