While I don’t suffer from travel anxiety, I do have an acute case of traveling circus anxiety. When I travel alone, I have zero issues packing, getting to the airport, waiting patiently, boarding, flying, landing, getting the rental car and making my way to the hotel. I don’t mind the early mornings or the inevitable frustration of arriving at my destination long before check in time. I have an above average tolerance for turbulence. I can accept the too many steps and necessary uncertainty of it all. Having spent many years on the road for work, I’ve been slowly boiled to the point where it all feels kind of normal.

But that’s solo travel. When it’s me and the whole family, I am an absolute wreck. To clarify, the whole family includes me, my wife, three kids and — a couple times each year — three small dogs. That’s the “traveling circus” of which I speak. And that kind of travel scares the shit out of me. The variables multiply exponentially. The to do’s spiral. The lack of control is palpable. At least the kids can communicate. But the dogs — don’t even get me started. The eight of us are every airline’s and every passenger’s worst nightmare and, in turn, my own worst nightmare. When we travel for holidays, my calm resolve crumbles into anxious pieces. I become a jittery jerk, an affliction that I feared there was no cure for.

Until recently, when my wife offered me twenty-five milligrams of Xanax an hour before the circus left home for the airport. Listen, I am generally pro-psychopharmacology. On the other hand, I don’t drink a lot of alcohol. I barely dabble in recreational drugs. And, aside from the occasional Advil, I don’t spend much time in the medicine cabinet. Point is, I don’t require doctor ordered or counter available anything to get through most days. But Xanax. Sweet Jesus — Xanax. Within twenty minutes it cut all of my traveling circus anxiety. I didn’t feel drunk or stoned or out of it. I felt like me — with all the cares but very few of the worries. For a little while, everything was “nice” and “fine.” I didn’t worry that one of the dogs was making shrill squeals or that one of the kiddos really had to pee but couldn’t get to the bathroom because of the snack cart. I didn’t mind the car rental insurance upsell scam. I didn’t mind the wrong turn I made on the way to the hotel. I didn’t mind anything. Because of Xanax —and just for a little while — I got a vacation from my vacation.

In the mid-Seventies, Peter Frampton was our Xanax. He made high quality Rock and Roll that didn’t rock or roll too much. He was definitely cute, and probably handsome, but absolutely not hot. He was somewhere between french kissing and heavy petting. If Leif Garrett had been an Osmond and also an Eric Clapton acolyte, he would have been Peter Frampton. If Robert Plant mated with a King Charles Cavalier, the offspring would have been Peter Frampton. Frampton was a guitar prodigy who could also sing and write but who never should have become a solo act, much less a Pop star. And he probably never would have been, except that it was 1976 and Americans desperately needed Xanax.

In 1976, we were just a few years removed from Watergate and fresh off our withdrawal from Vietnam. Still in the post-JFL, post-RFK, post-MLK, post-Manson, post-Altamont fog, we’d survived two assassination attempts on our interim President and were months away from electing a peanut farmer to The White House. We were frazzled and frayed. We were done. The highs had been too high. The lows felt bottomless. The Beatles were long gone. Wings was an insufficient substitute. Led Zeppelin were on the other side of the mountain. Punk was still underground. Same as Disco. People wanted to feel something, just not too much of it. Which is why, in January of that year, when Peter Frampton asked “Do You Feel Like I Do,” Americans responded emphatically, “Yes, we do, Peter! Yes, we do!”

That feeling was something akin to good air. Like an easy breath. It sounded a lot like Album Oriented Rock and Roll — English-inspired, guitar-centric, arena-friendly. Except that it was never too heavy, never too loud, never angry or nervous or even sexy. It was whatever was in the middle of the middle of the road. And it went down so easily. Meanwhile, it looked completely inoffensive. Long, blonde, feathery locks. Shirt unbuttoned but barely a patch of chest hair. Nothing bulging. No come hither. If artificial intelligence could have invented a guitar god for the covers of teen magazines, it would have been Peter Frampton. But we didn’t need AI because he actually existed! Frampton was exactly as perfect for the cover of Rolling Stone as he was for Teenbeat magazine. He made everyone feel good — but not too good. And for a year or so, we could not get enough of him.

Prior to 1976, most Americans had never heard of Peter Frampton. In the UK, he’d made a splash as the precocious lead guitarist for The Herd, the unsuspecting cover boy for teen magazines and, eventually, the 1B to Steve Mariott’s 1A in Humble Pie. However, The Herd never crossed over to The States and by the time of Humble Pie’s 1972 breakthrough (“Smokin’”), Frampton had left the band. While his time in the UK “supergroup” was brief, though, his contributions were considerable. The Mariott/Frampton version of Humble Pie was a nimble Blues Rock band that could also be a Folk Rock band as well as a Hard Rock band. They were never as fun as The Small Faces or as majestic as The Who, but they could play alongside both bands and admirably hold their own. Moreover, with each successive album (Frampton played on four), they took major steps forward. But as cute and talented as he was, Frampton appeared most comfortable half in the spotlight. He was easy on the eyes, but did not demand attention. His solo turn, nudged forward by Dee Anthony — the legendarily heavy handed talent manager — seemed both inevitable and unlikely. In time, both of those characterizations would prove to be true.

As a teen, Peter Frampton attended school with a young David Jones, who was taught by Frampton’s father and who would, of course, soon become David Bowie. Compared to his schoolmate, Frampton saw himself as a sideman. That guy — Ziggy Stardust — he was the star. In his own mind, Frampton was simply the guitarist. In fact, prior to his solo debut but while still in Humble Pie, Frampton was the studio guitarist of his day. He played (largely uncredited) throughout George Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass,” and with Harry Nilsson, Jerry Lee Lewis and countless others. Even later on — for four solo albums, from 1972 through 1975 — the world mostly agreed with Frampton’s self-assessment. He was simply “the guitar player.” But then, in early 1976, during a transitional moment in American history and at a time of year when low expectation albums are dumped into the market, “Frampton Comes Alive” changed everything.

By and large, lead guitarists don’t succeed as solo acts. Eric Clapton was the first and the most notable exception. George Harrison arrived simultaneous to Clapton but he was, of course, a Beatle. For every Eric and George there are countless failed star turns and even more middling fare. Good but not great efforts from Keith Richards or Stevie Van Zandt. Just barely good records from Joe Perry or Slash. And full on duds from Jimmy Page and Brian May. And while none of those guitar guys could sing like Frampton, the axiom still holds: lead guitarists are lead guitarists for a reason — because they are not frontmen.

Frampton’s early solo records, while consistently promising and completely well made, were also minor affairs. Notable friends would pop in and out. Line-ups would shift. A loyal but unnecessary cover or two would be included. But it was not until “Frampton,” an album of ten rock solid originals from 1975, that Peter Frampton was considered a viable artist in his own right. And even then his success was minor — the album reached the top forty but none of the singles charted. All of which explains the ignominious release of “Frampton Comes Alive,” casually tossed out just two weeks into the new year, a historically fallow period for the music business. The notion of a lead guitarist succeeding in their own right was still a longshot. But the idea of that longshot breaking through with a live album was unfathomable.

And yet, that is precisely what happened. “Frampton Comes Alive” was the best selling album of 1976, outpacing Wings, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Bob Seger, Elton John and Barry Manilow. The album spent ten weeks at the top of the charts while the live versions of “Show Me the Way,” “Baby, I Love Your Way” and "Do You Feel Like We Do" commandeered the airwaves. “Frampton Comes Alive” was a global phenomenon but it was inordinately popular in America, a country desperate for something unthreatening after years of tragedy, uncertainty and chaos. Peter Frampton was that thing — not sexually charged like Led Zeppelin, not nuclear powered like AC/DC and not childish like Leif Garrett. Frampton was as unthreatening as one could be while still operating as a bonafide “Rock Star.” And as if to prove just how unthreatening he was, Frampton even brought a silly toy onstage with him.

The talk box is a guitar pedal contraption that produces a “wah wah” effect through the shape and movements of the singer’s voice. And while it had been around for years, it was still very much a Rock and Roll novelty — a gimmick that, alongside his guitar prowess, golden hair and lithe frame, put Frampton over the top. Like the singer-guitarist himself, the talk box was both unusual and adorable. All of which is to say that in 1976, to love Peter Frampton was to love a boyish man playing with toys onstage.

Famously, that love did not last long. “I’m In You,” from 1977, was a tepid follow-up, rushed out to satisfy consumer demand. But its failure was much less a backlash — like what happened with The Bee Gees — and much more an honest response to an inferior product. “I’m In You” contains very few good songs and no great performances. It’s the sound of a star unconvinced of his own talent. It feels unfinished and half-hearted, as though the tape was slowed down to match the uncertainty of the singer. It debuted at number two on the album charts and was quickly certified Platinum, but its resounding thud betrayed the quiet hesitance of its maker.

And that was just the beginning. Throughout 1977, and alongside The Bee Gees, Steve Martin, Aerosmith, Billy Preston, Alice Cooper and George Burns, Frampton was filming a jukebox musical based on The Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.” Released in 1978, the movie was a flop, ignored by audiences and reviled by critics. Frampton and the Gibb brothers — the most popular musical acts with the biggest parts in the film — bore the brunt of the debacle. Frampton had only reluctantly signed on at the urging of his manager and based on the over-slash-false promises of producer Robert Stigwood. But in spite of his obvious screen presence and his earnest affection for the material, Frampton came off looking ridiculous. The most popular Rock Star or 1976 had become the butt of jokes just two years later.

He never quite recovered. The same guy who released six albums between 1972 and 1977 put out just six more in the quarter century that followed. During that period Frampton was perpetually out of synch with the zeitgeist — too amiable for Punk, too gentle for Metal, too straight for New Wave. His albums receded from the charts and then from store shelves, only to reappear at thrift stores many years later, seemingly frozen in amber. Peter Frampton came to signify 1976, which would have been more than enough for most artists and lucrative enough to sustain him, except for the fact that he’d signed every bad deal with every bad actor imaginable. By the mid-Eighties, Peter Frampton was a down on his luck, out of fashion has been. His career as a solo artist existed somewhere between irrelevant and finished.

Which was not entirely a bad thing for Peter Frampton. In 1987 he was invited by his old schoolmate, David Bowie, to play lead guitar on the Glass Spider Tour. And in the decade that followed he joined both Bill Wyman's Rhythm Kings and Ringo Starr's All-Starr Band. The reluctant frontman who’d always preferred being “just the guitar player” got to spend the best part of a decade in the role he was most comfortable with. In 1994 he released a half baked, self-titled album and in 1995 he put out “Frampton Comes Alive II,” which featured much of the panache of its forebear but none of its popular appeal. Along the way he married a second and third time, and bounced around from London to New York, Los Angeles, and Nashville. By the twenty-first century Frampton was a stately, American-ish Englishman, with graying hair on the sides and barely any on top. His playing and singing had not suffered. He was still in demand for session work. And in some ways, he was still a Rock legend, if only for 1976. But he was as far from pop stardom as he’d ever been.

By 2003, Peter Frampton was living in an upscale suburb of Cinicnnati, Ohio. Since “Framptom Comes Alive II,” from 1995, the closest he’d gotten to pop relevance was his role as technical advisor and songwriter for the fictional band Stillwater, from Cameron Crowe’s “Almost Famous.” He was fifty-three at the time — an oldish dad settling into a newish marriage, looking for contentment far away from America’s musical capitals. No longer a star, it had been several years since Frampton was even “the guitar player.” 2003 was the year of Beyonce, 50 Cent, Outkast and R. Kelly. Simultaneously, it was a barren time for Rock and Roll. Unless your name was Dave — specifically Matthews or Grohl — you simply were not a relevant, contemporary Rock Star.

While mainstream Rock was not happening in 2003, Indie Rock was very much was. The Strokes had crossed over and Interpol, Spoon, The White Stripes, My Morning Jacket and Yeah Yeah Yeahs were not far behind. It was the year that “The O.C.” debuted on Fox. It was the year of Indie Geek Hero, Seth Cohen. It was the year that a Death Cab for Cutie side project (The Postal Service) scored a Top Forty Pop hit (“Such Great Heights”). It was a year looking forward, not backward. It was a year that had absolutely nothing to do with Peter Frampton.

2003 was also the year that Peter Frampton put out “Now,” his twelfth studio album, but his first in nearly a decade. Released on 33rd Street Records — the imprint started by Tower Records founder, Russ Solomon — “Now” was not the work of an artist desperately hanging on. It was not a past prime mess, nor was it a triumphant comeback. It was the rarest of things — an intentionally minor, casually excellent record from a mostly forgotten, former Rock Star. It charted nowhere and produced no hit singles. No major magazines or websites noted its arrival. In fact, I suspect that at the time even most loyal Frampton fans were unaware of its existence. The man on the album’s cover is not blonde and beautiful. He’s not lit by the glare of hot spotlights. He is older — much older — bald and seated alone on a chair, in an empty room, warmed by soft daylight. Its title lacks the promise or metaphor of “Frampton Comes Alive.” In a modest, bust tasteful serif font, it reads simply “Peter Frampton NOW.”

“Now” is almost exactly what its title suggests — middle-aged Peter Frampton, along with a small coterie of trusted friends, playing music together, in the present tense. With few exceptions, the songs contain the vulnerability and proficiency that distinguished Peter Frampton. Even in this aged and stripped down form, his guitar playing is rather extraordinary — strong and confident like Eric Clapton, but never showy or muscular; ornate and delicate like Richard Thompson, but never fiery. Frampton does not play like a typical “guitar god” — he’s more polite, if you will. Even the talk box — his gimmicky showpiece — was more cute than cocky.

But here’s the really weird thing: notwithstanding its venerable talent and relative tidiness, “Now” kind of sounds like an Indie Rock album from 2003. Or minimally like a stripped down Foo Fighters album from 2003. Both his verses, which are pleasantly spare, and his choruses, which are bittersweet revelations, recall The Beatles, but by way of Dave Grohl’s band. Meanwhile, his open and unexpected guitar tunings recall Neil Young, but by way of Built to Spill. None of this should be any surprise given that both Dave Grohl and Doug Martsch were children of the Seventies, brought up on The British Invasion and North American Folk Rock, but more so on Seventies Arena Rock like Led Zeppelin, Queen, Kiss and — yep — Peter Frampton.

Frampton’s mildly alternative, slightly indie, twelfth studio album has plenty to recommend. For one thing, it sounds like the work of a live band — not an arena-rocking band but absolutely like four veteran dudes playing the same songs at the same time. Overdubs are tasteful and minimal. The guitars are forward but never domineering. And then, of course, there are the songs. “Verge of a Thing” is pert Power Pop, flattened out and hammered down so as to recall — oddly enough — Queens of the Stone Age. And “Hour of Need” blends foggy Folk Rock with late Britpop — think Elbow or Travis. But whereas those bands owed a massive debt to Radiohead, Frampton is almost the opposite of that famously inscrutable band. For all his artfulness, Peter Frampton is the opposite “arty.”

There are, of course, misfires. “Flying Without Wings” is a good enough metaphor for risk taking and resilience, but it's also the closest “Now” gets to generic Blues Rock fare. And “I’m Back” is Frampton working hard against his grain. The guitars tighten up. The pace races ahead. And everything sounds clenched. Its subject is celebratory but its tone is oddly vengeful — a mode that Frampton cannot effectively muster. It’s a song made in 2003 but stuck in 1991, complete with the most ruh-roh-did-he-really-just-say-that line of his career: “I'm back / Like Schwarzenegger in Terminator.” He repeats the couplet three times but with each successive delivery he sounds less convinced and more at odds with himself.

In contrast, “Love Stands Alone” is a blood pumping rocker that somehow combines Classical guitar and something flute-ish (but which I assume is a synthesizer button) with a sinister, electric, Alt Rock riff. Frampton and company go back and forth — from quiet and plaintive to dark and impassioned — without ever sinking into airiness or heaviness. It’s quite a feat in its own right but doubly so when you consider that most Frampton songs seem unsure of what, exactly, they are feeling (“do you feel like I do?”), or if they are feeling anything at all.

That neutered quality was a major part of Frampton’s appeal — the capacity to elicit mild pleasure without the complicated charge of Rock and Roll. Which is not to discount his talent so much as it is to explain why he was so positively vital in 1976 and so completely antithetical by 1977 — the year in which “Rumors” and “Never Mind the Bollocks” exploded with feelings. Amazingly, 1976 was also the year that the U.S. patent was awarded for Alprazolam — known commonly as Xanax. Yes — Xanax arrived at precisely the same time that Peter Frampton dominated airwaves and record store shelves. However, it did not take long for the effects to wear off and for everyone — including no doubt Frampton himself — to realize that we needed to actually feel the feelings.

by Matty Wishnow