Franky Perez

SOMETIMES the signs are just too big to ignore. A few years ago, long before Franky Perez had even begun kicking around ideas for his Lava Records debut, Poor Man’s Son, the neon of his native Las Vegas had gone dim. The only thing he could think to do was get in his truck and just drive, hoping to find some answers in the endless miles. He packed up and threw the guitar that his father had given him when he was a kid in the back seat. His plan: log miles during the day, write songs at night. The goal: New York.
He never made it.

It all started falling apart in New Orleans. Hanging out in the French Quarter, Franky decided on a whim to have his palm read. The fortuneteller said something that stuck with Franky: The path he was on would lead to what he wanted. Even though Franky had been in several bands since he was 15 years old, what he “wanted” was to perform his own music. “It just made the whole trip surreal,” he says.

Soon after, Franky realized he wouldn’t make it to New York. Money was too tight. He opted to head south, shooting for Miami. He had family there and figured he could get a job. After lining up an apartment, he got a job waiting tables. He was barely getting by. “Things were really bad. There was literally no food in the cupboard. I even made a promise to God that if he turned things around for me I would wear white for 30 days. It was tough.”

But it was the perfect place for Perez. The son of Cuban emigrants–his mother fled after Castro took control–he could dig into his roots. Perez says, “I was looking through this magazine and I saw an ad for a guy giving conga lessons. It was this guy teaching congas in the back of a karate dojo.”

It turned out to be Lazaro Valdez, a Cuban exile, conga master and Santeria priest. He taught Franky the secrets of Cuban rhythm while little kids practiced their kicks out in the front room. He also taught Franky about Cuban voodoo–the worship of saints, the art of reading shells. One night Valdez read Perez’ shells. Just like the fortune teller in New Orleans, he said that Franky had been through a lot and struggled musically, but that the path he was on would lead him to what he was looking for. “That hit me like a ton of bricks,” Franky remembers. “It was weird enough when one person had told me that, but two? I didn’t know what to think.”

It wasn’t long after that Perez’ phone rang. It was music industry veteran and personal manager Pete Angelus (The Black Crowes, Van Halen). “I hadn’t talked to him in a year. I don’t even know why he called me that night. I didn’t even know he knew where I was,” Franky says. “He asked me what I was doing. I said I was sweating my ass off in Miami. He said he was coming to town and wanted to talk.” The coincidence was too big to ignore. The two had a meeting. Angelus said Perez should move to L.A., make a run at it on his own. The next morning, Franky had everything packed up and was back on the roa ad, pulling over periodically to call home to Vegas, piecing together the backing band that would eventually become The Sacred Hearts.

A few weeks later Franky and his new band were holed up in a house in Reseda, Calif. They practiced for hours every night, plowing through the songs Perez had written during his road trip, songs that would eventually become the backbone of Poor Man’s Son. There were blue-collar rockers like “Cecilia” and “Class Act” that pulse with tragic working girls and love-struck guys from the wrong side of town. There were snapshots of Little Havana (“Southwest Side”) that drip with the beats of Cuba, and tracks that hum like tires on a highway (“Two Lost Angels”). There were even odes to Vegas–the soulful “Forever 17” and nostalgic “Angel Park”–full of the brown desert patches and stucco-lined roads that tourists never see. Threading them all together were Perez’ heartfelt storytelling and classic style born out of his father’s record collection, the kind of stuff built on blood, sweat and hard-earned paychecks.

“I wanted this to be like the records that I grew up with,” Franky says. “Those records suck you in, put you right in the moment. That’s what I wanted to get out of my record. I wanted to bring people right into the moment with me.”

One of those songs is the first single from Poor Man’s Son, the touching and poignant “Something Crazy.” The song is basically a prayer for salvation from an abusive relationship in which Franky takes on the role of a confidant who can’t look at the bruises on his friend anymore. While organs and guitars swirl around like a funnel cloud, Perez helps to plot an escape. Eventually, the whole thing builds to a point where something has to snap.

It was that kind of storytelling and timeless sound, coupled with the kind of live show that buckles your knees, that hooked Lava Records President Jason Flom. He caught a show as a favor to Angelus. After three songs he was bouncing around the room. Once the set was done, Flom went backstage to find Franky. “I’ll never forget this,” Perez says, “The first thing he said to me was, ‘My life was just fine and comfortable until you came along and f*#ked it up.” Within a few days Franky Perez was inking his deal and in keeping his earlier promise to God, he went out and bought an entire wardrobe of white.

“Everything happens for a reason,” he says. “I truly believe that. I know it sounds cliche, but it’s true. When something bad happens in my life, I know that something good will come out of it.”

And something intensely good did come out of it: the 17-song LP Poor Man’s Son, which Franky proudly calls his recession special.

Something full of love, soul and rock ‘n’ roll from a Poor Man’s Son.