Mark Frano: One of a kind
“Dude, it’s hot out.”
He starts pulling off his sweatshirt, first one arm, then the other, then over his head.
All while zooming 60 miles per hour westbound on IL Route 64, somewhere west of Sycamore, one hand on the throttle of his beat-up, early 80s Honda CB750, a high-speed balancing act about as far from recommended as one can get.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yell back over the buzz of my only marginally better 1977 Kawasaki KZ400.
“Dude, I was hot.”
*****
Robert Mark Francisco was one of a very select group of people who became known by a nickname whose origins are hazy but made absolute perfect sense in a number of ways hard to define. Frano. Simple, catchy, easy to remember. Apt. A perfectly imperfect portmanteau. Frano. You would say it in delight: “Frano!” In mild disbelief: “Frano?” In exasperation: “Frano…” In joy: “FRANO!”
It is heartbreaking that none of us will be able to call him that any more, and have him respond with that handsome grin, equal parts boyish and weathered, his dark, spit-curl hair sprouting in all different directions.
*****
Many of you know Mark’s history way better than I do. Here’s some of what I remember (note: all details subject to the vagaries of my memory and the lucidity of that particular given moment from the past):
Many of you met Frano in Champaign in 1984, when a bunch of you decided on the U of I for the formative years known as your college days. If memory serves, Frano worked at the campustown drug store, Revco (so named before Al Jourgenson and Luc Van Acker’s industrial music juggernaut). As some of you have shared before, Frano stood out for his frizzy mullet/afro mashup, friendly demeanor, quiet confidence, and million-watt smile. Not sure who befriended him first–Erin? Rosie? Timble?–or when I first met him. All I remember is that we’d see him all the time at the countless indie-rock shows we attended or played at. He was funny, kind, with not a small amount of bravado. [side note: I’m sure many of you remember his solo, a capella composition, “Rock Drop”?]
He was almost always around, always funny, unfailingly supportive. A really decent guy. And he always said “Rock Potato,” and gave you a fist tap, his fist on top of yours. At first, I didn’t really get it. But after the second time, I thought it was pretty cool.
*****
Back in the halcyon days (aka the generally celebratory, if partly directionless, years in our 20s), Frano always had crappy motorbikes, and, often, equally crappy cars. The aforementioned CB750–which, it must be said, made it on our 500-mile round trip to Mississippi Palisades and Galena without any issues — had a repainted gas tank, missing side covers, crackling chrome and marginally functional tailpipes. You could hear him coming from 6 miles way. Somehow, he kept that bike running.
A later bike was a 1981(?) Honda Nighthawk, Navy blue with red and silver pinstripes. Truly ugly, though it ran a little better than its predecessor. (And wasn’t there also a Honda Hawk in there somewhere? Orange?)
One memorable car was an early 80s Nissan Sentra(?). He drove it out to Downers Grove where I lived at the time. He was super stoked. “Dude, I paid $150 for this!” Though I couldn’t help but notice the smoke emanating from the engine. We popped the hood and I decided to pull one of the spark plugs. Oil comes oozing from the plug hole. “$150, huh?” I asked. “YES!” was his response. I never saw the car after that day.
(It should be noted, however, that in his later years Frano definitely upped his car game: including his BMW740iL and his pristine, vintage Challenger(?), a vestige of his childhood. He was proud of both, but not in a “look at my cool car” way. He was simply proud of the hars work he put in to make those cars appear in his driveway.
*****
As any fan of a certain mediocre Champaign-Urbana indie-rock band knows, a highlight of many shows (at least “highlight” compared to the marginally interesting guitar pop that comprised most sets) was the cover of Ted Nugent’s “Free For All,” featuring Frano on lead vocals. Not sure which was best: His guttural rock screams, the fact that not one performance was done with a shirt on, or his fervent shaking of the Foster’s beer can-turned-rhythm shaker. (Both of the aforementioned evidenced in the photo above). Really, it was always a treat. You could see it 100 times and never get tired of it. When in doubt…
*****
Sometime in the early 2000s, Frano, Chris Neustadt and I went mountain biking somewhere along the Des Plaines River. Veering off the single track, we found a big dirt ramp some kids had built, Seriously, it was high, probably 10 feet high or so, swooping down to a ramp about two feet high. “I’m doing it,” Frano says. Chris and I quietly suggest that might not be the best idea. “You guys are wusses,” Frano says, before schwoosing down the ramp and launching a good five feet in the air. But physics, as it always does, took over. Frano got too far over his handlebars, and nosed the front wheel into the ground and smashed into a heap.
Chris and I at first thought his high-pitched moans were an exaggeration done for show: “Ohhh, ahhhh, ooooh.” Turns out they weren’t. He laid on the ground for several minutes, trying to catch his breath. The sunglasses he was wearing had smashed into his cheek, leaving a noticible cut. After a few minutes of recuperation, he finally gets to his feet. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.” A few days later he tells us the wipeout had caused a fractured rib. “Frano!”
*****
Frano’s more recent years are still a bit unclear to me. As happens when middle age descends, sometimes you fall behind on the details of your friends’ lives.
The Frano I knew in the earlier days always had ideas–about business, about investments, about paths to success. Some of those ideas seemed, well, how to say it…maybe a bit unrealistic. Sometimes they were, sometimes they weren’t. Regardless, those inspirations stayed with him throughout the years.
To wit: Still unclear on the details, but a few years back Frano was involved in a real estate venture in Panama City, Panama. What was it, and what was he doing? Don”t really know. How’d he get connected with something so far away from home? Don’t really know. Did he like it? It sure seemed like he did.
After he did that for awhile, he started working for a tree-care service based in Crete. Ever motivated and undeterred by challenge, Frano decided to start his own tree-care service, and be his own boss. How many of us can say we did that? I don’t know for sure, but can only imagine the hard work and long hours he put into that. Again, how many of us can say that?
*****
Several months ago, Frano and I had a long conversation about the inexorable progress of time, and the distance that often comes along with it. He also expressed his sadness about the lack of connections to our old group of friends. No one calls me anymore, he said. No one wants to come see me, he said. I told him those things had nothing to do with him personally, and everything to do with the responsibilities/commitments/burdens/time vortices of everyone’s day-to-day existence. Finding time is the single hardest thing to do, I told him. Be patient, I told him. You will see us all soon.
Indeed, we had plans to go see Foghat this weekend at, appropriately, a suburban end-of-summer street fest. Can you imagine that? A suburban street festival. Foghat. Cheap beer. A celebrated summer evening. Laughter. Stories. Songs. Smiles. Rock Potatoes.
And Frano.
****
Our hearts go out to Mark’s family, friends, and especially his two beautiful boys. I didn’t get to know those lads well, but could tell they were sweet, kind, independent, bright, engaged, and grateful. Just like their dad.
Fellas, please know this: Your dad was a good man. He cared. He tried, He connected. He wasn’t perfect, like none of us are, but he never claimed to be. Instead, he aimed high. He made people happy. He went out on limbs. He did a lot of living in his 50+ years.
Most importantly, he loved everything about you, and was as proud of you as any father could be. You gave him purpose, and inspiration. He will always be a part of you. Always.
We are all here for you, no matter what you need or when you need it.
Just like your dad was for us.
*****
Frano: I am honored to be your friend. I will always remember the stuff I wrote above, as well as a number of other stories that just you and me shared (among them, pistol-grip shifter, alien triple T, and other stuff probably best left unmentioned). I will always regret the times we tried to connect recently, and it was usually me who had to bail or reschedule. At the time, I knew it wasn’t a big deal, because I knew we’d see each other soon. I never imagined a world in which that wouldn’t happen.
Dude, I will miss you, and always remember you.
When in doubt/I whip it out/I got me a rock-n-roll band/it’s a free for all.
RIP Mark.
