Frank Watkinson, a British 70-year-old retiree, did not expect to go viral for singing heart-wrenching covers of popular songs. Yet, at the time of writing, he has over 888,000 Youtube subscribers.
“I was really excited when I got 50,” he recalls, but this figure “feels exactly the same. It’s just a number, isn’t it?” Frank’s thousands of melancholic — in his words “severely depressing” — covers include cult classics, Mitski’s “My Love Mine All Mine”, Blaze Foley’s “Clay Pigeons”, Radiohead’s “Creep”, and the unlikeliest of successes, Slipknot’s “Snuff”.
At the beginning of the interview, Frank confessed, “I’m not anyone special…I feel sorry for the real professional musicians that probably hate the fact that a man who can’t play has more followers than them.”
I found Frank’s Youtube videos last year during a period where my life was characterised by perpetual perfectionism-induced crises, and the feeling that my achievements had an expiration date. I was chasing reassurance but never caught such a nebulous concept, at least not where I was looking; no one teaches us how to fail. All I really needed was to hear someone who had travelled through time longer than I say: “we can’t all be polished professionals, but that shouldn’t be a reason not to sing”.
Frank actively combats the commodification of his hobby, “if it turns into a job, I don’t want it.” He refuses a record deal or “donations” in exchange for personalised covers. Neither perfectionism nor commercial success have ever been the goal — vulnerability acts as the driving force of his music. “Because I can’t sing for the life of me and can’t play guitar that well, I try to perform better. I put all the feelings into it, and that way I don’t have to be spot on perfect.” Vulnerability seems to come naturally for him, regardless of the size of audience or online platform, he has always “been a bit of a softie”.
He passionately denies any closeness to celebrity status but accepts the title of the internet’s “virtual grandad” — although no one has yet remembered to send him socks at Christmas. He took his Youtube Silver Creator Award from a cardboard box under his desk to show me, joking that he would “see how much [he] can get on eBay for it.” When someone asked him about a tour, he responded, “my idea of a tour is playing in the garden on a sunny afternoon.”
In ‘Special Day’, he sings a “universal” song that is “free to everybody”, including the lyrics “happy birthday insert your name here.” Frank doesn’t understand why celebrities monetise human connection and offer birthday wishes in exchange for payment. He scoffed at this culture, “Don’t these celebrities ever stop? Can’t they do anything for free? Does everything have to be paid for?”.
There is something special about being sung to, perhaps because it recalls grandparental lullabies. Millions of viewers seem to agree. Frank’s music has met an outpour of positive comments, surviving even the most scathing Instagram Reels users. Responses lean towards deeply personal anecdotes of experiences of grief, peace, heartbreak, joy and comfort. Frank takes care and time to read every comment under each of his social media posts. He acutely understands the anonymity that dictates users’ interactions with most public accounts, and how the intimacy of his viewers’ experience results from reciprocated connection. Parasocial relationships are formed by a lack of reciprocity.
These responses are also sincerely important to him. “I’m old school…it’s just polite. If you take the time to comment, I should take the time to read it.” To Frank, words written in comment sections have no less value than in an in-person conversation.
And the (sparse) negative comments? He credits his wife of 47 years for his resilience, saying “I live with a person who doesn’t like my singing, so I’m used to it.” Frank encourages young people to not listen to negative comments: “I’m at an age where I don’t really care. You can say what you want. I’m not for everybody. That’s why I started writing my own songs because no one can tell you that you’re playing it wrong.”
When I asked whether he was concerned about changes in technology and getting left behind, Frank’s touching response was: “I just plod on. When you get to my age, you know that tomorrow isn’t promised to anybody. You should know this when you’re little, but you always think you’re going to live forever when you’re young. So while I can, I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing. And then one day I won’t…”
In a digital world likened to a connection-barren wasteland, far from promises of a technological paradise, Frank is an unlikely glimmer of hope. Frank agreeing to an interview with a student newspaper, so far from his own community, embodies his prioritisation of human connection. We all have something to learn from him. Passions can transcend age. We should value hobbies more; they anchor us to communities.