Neal Francis - In Plain Sight (LP) - Cherry Red Translucent Vinyl

Neal Francis writes the kind of piano tunes that feel like they have cigarette smoke on their sleeves and sunlight in the choruses. In Plain Sight, released 5 November 2021 on ATO Records, is his big step forward, a proper front‑to‑back album that makes sense of his Chicago roots and his love of 70s soul and piano rock. He wrote and recorded it while living inside a church in Chicago, and you can hear that room in the overheads and the reverb tails, the natural echo that wraps around his Wurlitzer and upright like a choir that never quite arrives.

The setup is simple, and that is the point. Francis leans on lived‑in keys, clipped guitars, and rhythm sections that prize pocket over flash. He tracks to tape, so the drums have that gluey thump you get on old Leon Russell and Allen Toussaint records, and his voice sits right in the middle, a little frayed, a little sly. He is no retro mannequin though. The songs feel contemporary in the way they talk about relapse, recovery, and the odd floating period where you figure out what your life looks like without the noise.

Start with Alameda Apartments, a piano stomper that paints a crumbling building with a playwright’s eye and a renter’s fatigue. It is funny and bruised, and it sets the album’s tone, messy lives set to finely tuned arrangements. Problems walks in with a clavinet strut and handclap snap, the kind of groove that would light up a sticky‑floored room on a Saturday night. Then comes the record’s calling card, Can’t Stop The Rain, with Derek Trucks sliding in like a friendly ghost, his guitar lines weaving around Francis’s melody rather than grandstanding. It is a generous bit of guest work, and the song earns it, a bittersweet sing‑along about knowing the storm is coming and choosing to keep going anyway. Rolling Stone singled it out at the time, which makes sense. It feels like a standard the first time you hear it.

What sticks across the whole album is the craft. The bridges turn when you think they will drift, the backing vocals lift the hooks without crowding them, and the keyboard tones are chosen with a crate digger’s care, Wurli bark for the tough confessions, Hammond bloom for the prayers. When Francis slows down, he lets the mics breathe and the tape hiss rise, which suits lyrics that stop reaching for aphorisms and instead focus on small truths, late night bargains, early morning reckonings. There is a warmth to the sequencing too, the way the back half loosens into psychedelic soul and Sunday‑service chords, as if the church where he recorded is stepping out from behind the band.

If you came to In Plain Sight after his debut, Changes, this feels more open, less enamoured with revival and more interested in revelation. The influences are still there, Dr John, Billy Preston, a bit of Chicago R&B grit, but the songwriting is sharper and more personal. You can hear how he studied the dignified economy of the greats, how to say a lot with a short phrase and a right‑hand flourish. It is the kind of album that rewards playing the whole side, not just skipping to the singles.

On vinyl, the record really shines. Piano and tape are natural friends, and the In Plain Sight vinyl pressing gives you the weight of the left hand without muddying the cymbals, the bass sits tight, and Trucks’s slide has that glassy edge that can turn brittle on digital. If you collect Neal Francis albums on vinyl or you are on the hunt to buy Neal Francis records online, this one is a gimme, the sort of LP you file next to your Toussaint and your Little Feat, then pull out whenever mates pop by. I found my copy at a Melbourne record store on a rainy afternoon, which feels on brand, but there are plenty of copies floating around the usual places, including shops specialising in vinyl records Australia wide. Neal Francis vinyl tends to move, so do not sleep on it.

In Plain Sight plays like a second act and a statement, the sound of a pianist stepping out from heritage cosplay and writing about his life as it is, warts and hope and all. The church may have been a practical shelter, but it also became an instrument, and that sense of space and searching turns a strong collection of songs into something that lingers. Put it on during dinner, leave it spinning while you clean up, and catch yourself humming Can’t Stop The Rain while you lock the door. That is how albums earn their keep.