Frank Black

Kim Deal and Black Francis, the two geniuses of the Pixies, parted ways after Trompe Le Monde (Elektra, 1991), the last in a series of splendid albums that had forever changed the face of rock music. If at the time Charles Thompson (Black Francis’s real name), the inventor of the “scream of consciousness” (a variant of the “stream of consciousness” for followers of Iggy Stooge) and a worthy heir to Michael Stipe’s cryptic existentialism, seemed to be the protagonist of that adventure, their parallel careers leave doubts as to which of the two actually had the better ideas.

Having renamed himself Frank Black and moved to Los Angeles (his hometown, which he had left as an adolescent for Boston), Thompson released the album Frank Black (Elektra, 1993), with which he found a new (and perhaps definitive) balance in the role of a late, decadent rocker in the vein of Lou Reed or Iggy Pop. At the very least, Black is at the peak of his abilities as an arranger: after taking off with a conventional hard-rock drive, Los Angeles unfurls an orchestral insert, suddenly changes tempo, lifts a soft country-baritone melody, and finally, to the rhythm of a funeral march, lets itself be submerged by a Moody Blues–style mellotron. The Richman-like folk refrain (introduced with great pomp by the guitars) of I Heard Ramona Sing makes use of a light orchestral accompaniment until the piano intones a solemn figure, allowing Black to change octave and add a counter-melody. The synth-pop of Hang On To Your Ego rests on a cabaret-and-disco cadence, heavy distortion, and above all a catchy refrain, the most contagious on the album. Though delivered in his characteristic drunken tone, these are daring compositions in which his art of collaging eccentricities triumphs, with an always unpredictable momentum. It is no coincidence that alongside Black is Eric Drew Feldman, who played in Captain Beefheart’s band and in Pere Ubu, two of the most important experiences in the history of rock.
Black even displays a flair for atmospheric storytelling, à la Stan Ridgway, in country ballads adapted to danceable rhythms such as Fu Manchu (worthy of Jeff Lynne) and Adda Lee, though always with comic overtones. Gradually, however, the songs settle into more predictable and monochromatic patterns: the surf organ and ska gait of Two Spaces, the voodoo cadence of Ten Percenter, and so on. Harmless and insignificant, the old-pro tricks that stuff these tracks and the instrumental Tossed have entirely lost their former verve, but they retain the traits (constant metamorphoses, layering of effects, a sense of self-parody) of his histrionic dadaism.
One has the impression that the singer, like almost all rockers as they grow older, is trying to use his form to express deeper and more universal content—and that in the attempt he nonetheless reveals a fundamental limitation of his music.

Teenager Of The Year (Elektra, 1994) continues along this path of songs built on abstruse and convoluted structures, yet always managing to let a reckless melody surface. Abstract Plain and Two Reelers stand as the natural heirs to the Pixies. What changes with respect to the Pixies is once again the tone: no longer light and disoriented, but pensive and anxious. From a melodic standpoint, Black has in fact progressed, arriving at Headache (one of his most catchy songs ever) and Whatever Happened To Pong, even if he is still far from the serene happiness of the Breeders. A nod to Lou Reed (Ole Muholland) and one to Dylan (Superabound) make it clear that, for all its eccentricities, this sound is rooted in an encyclopedic knowledge of musical traditions. The album, although inferior to the first, is happily compact and cohesive, as it perhaps had not been for years.

Due to Feldman’s absence, The Cult Of Ray (American, 1996) is arranged in a more stripped-down fashion, and in particular lacks keyboards. The Marsist steals its guitar riff from Roy Orbison’s Pretty Woman, Men In Black unleashes a pounding power-pop riff, Punk Rock City echoes the perverse boogie of the Stooges and Lou Reed, Jesus Was Right revels in the driving rock and roll of the New York Dolls, and You Ain’t Me combines a desolate lament with an epic guitar riff worthy of Tom Petty. Naturally, Thompson embellishes everything with his dissonant and primitivist whims. The two best tracks might in fact be the two instrumentals: Mosh Don’t Pass The Guy, a raid on the edge of heavy metal with country-punk hues à la Gun Club, and The Adventure and the Resolution, a bizarre, out-of-tune fugue halfway between Bach and Hendrix. If musically the album leaves something to be desired, philosophically it is a revelation. On the one hand, it is a work dense with references to genres and myths, reflecting intensely on the very art of the rock song. On the other, it is autobiographical to the point of paranoia, even when it resorts to his favorite metaphors drawn from science fiction and comic books. Black spits venom and attacks his own world, a world he can no longer control as he once did when he was at the helm of the Pixies.

While his former partner Kim Deal continues to rack up hits with her projects, Black grows increasingly marginalized. At the head of the Catholics (Spinart, 1998), a group of veterans including Rich Gilbert (ex–Human Sexual Response and Concussion Ensemble) and David MacCaffrey (Miracle Legion), Black continues to streamline his sound, at the expense of eccentricity. All My Ghosts is power-pop driven by virulent guitar and punk urgency, typical of the old Pixies but now sounding like a Green Day imitation. Do You Feel Bad About It is a generic melodic song in the vein of Marshall Crenshaw or Jules Shear. The rock-and-roll anthem Suffering consequently sounds somewhat hypocritical, lacking the anger it would need. The best moments are, all in all, the most anomalous ones: Dog Gone, a ballad with hints of both Neil Young and Billy Joel, and I Gotta Move, a splendid burst of garage-rock with a chorus worthy of the Heartbreakers and a frantic guitar rhythm à la Venus. This is, however, another man. The reckless rebel of the early Pixies no longer exists. What remains is a tormented soul who keeps brooding over his private affairs with the stubbornness and fatalism typical of much blue-collar rock.

Pistolero (Play It Again Sam, 1999) continues the idea of recording live in the studio with complete humility, this time with greater conviction and perhaps greater cohesion from the Catholics. I Love Your Brain, Bad Harmony, So Hard To Make Things Out, and I Want Rock And Roll are rough and intricate tracks that bless the leader’s eternal eccentricity.
But the heart of the album beats in Western Star and You’re Such A Wire, two songs in which Thompson vents his usual neuroses in an even more cryptic manner than usual.

Black remains the foremost heir to the avant-garde rock inaugurated by Pere Ubu, a genre that blends the light tones of surrealism with the dark ones of expressionism in a savory alternation of moods and sounds. Black has the stature of a first-rate author, even if, after his first solo album, he has no longer been able to express himself at truly lofty levels. What harms him above all is psychological insecurity, a subtle neurosis that in the Pixies, managed by his bandmates, became sublime art, but that in his solo records simply spreads like a virus.

On Dog In The Sand (What Are, 2000) the Catholics keep growing, both in quality and quantity (thanks to Eric Drew Feldman's superb piano playing, to Frank Black's stubborn live-to-tape recording method, and to a general "Rolling Stones-ian" feeling). It is the composer that lags behind. By now, Black has left behing the "weird" element of Pixies' music and has concentrated on a humbler, simpler musical style (although he has not dispensed with vitriolic lyrics). While well-executed songs like Blast Off and Robert Onion paint a fairly accurate picture of the artist's past, they do not show any sign of innovation. The band scores with the anthemic Hermaphroditos Is My Name and the rousing I've Seen Your Pictures, but this has little to do with the singer. Not as well-crafted as the first Catholics album and not as "diverse" (i.e., confused) as their second album, Dog is the work of an aging artist who has rediscovered his roots in classic rock'n'roll, as proven by the poppy If It Takes All Night (his most shameless bid for the charts yet) and folkish, rootsy ballads like St Francis Dam Disaster and The Swimmer, songs that hardly relate to the Pixies anymore.

Black Letter Days (Spinart, 2002) and Devil's Workshop (Spinart, 2002) were released separately but on the same day. Both collections are erratic and amateurish.

Show Me Your Tears (Spin Art, 2003), another confusing misstep of Black's career, is a stylistic hodgepodge that occasionally rediscovers his songwriting talent (especially when he sticks to the traditional country-pop style, as in Everything is New and My Favorite Kiss) and occasionally evokes the goofy punk-pop of the Pixies (Nadine, Massif Centrale), but generally wanders aimlessly across a broad territory.

The double-album Frank Black Francis (SpinArt, 2004) collects solo demos from the sessions for the Pixies' album Come On Pilgrim (1987) and a disc of solo re-recording of Pixies' standards. I guess this is his idea of a "remix".

Honeycomb (Back Porch, 2005), without the Catholics, sounds like Black's soul and country album (recorded in Nashville with even Steve Cropper on guitar, Spooner Oldham on organ and production by soul producer Jon Tiven). A couple of Black originals stand out (Selkie Bride, Another Velvet Nightmare), but the rest is either middle-age man's filler or (three) tedious covers. Nonetheless, Black may have found his true voice in these melancholy ballads. Having reneged his alt-rock past, he may he finally able to play and sing what he likes, rather than what he is expected to sing and play. Whether by coincidence or not, he has never sounded so humane and even bashful.

The 27-song monolith Fast Man Raider Man (Back Porch, 2006), featuring rock veterans such as Steve Cropper, Levon Helm, Al Kooper and Ian McLagan, is the quintessential Frank Black album: verbose, pretentious, overextended and full of filler; but also captivating (The End of the Summer, Johnny Barleycorn), galvanizing (Elijah, Where the Wind Is Going) and awe-inspiring (In The Time Of My Ruin, Dog Sleep) when it clicks. If you think that the Beatles' White Album is a masterpiece, perhaps this double-disc is for you. If not, this will be the ultimate folk-pop torture. Frank Black still has not realized that his artistic soul is closer to Bruce Springsteen (the energetic rocker) than to Gram Parsons (the decadent balladeer).

Christmass (2007) collects live and rare cuts.

He returned to his original moniker of Black Francis for Bluefinger (Cooking Vinyl, 2007), which in fact was his most virulent collection since the Pixies disbanded (Threshold Apprehension).

The seven brief ditties on Sv N F Ng Rs (Cooking Vinyl, 2008), notably The Seus, are actually quite more intriguing than the more ambitious albums of the decade.

The Golem (2010) contains excerpts from a soundtrack that Black Francis composed in 2008 for a silent German movies of the 1920s.

A suddenly revitalized rocker penned Non Stop Erotik (2010) unleashed a batch of evil-sounding rave-ups such as Lake Of Sin, Dead Man's Curve, Corrina, and especially Six Legged Man.

The Complete Studio Albums Box Set (2022) collects all the recordings by Frank Black And The Catholics.