Black Francis

NonStopErotik

(Cooking Vinyl)

Record Review by Marcel Feldmar

It’s hard to write about the prolific Frank Black, aka Black Francis, without thinking about the Pixies. It’s also hard to hear the title of this album without thinking of Soft Cell, but maybe that’s just me.  I loved the Pixies, although I never worshipped them. I also enjoy me some good Soft Cell once in awhile as well. But this man, Frank Black, and his multitudes of solo post-Pixie workings has actually never jumped out and grabbed me. I mean, sure, I got hit by the constant play of “Los Angeles” in 1993 and “Headache” in 1994 (and beyond), but after that, I don’t know. It’s like they just kept on coming, but never really did any changing.

Sometimes it’s good to check in with old friends, though. See how they’re doing.

So, Frank, my man. How are you doing?

It seems like he’s doing fine. Unmistakable vocals, and a guitar that’s tied to everything that he’s done before. It’s Frank Black, it rocks, that’s obvious. The thing is that sometimes “fine” is just not great. Sure, it’s good, but how many times do you need to hear the same handful of songs. When it’s not calling up the past solo outings, it’s referencing even older Pixies material, and unfortunately (at least in my ears) it’s not the oldest Pixies sounds out there, it’s more of a kiss on the cheek of Trompe Le Monde.

The strange thing, and I’m not sure if I like it or not, and I’m not the only one to notice this, is the vocals. On the first song, “Lake Of Sin,” I get hit with a strong sense of Red Hot Chili Pepper Anthony Kiedis. The next song hits, and I find myself singing along but using the wrong words. Mister Black is singing “O My Tidy Sum” while I’m left humming “Every Mother’s Son” somewhere between Lynyrd Skynyrd and J Mascis. Then there’s “Rabbits” which is a slightly psychedelic mellow folk ballad that’s reaching for a Neil Young drawl, followed by a Flying Burrito Brothers cover of “Wheels” which is a little angrier, but still hitting a little too classic rock. It’s not bad, but I think I was expecting a little less of the past blasting from the man who pushed music so far into the future back in 1988. Influential this is not.

“Dead Man’s Curve” hits with a nice strong Pixies stained anger, and that hits again with “Six Legged Man” which is, I think, my favorite track on the album, and it starts out with a hard bass line that kicks into something that might be comfortable on a Doolittle B-Side. We then move down into some strange mellow flashback with “Wild Son” and it’s hard to keep focused on this album. “When I Go Down On You” sounds promising, with a little sliver of feedback inching out, but it heads towards something that feels like a perverted 70’s rock ballad. I’m finally getting the theme of this album (sex) but perhaps the songs could have been as cohesive as the erotic backdrop. The title track is a sweet and mellow piano bar love letter, with a guitar solo that drifts out like something that fell off of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s bluesmobile. Nothing Soft Cell about it. Then, the end. The last song. “Cinema Star.” C’mon, redeem!

And I think it does. It’s not the mellowest song, nor is it the angriest. But it is Frank Black, and here he finally seems to have hit it. Playing something that sounds like it has a history, but moving out towards whatever comes next.

But perhaps I’m being too harsh, perhaps I was expecting too much. If this was an album given to me by some unknown artist, I think I’d be enjoying it a lot more. It’s just so hard to judge this without laying everything that went on before in front of it. The songs are good, the musicians are great (including longtime musical cohort Eric Drew Feldman and ex-Frank Black and the Catholics guitar man Dave Philips).

After the record stops, the music fades, I’m not feeling extremely satisfied, but I am feeling fine. Happy with what I’ve heard and ready to hear more.

Keep it coming, Frank.