Today I had one of those sobering intimation-of-mortality moments when I realized that I've been going to see Frank Black/Black Francis play music in one incarnation or another for the past 15 years or so.
In fact, I am sort of morally obligated to attend his shows, regardless of ticket cost -- after all, it was me who, in an unfortunate fit of youthful nerves and enthusiasm, squealed, "I'm your biggest fan!" as he put his doughy arm around me (sympathetically, not lasciviously, mind you) while autographing my ticket stub in a rainy alley behind Seattle's Moore Theater way back in 199-oh-crap-I'm-old.
I like to think he doesn't look that much different now than he did in that rainy alley lo-those-many-years-ago. I like to think the same about myself, for that matter, though we each seem to wear less flannel these days. It was an older crowd at his sold-out show in Park Slope on Saturday night, though. Looking out on the sea of beer-themed t-shirts and loose-fitting jeans, the paunches and sensible shoes, the relaxed, slightly faraway expressions of the obviously committed couples comfortably holding hands around the room's fringes (having, of course, shown up plenty early so as to score one of Southpaw's few seats upon which to rest their our weary backsides), my date K declared, "anyone who hooks up here tonight is bound to be married within the year." We decided it might, in fact, be more expedient to simply conduct a mass Frank Black-led wedding ceremony right there on the spot.
As for the show itself: OK, I know I'm in the minority on this one, judging by crowd reaction whenever it gets trotted out, but I'd be more than happy to live the rest of my life never hearing "Wave of Mutilation" again. It turned out to be an acoustic set, and though Frank is great at the acoustic thing, I still prefer him with a full band. I suppose a singer can be forgiven for mucking up the lyrics to at least a third of his set, seeing as how they are his lyrics after all and the man has composed like a gazillion brilliant songs.*
That said, hearing him put different spins on the phrasing of many of my favorite songs was a delight, and I thought the acoustic format did better justice to his newest works than that sorta snoozy Nashville-studio-musician thing he has going on right now (o Catholics, where art thou?). In any case, he's an amazing songwriter. His voice, ranging effortlessly from butter-melting baritone to soulful falsetto, is astonishingly good, especially considering the damage he must have wrought with "Tame" et al. back in the day. Oh, and "Cactus" was played -- with much more heart, it seemed to me, than its rendition at the Pixies reunion show.**
But as the night wore on, I noticed my date checking his watch ever more frequently. K was relatively unversed in Frank's post-Pixies oeuvre before this (translation: I dragged him along). "There were some really nice songs and I was really impressed with his voice," he said later. "It's just that after a while, many of his songs tend to run together into one long, middle-aged raga."
And that last comment, dear readers, was just so perfect, I had to compose this rather unhelpful music review simply as an excuse to share it with you. Will I be going to see Frank again when he comes back in October? Of course, even if I have to travel there on a Lark.
*and say what you will about his lyrical abilities, no one can manage to conjure a rhyme like "all he thinks about is how he/looks like Heroes-period Bowie" like Frank.
**yes, I do realize I sound like Comic Book Guy in that last sentence. Interestingly, a Venn diagram of Comic Book Guy/Frank Black fans reveals a great deal of overlap.
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