| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Ten Percenter |
Posted - 10/29/2004 : 03:16:06
A review by Toby L:
http://www.rockfeedback.com/article.asp?nObjectID=2654
Frank Black Francis - 'Frank Black Francis' (Cooking Vinyl)
It’s an unexpected one, we’ll give it that.
Prior to Pixies’ landmark, second LP proper ‘Doolittle’, we had the Albini-produced wonder, ‘Surfer Rosa’. Prior to ‘Surfer’, there was ‘Come On Pilgrim’. And before ‘COP’? This, seemingly. A sonically lurid, walkman-recorded series of Black Francis demos that formed producer notes for the ensuing three-day sessions that would eventually muster the basis of ‘Pilgrim’.
Yes, ‘Frank Black Francis’ is every Pixies obsessive’s gushing wet dream; a solitary, non-cheesily behind-the-scenes portrait of a work-in-progress – a basic document of the full-sounding monstrosity that was to follow. Fifteen tracks performed solo and desperately by one of modern music’s most enthralling, engulfing songwriters.
It comes with a friend, AKA, a second CD: lo-fi reworkings of Pixies numbers, as co-produced/formed with production-duo, two pale boys, recorded in Hackney last year, seemingly simply for the hell of it. It’s bloody bizarre – off-kilter, trumpet-parping, sorta-calypso renditions of growl-punk anthems such as ‘Planet Of Sound’ and ‘Nimrod’s Son’, the latter given a terrifying new lilt in chilling understatement.
And, for the most part, it’s a guilty joy – a revelry to be found in alternate renditions of ‘Where Is My Mind?’ and ‘Monkey Gone To Heaven’, both almost completely unrecognisable from their originals. Coupled with the oddity of hearing Franky boy belt out the normally Kim Deal-sung ‘Into The White’ and a truly paranoid ‘Wave Of Mutilation’, it’s a salacious, if not compulsive, addition to any avid collection.
It’s Disc One that heralds the real joy. True, unadulterated, idyllic joy, at that. Never, ever have we heard Francis sing quite like this – aching, torrid and yearningly hungry (no cheap ‘how fitting’ jokes there, please; obesity remains a rising illness). There’s a disparate, youthful desperation herein, the sound of a youngster on the verge of genius and not wanting to f**k up, and it’s beautiful. It’s this intimacy and stark ambition that makes each and every demo-recording beyond vital – absolutely intoxicating, even.
So… ‘Ed Is Dead’ is terrifying; ‘Caribou’ becomes breathtaking (and complete with – amusingly – Francis’ own howling interpretations of the lead guitar-parts; Joey Santiago was absent from the session, y’see); ‘The Holiday Song’ is a riotous knees-up; and a closing ‘Vamos’ is a gripping lesson/trip in lo-fi, pummelling masterclass. And all recorded without a singular notion that such exertions would one day see the light of day – which is the true splendour. Legal, retrospective eavesdropping at its best.
"Fried food, cigarettes, no exercise, chest pain..." (Excerpt from the Angina Monologues) |
|
|
