Black Francis 8.11.09 | The Mint | Los Angeles, CA by Gina Forlano
photos by M'Lou Elkins, www.skip2photography.com
He has gone by many names: Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson IV, Black Francis, Frank Black, and these days once again, Black Francis. But apparently, there is at least one more name he would like to add to the list: Curly Howard. It’s hard to tell if he is serious, but you know, he just might have a shot. After taking the stage around 10 PM on a Tuesday night at The Mint in Los Angeles, Mr. Francis courteously addresses the crowd. “Thanks for coming to my show. I appreciate it.” “You’re beautiful!” a man shouts from the back. “Thank you,” he calmly responds without missing a beat and launches straight into “Los Angeles” off the album, Frank Black, his 1993 solo debut released after six years of fronting alt-rock band, the Pixies. The show was billed as “solo acoustic.” They got the solo part right. Surrounded by a circle of monitors, Francis plows into the first few chords on his battered Fender electric and Vox amp combo and is instantly met with wild applause. “I want to live in Los Angeles/ Not the one in Los Angeles/ No, not the one in south California/ They got one in South Patagonia,” he shout-sings on the chorus. No one could successfully dispute the confidence with which Mr. Francis stands center stage. Despite the snapping of an errant string within the first minute of the song, he commands the room with a driving performance of one of his most identifiable songs outside of the Pixies oeuvre. “I’ll wait in the pouring sun/ No way/ Not for anyone/ No way,” he concludes defiantly and exchanges his guitar for one with strings intact. He returns to the microphone and says that moments before getting on stage, a friend sent him a text stating that Jim Carrey had just walked away from the production of “The Three Stooges.” “If I had Jim Carrey’s body, I wouldn’t want to play the role,” he empathizes self-deprecatingly. Before the laughter subsides, he announces that if anyone in the audience is somehow connected to either the Farrelly Brothers or the movie business, he “was born to play that part.” Whether he is joking or sincere is not entirely clear. Francis has somewhat of a reputation for defying both simple explanation and expectation. In addition to having assumed multiple names over the years, he has experimented with a variety of musical styles from punk to folk, and his lyrics have ranged from abstract to linear, often shifting from one to the other within a single song. Either way, bald and more rotund than not, he certainly looks the part of Curly Howard, and thus far, he has demonstrated a respectable sense of comedic timing. And despite the residential disdain for L.A. about which he sang so vociferously, he certainly picked the right place for such a declaration. I am no expert on Chile, but I think it’s a safe bet that Hollywood aspirations, no matter how overt, would not hold quite as much potential efficacy when professed there. Regardless, if Francis had been born to play the part of the nyuking Jerome on the silver screen, it was certainly at no expense to his destiny on the musical stage. Author of a catalogue spanning over 20 years of songwriting and holding his Fender Esquire as if he were born with the thing, he nevertheless continues with the Stooges bit. “In honor of working on the film, I’m going to break into the ‘Curly Shuffle’ right now.” The audience roars at the prospect. Appropriately, he dives into “Two Reelers,” a punkish Three Stooges homage featured on his second solo record, Teenager of the Year. It is hard to hear a song from that record and not think of its ridiculously wonderful cover: a photograph of Mr. Francis (then “Frank Black”) wearing white work coveralls, donning a crown, clutching a full bouquet of red pageant roses, and smiling the most unlikely of beauty king smiles. He may be hard to read at times, but there is no question that the man has a sense of humor. I'm trying to imagine his turn as Curly Howard when, less than 30 seconds into the tribute, he reveals that he too is occupied with the idea. He appears to have lost his place in the song and abruptly stops. “Sorry,” he says, “I started thinking about the movie, and I lost my focus.” But instead of forging ahead or starting over, he abandons the song all together. “When it gets like this, I just go to a Pixies song. I just kiss that ass.” The audience laughs cautiously; how much sarcasm (if any) he intends and whose metaphorical ass is slated for the ingratiation is not immediately apparent. Perhaps sensing the hesitation, he quickly reassures that it is tonight’s crowd he aims to please and offers “Cactus” from the Pixies’ first commercial LP, Surfer Rosa. “I hope that makes up for my earlier faux pas,” he half-jokes after the song, following it up with “When They Come to Murder Me” from the recent Svn Fingers and two Frank Black and the Catholics numbers, “Manitoba” and “Bullet.” Then it’s back to the Pixies repertoire with another Surfer Rosa track, “Where Is My Mind,” which he later refers to as an “A-list song.” Without even the subtlest of urging nods from Francis, the crowd backs up his solo interpretation with the verse “oooh-ooohs.” Possibly inspired by the audience participation, he sings another Pixies song, “Velouria,” including the backing vocals. “That was a little Kim Deal action for you - that little cheerleader thing she does,” he says, referring to the Pixies bassist’s vocal contributions. Clad in nearly all black, save the charcoal grey ringer trim on his tee-shirt and the purple-tinted lenses of his black glasses, Mr. (Black) Francis resembles a sort of modern day, alt-rock Johnny Cash as he delivers a string of melancholic songs including “I Burn Today,” “Horrible Day,” “The Holiday Song,” and “The Water,” a dark, narrative account of a man who abandons his family for a less-than-suburban life in Mexico. After “The Water,” he pauses to consider his next selection. “I'm trying to play all the songs I like to play…” he muses, instantly instigating a flood of screaming requests to which he responds, “I can’t hear a word you’re saying. …I’m deaf.” More laughter. He proceeds with “Burnt out Rock ‘n’ Roll” and three tracks off of 2007’s Bluefinger, an album about Dutch artist, Herman Brood. In the midst of the trio, a man shouts another song request promptly denied by Francis. “We’re doing a Brood thing,” he says, shaking his head. “ …It’s three for Thursday…or Tuesday…” It’s Tuesday, and everyone laughs again. He may choose to please (or appease) the crowd with specific material from time to time, but no one tells Black Francis what to play. During the last leg of his set, he plays more Pixies (“Nimrod’s Son” and “Wave of Mutilation”) and Frank Black-era material (“Headache,” “All My Ghosts,” and “I Heard Ramona Sing”), states that his favorite chord is C-sharp minor, and engages in some slapstick, recreating the sound of an oncoming train with his harmonica and then startling himself by accidentally banging its holder against the microphone. He also tells a story about how he was awarded “Teenager of the Year” while attending high school in Massachusetts and he attributes this honor to the fact that everyone was impressed by his blonde hair. A man in the room interrupts the tale by shouting, “Boring!” Francis quickly reestablishes control of the situation. Shooting a deadpan stare, he faces the heckler and strongly asserts that he is in the middle of a “really good story,” and returns to his role as raconteur. Everyone laughs, and we are reminded again who’s in charge of the room here. At the end of the set, Mr. Francis takes a sip of wine as he waves a goodbye and concludes the evening with a rendition of “Gouge Away” from the Pixies’ Doolittle. As he walks off the stage, I think about the lyrics of “Two Reelers.” We do need “more silly men,” especially these days, and if Black Francis truly wants to play Curly, I wish I had that connection to the Farrelly Brothers for him. He would certainly be a respectable contender for the role. But then again, it’s hard to imagine Mr. Francis taking direction from anyone. Black Francis is currently playing a handful of solo shows while touring with Grand Duchy, the band he co-helms with wife, Violet Clark. Their 9-track, debut album, ‘Petits Fours,’ is out now on Cooking Vinyl.
He has gone by many names: Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson IV, Black Francis, Frank Black, and these days once again, Black Francis. But apparently, there is at least one more name he would like to add to the list: Curly Howard. It’s hard to tell if he is serious, but you know, he just might have a shot. After taking the stage around 10 PM on a Tuesday night at The Mint in Los Angeles, Mr. Francis courteously addresses the crowd. “Thanks for coming to my show. I appreciate it.” “You’re beautiful!” a man shouts from the back. “Thank you,” he calmly responds without missing a beat and launches straight into “Los Angeles” off the album, Frank Black, his 1993 solo debut released after six years of fronting alt-rock band, the Pixies. The show was billed as “solo acoustic.” They got the solo part right. Surrounded by a circle of monitors, Francis plows into the first few chords on his battered Fender electric and Vox amp combo and is instantly met with wild applause.
“I want to live in Los Angeles/ Not the one in Los Angeles/ No, not the one in south California/ They got one in South Patagonia,” he shout-sings on the chorus. No one could successfully dispute the confidence with which Mr. Francis stands center stage. Despite the snapping of an errant string within the first minute of the song, he commands the room with a driving performance of one of his most identifiable songs outside of the Pixies oeuvre. “I’ll wait in the pouring sun/ No way/ Not for anyone/ No way,” he concludes defiantly and exchanges his guitar for one with strings intact. He returns to the microphone and says that moments before getting on stage, a friend sent him a text stating that Jim Carrey had just walked away from the production of “The Three Stooges.” “If I had Jim Carrey’s body, I wouldn’t want to play the role,” he empathizes self-deprecatingly. Before the laughter subsides, he announces that if anyone in the audience is somehow connected to either the Farrelly Brothers or the movie business, he “was born to play that part.”
Whether he is joking or sincere is not entirely clear. Francis has somewhat of a reputation for defying both simple explanation and expectation. In addition to having assumed multiple names over the years, he has experimented with a variety of musical styles from punk to folk, and his lyrics have ranged from abstract to linear, often shifting from one to the other within a single song. Either way, bald and more rotund than not, he certainly looks the part of Curly Howard, and thus far, he has demonstrated a respectable sense of comedic timing. And despite the residential disdain for L.A. about which he sang so vociferously, he certainly picked the right place for such a declaration. I am no expert on Chile, but I think it’s a safe bet that Hollywood aspirations, no matter how overt, would not hold quite as much potential efficacy when professed there. Regardless, if Francis had been born to play the part of the nyuking Jerome on the silver screen, it was certainly at no expense to his destiny on the musical stage. Author of a catalogue spanning over 20 years of songwriting and holding his Fender Esquire as if he were born with the thing, he nevertheless continues with the Stooges bit. “In honor of working on the film, I’m going to break into the ‘Curly Shuffle’ right now.” The audience roars at the prospect. Appropriately, he dives into “Two Reelers,” a punkish Three Stooges homage featured on his second solo record, Teenager of the Year. It is hard to hear a song from that record and not think of its ridiculously wonderful cover: a photograph of Mr. Francis (then “Frank Black”) wearing white work coveralls, donning a crown, clutching a full bouquet of red pageant roses, and smiling the most unlikely of beauty king smiles. He may be hard to read at times, but there is no question that the man has a sense of humor.
I'm trying to imagine his turn as Curly Howard when, less than 30 seconds into the tribute, he reveals that he too is occupied with the idea. He appears to have lost his place in the song and abruptly stops. “Sorry,” he says, “I started thinking about the movie, and I lost my focus.” But instead of forging ahead or starting over, he abandons the song all together. “When it gets like this, I just go to a Pixies song. I just kiss that ass.” The audience laughs cautiously; how much sarcasm (if any) he intends and whose metaphorical ass is slated for the ingratiation is not immediately apparent. Perhaps sensing the hesitation, he quickly reassures that it is tonight’s crowd he aims to please and offers “Cactus” from the Pixies’ first commercial LP, Surfer Rosa. “I hope that makes up for my earlier faux pas,” he half-jokes after the song, following it up with “When They Come to Murder Me” from the recent Svn Fingers and two Frank Black and the Catholics numbers, “Manitoba” and “Bullet.” Then it’s back to the Pixies repertoire with another Surfer Rosa track, “Where Is My Mind,” which he later refers to as an “A-list song.” Without even the subtlest of urging nods from Francis, the crowd backs up his solo interpretation with the verse “oooh-ooohs.” Possibly inspired by the audience participation, he sings another Pixies song, “Velouria,” including the backing vocals. “That was a little Kim Deal action for you - that little cheerleader thing she does,” he says, referring to the Pixies bassist’s vocal contributions.
Clad in nearly all black, save the charcoal grey ringer trim on his tee-shirt and the purple-tinted lenses of his black glasses, Mr. (Black) Francis resembles a sort of modern day, alt-rock Johnny Cash as he delivers a string of melancholic songs including “I Burn Today,” “Horrible Day,” “The Holiday Song,” and “The Water,” a dark, narrative account of a man who abandons his family for a less-than-suburban life in Mexico. After “The Water,” he pauses to consider his next selection. “I'm trying to play all the songs I like to play…” he muses, instantly instigating a flood of screaming requests to which he responds, “I can’t hear a word you’re saying. …I’m deaf.” More laughter. He proceeds with “Burnt out Rock ‘n’ Roll” and three tracks off of 2007’s Bluefinger, an album about Dutch artist, Herman Brood. In the midst of the trio, a man shouts another song request promptly denied by Francis. “We’re doing a Brood thing,” he says, shaking his head. “ …It’s three for Thursday…or Tuesday…” It’s Tuesday, and everyone laughs again. He may choose to please (or appease) the crowd with specific material from time to time, but no one tells Black Francis what to play. During the last leg of his set, he plays more Pixies (“Nimrod’s Son” and “Wave of Mutilation”) and Frank Black-era material (“Headache,” “All My Ghosts,” and “I Heard Ramona Sing”), states that his favorite chord is C-sharp minor, and engages in some slapstick, recreating the sound of an oncoming train with his harmonica and then startling himself by accidentally banging its holder against the microphone.
He also tells a story about how he was awarded “Teenager of the Year” while attending high school in Massachusetts and he attributes this honor to the fact that everyone was impressed by his blonde hair. A man in the room interrupts the tale by shouting, “Boring!” Francis quickly reestablishes control of the situation. Shooting a deadpan stare, he faces the heckler and strongly asserts that he is in the middle of a “really good story,” and returns to his role as raconteur. Everyone laughs, and we are reminded again who’s in charge of the room here. At the end of the set, Mr. Francis takes a sip of wine as he waves a goodbye and concludes the evening with a rendition of “Gouge Away” from the Pixies’ Doolittle.
As he walks off the stage, I think about the lyrics of “Two Reelers.” We do need “more silly men,” especially these days, and if Black Francis truly wants to play Curly, I wish I had that connection to the Farrelly Brothers for him. He would certainly be a respectable contender for the role. But then again, it’s hard to imagine Mr. Francis taking direction from anyone. Black Francis is currently playing a handful of solo shows while touring with Grand Duchy, the band he co-helms with wife, Violet Clark. Their 9-track, debut album, ‘Petits Fours,’ is out now on Cooking Vinyl.
>> Check out the full set of Black Francis photos