There surely has to be a point at which the throwing of a curveball ceases to be the surprising and high-impact field event one might expect and instead becomes obvious and predictable. Likewise, anyone expecting the unexpected with Frank Black is likely to be anything other than satisfied with ‘Honeycomb’. Just when you thought it was as inevitable as dirty bath water Black wrong foots you again, resists the temptation to provide the things you really, really want and continues to explore the unremarkable dust roads of lukewarm Americana. I say this slightly in jest, as the cranky, screwball alt-country of Black’s ‘Show Me Your Tears’ was arguably the most consistent and enjoyable romp he’d thrown together in years. This however is slightly different. It has its trademark screwball moments, the occasionally twisted bent to his loose, divisive lyrical imagery, the occasional primal scream, the occasional primal whimper, the occasional irony, but much of the album bears the insufferable scars of complacency. That Black chose to employ the most celebrated session players in existence – Steve Cropper, Reggie Young, Chester Thompson, David Hood, Spooner Oldham – may provide the clearest indication yet that Black is courting the mainstream and conventional with as much obsessive vehemence as his previous band the Pixies courted surreal and infectious musical violence. There are exceptions of course; ‘Violet’ is as uncomfortably detached and tenderly threatening as anything Black has crafted and ‘Sing For Joy’ flaunts the natural bleak country-noir that fans of ‘Show Me Your Tears’ have grown to love, only this time the whole thing is tighter, less self-consciously oddball and yes, ‘maturer’ than before. The bright, melodic whimsy of ‘Sunday Sunny Mill Valley Groove Day’ – originally recorded by Doug Sahm & The Sir Douglas Quintet – may even yield an unlikely – if belated – hit.
That Black can sing a song about divorce with his impending ex-wife should be proof enough, however, that Black is becoming anything but boring. ‘Strange Goodbye’ may not be the best thing he’s ever written, it might not be the best thing ever sung, but its amusingly twisted context is evidence enough that it’s a dogged and resourceful honesty that propels the man rather than pure obstinacy and a peevish desire to ellude our expectations.
Frank Black is growing to like himself. Only this time round he really doesn’t care if we like him too. Whether this is a good thing depends largely on what remits you set for the artist.