BLACK FRANCIS
the Pixies surged, splintered and revived – twice – while their mainman wrangled life changes and, er, less noted solo endeavours. Does any of it rankle? “That’s showbiz,” says Black Francis.
The Pixies’ ball of confusion tries to make sense of his band’s second coming and many goings. “Kim Deal is still a Pixie,” he tells Keith Cameron.
From front door to second floor of Kensington’s royal Garden Hotel, moJo has already exchanged polite nods with enough expensively-attired middle-aged Americans that one more hardly registers. the man by the lifts does look familiar, though. maybe a film actor? only when he breaks the silence – “Um, are we due to speak soon?” – does moJo look properly and recognise charles thompson: AKA Black francis, fKA frank Black.
five minutes later, we’re sat together in a dimly lit suite. now 54, dark-suited with silver-grey hair, thompson is in london to herald Beneath The Eyrie: eighth album by the Pixies, the ’80s alt-rock nature-force which united david Bowie and Kurt cobain in hero worship. It’s also the third lP since the reunited band was eventually finagled back into the recording studio in 2013, albeit minus mercurial bassist Kim deal.
charles and I last met in late 1995, nearly three years after the Pixies’ bitter split (having barely spoken to the others in the final phase of a brief, brilliant lifespan, he announced the band was done amid a UK publicity trip for 1993’s Frank Black, his solo debut). Back then, readying a third solo album, he was a generous host at his los Angeles home, already ruefully aware he would never emulate the impact of his old group. driving back from a photoshoot at Joshua tree national Park, he was tickled to see a station wagon ahead, festooned with bumper stickers for throwing muses, the Pixies’ Boston friends, and 4Ad, the legendary UK label to which both bands were signed. charles sped up alongside and began waving.
“look, it’s me!” he yelled. “I used to be the king of indie rock!” no recognition from the station wagon.
this episode felt emblematic of the frank Black years, a period during which he and his band the catholics made lots of music, but were heard by few people. Having always rejected suggestions that the Pixies might reform, in 2003 he surprised everyone, himself included, by reaching out to deal, drummer david lovering and guitarist Joey santiago, thus instigating the ’00s reunion craze with a potent balance of commercial expedience and honour. the aura endures today, with the bumps in the road – deal’s resignation in 2014 and the brief tenure of her replacement Kim shattuck – if not forgotten then certainly counterbalanced by the undeniable skills of current bassist Paz lenchantin.
Indeed, the only darkness in the Black francis universe belongs to charles thompson, whose recent divorce from second wife Violet clark seemingly informs some songs on the new Pixies album. there’s a melancholic tinge to his business-like bearing. “I certainly have more life experience now,” he says. He also accepts that not every detail of the story paints him in the best light. “there’s gotta be some ego involved. It’s not a religious organisation – it’s a fucking rock band situation.”
The new Pixies album has a shiny surface, but ghosts and arcane entities lurk within: the half-human half-seal “selkie bride”, and “Black Jack Hooligan”, who “came all the way from Aberdeen to live among the go-betweens”. Those were stories that I heard when I was a kid from my father. I’m sure he made up a lot on the spot. Black Jack Hooligan, as in Black Jack Davey
– I guess that betrays the pedigree of that. I told my kids the same stories.
So your family has Scottish ancestry?
Supposedly, although the more my brother and I have looked into it, the more Irish we find. So I think they talked up the Scottish bits because maybe the Irish were not so well accepted at a certain point. Early part of the 20th century in the United States, it was considered low class to be Irish.
The Scots and the Irish have a fairly entangled history.
My family’s history is fairly entangled as well. But supposedly there’s a bunch of them who came from Aberdeen, stone cutters. In fact, I’m going to visit an island off the coast of Maine, called Vinalhaven, there’s a big quarry there and that’s where supposedly Nellie Black from Aberdeen settled. And Black Francis – that’s where I got my name from, that part of the family.
You discovered Christian rock pioneer Larry Norman in your early teens, a period you’ve described as being when your family “was taken up by a religious experience”.
That was in southern California and there were proselytising concerts at various churches that featured musical performers more in a rock vein. He stood apart as the most different, the most edgy. I saw him a lot, whenever I could. There was a Christian bookstore and I was able to find his records there. Yeah, it was a heavy duty thing at the time.
Does it stay with you?
Not per se. I have some understanding of people involved in religion, so even if I don’t subscribe to their beliefs, I think I’m probably a little bit more respectful of it than maybe some of my colleagues are. I’m not as offended by their narrow-mindedness.
Was it something you subsequently rebelled against?
I just drifted away from it. I didn’t need to rebel. During your childhood you moved between California and New England. Have both places impacted upon your character?
Absolutely. California is more open, more laid back and kind of… shallow. Socially. There’s a lot of niceties. “Hey man, what’s up?” It’s pleasant enough. New England is definitely harder-edged. It’s more mentally engaged. It’s ruder. More intellectual, for sure. Way more, “Here’s what I think!” I’m not trying to say people in California are dumb-dumbs and New Englanders are smarties. That’s a gross generalisation. But California is definitely more non-confrontational, and New England’s just very blunt.
Where do you live these days?
Massachusetts. I’ve had enough California. It’s not like I don’t I get to go there all the time anyway.
You went to the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. What was it like being Joey Santiago’s roommate?
It was good. We weren’t necessarily the same personalities or had the same interests even, except we had this overlapping interest in records and making music, and some pie in the sky notion maybe we could start a band. We fooled around that notion while we were in college. Not enough to play a gig or actually assemble a real band. But we rehearsed a couple of times in his parents’ house in Longmeadow, western Massachusetts. Only when we got out of the bubble of college life were we able to focus on it. We dropped out.
You didn’t find college life very rewarding?
I had a couple of interesting professors and I got to see some interesting films, but I wanted to travel. I wasn’t that interested in being in the United States, basically. Every day I was looking for that exit strategy. Going on the microfiche in the library, looking for colleges internationally that I could transfer to. I probably wouldn’t have gotten into Trinity College in Dublin, but that’s where I was starting to look. So when someone said, “Go to Puerto Rico for a year,” I said, OK. I didn’t really speak Spanish well enough to get through a history class. After six months I was ready to get out of there. I promptly flunked all those classes and I was just going to start travelling. But then I realised: I want to be in a band. I wrote Joey a letter. He wrote me back. “I’ll meet you in Boston, we’ll start the band.” And that’s what we’ve been doing ever since.
Musically, what references did you share?
Certainly The Beatles, but also Donovan, Neil Young, The Who, The Kinks… the classic ’60s stuff.
Plus, “Hüsker Dü and Peter, Paul And Mary”, as per the ad you placed in the Boston Phoenix classifieds, seeking a bass player?
We just made something up. We got one response. So she was in the band (laughs). Kim Deal was like, “I’m a guitar player, I’m not a bass player.” “We have two guitars already.” “OK, no problem”. I think she borrowed her sister’s bass.
You already had songs?
Probably whatever would be on [1987 debut] Come On Pilgrim. This was ’85 or ’86. I had chord progressions with complete lyrics.
Eventually, after trying two other drummers, you found David Lovering.
There was a couple of guys, they just didn’t quite get it. I dunno if David got it or not, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. There was another guy where it was much more of a personality to negotiate. I was like: “We just want someone to play the drums!” David was like: “Show me the songs. We can practise in my parents’ garage. I’ve got a truck, we can put the stuff in the back.” Very practical. No bullshit. He didn’t listen to a lot of
“That was the day I quit my shitty job – when I got a proof of the sleeve of Come On Pilgrim.”
punk rock – his favourite band was Rush. But he didn’t come into it and go, “So now I’m going to play like Rush.” He understood that it was some simpler, punkier thing.
Within a year or so, via Throwing Muses and the producer Gary Smith, you find yourself signed to a renowned London record label, 4AD. Were you surprised?
Excited, for sure. We didn’t have anything to compare it to. Maybe this is the way it happens?! You put together a few songs and some guy in England wants to put out your record. We just said yes to everything. “Work with this producer. Play a gig here, do a show with that band…” Sure! Great! It was all opportunity. It wasn’t our ambition to be famous. It was just, we want to be in a band. We need to be an actual band, one of these bands that come through on tour and plays at the club. The Swans, Sonic Youth, all these bands we used to go see. Black Flag, whatever. We just want to do what they do.
One reason the Pixies stood out was your songs’ sexual content – your “sordid material” as David Bowie subsequently described it. Where did a lyric like I’ve Been Tired’s “Losing my penis to a whore with disease” come from?
Just from all the other rock music I was listening to. I didn’t think it was particularly groundbreaking. I was listening to the Violent Femmes. It was just showing psychological vulnerability. Watching avant-garde films. It was all part of the art. We didn’t want to be mainstream – we knew that. We wanted to be underground, because we could probably do that. It’s not like we thought we were going to be the next AC/DC. We’re going to be the next Violent Femmes, we’re going to be the next Hüsker Dü. All heavy on attitude and not heavy on prowess. We just wanted to get the hell out of town. Have a real record. That was the day I quit my shitty job – when I got a proof of the record sleeve of Come On Pilgrim. “See that picture of the hairy dude? London, England? That’s where I’m going. This record? It means I’m out of here.”
The next Pixies record, Surfer Rosa, was made with Steve Albini, who at that point was better known for his own music than engineering other bands’. How was that experience? Fine. I mean, he seemed fairly aloof about the whole thing, but he did his job. We could never tell if he liked it or not, but he showed up when he was supposed to show up and he got a good sound. But it wasn’t like we became close to him. And uh, you know, we have never worked with him again (laughs).
He subsequently made some disparaging remarks about the band, then later expressed regret for making those remarks.
Ehh, you know. I get it. He’s young and he’s cocky and that’s OK. All is well, no bad blood. He was projecting his own shit onto us, or whatever. I think he was offended because he was listed as ‘producer’. I wasn’t so tuned into the nuance of ‘this is the engineer and this is the producer’. When he said those disparaging things, I was just confused. I was like, “I thought we had a good time. Everyone seems to like the record!” We weren’t trying to be some crass commercial band. Anyway. That’s ancient history now. His fuck-off attitude, there was a lot of that around at that time.
The Pixies became very successful – particularly in Europe – very quickly. Between 1987 and 1991 you made five albums, headlined festivals, toured with U2, and played your last gig in 1992. Was it enjoyable?
I don’t know if all the process was enjoyable, but the fruit of the labour was satisfying. We were legit – legit enough that I felt comfortable to go, “OK, I quit. I’m going to do my own thing now.” And that worked for a little while.
Would the Pixies have continued if your relationship with Kim hadn’t deteriorated?
I suppose so, but that’s hypothetical. I can’t really say. I could change hypothetically any number of factors and say, “OK, maybe that would have prolonged the band.” Slow things down a little bit. That would be one. Not having to put out a record every single season. Or go on so many tours. Not have it be so frantic. But everyone was just getting what they could out of the situation as fast as they could. The record company, whoever… “OK guys, just more.” There wasn’t any sense of curating it. Add in a lot of drugs and alcohol, and youth. That’s not gonna make anyone think very clearly.
The traditional rock narrative favours the outsider, be it groups or individuals within them. That’s how the likes of Syd Barrett and Kim Deal become romantic figures. Yet it can’t necessarily have been easy being in the Pixies with Kim Deal?
I suppose, but we weren’t that easy either, in our own ways. I don’t want to demonise her. I’m not judging anybody. You know, it’s not that easy to be in a band. Especially when everyone’s young. They’re not wise. It’s all very emotional. A lot of crisis, a lot of conflict. Whereas nowadays a lot of that stuff would not be such a conflict, such a crisis. When you get older, you put away a lot of those things that create a lot of conflict. Or you keep it in check as much as you can.
David Bowie once said: “What the Pixies have done is change the format for delivering harder rock.” How did it feel to have such an esteemed cheerleader?
It’s nice – but that’s all it is. We can’t really do anything with that information. I can’t take it to the bank, so to speak. At the end of the day, you’re still in show business. You have to make a record that people like to sell concert tickets. You have to make sure your customers are happy. The praise of other musicians is nice, but it’s just like, ‘And…?’. It’s the customers’ validation that means the most. Truly.
Did the Pixies ever have an issue comparable to Nirvana, when one song in particular came to feel like a millstone?
No. I think we had a little bit of an issue with Here Comes Your Man, but that was also because the American record company people thought it was our ticket into something. And because that was an older song, we weren’t sure if that was too sweet a number. Now we play it every night. Whatever issues we had with it, we’ve made peace with.
In 1992, with the Pixies in recess but still officially extant, you recorded your first solo album with Pere Ubu/Captain Beefheart keyboardist/bassist Eric Drew Feldman. What itches did that scratch?
I didn’t have to negotiate everything with a bunch of people. It was just me and the producer, and that was it. We could get anybody we wanted to play in the studio. We could play everything ourselves. It was just less strings attached. Because Pixies became a runaway train, you felt like you’re part of something bigger than you. I was tired of being part of something that was bigger than me. I just wanted to be part of something that was only as big as me (laughs). That I could control, somewhat.
Which is funny, because the Pixies were your band and presumably you were in control.
Well, for whatever reason, I wasn’t happy. I started to bond with [Feldman] on the last Pixies tour. It was like a new musical relationship and I had never had another musical relationship. After you ended the Pixies, did you mind that your sun shone less brightly in the popular music firmament, or that people were now talking about somebody else?
Not so much. Once I got over the initial sting, probably I was appreciative of the fact that I was to pay my dues. Because I never paid my dues the first time. We just did it and (claps) we were gone. So it felt good to learn stuff, to play smaller places, to carry my own gear, to really learn the craft in a slightly more humble kind of way. I didn’t mind it for a long time. I liked the effort of it. Without any concern for… success or anything. I had enough success.
Were The Catholics an underrated band? You eventually began playing Pixies songs live and they sounded far from shabby.
I don’t know. We put out a lot of records, and when I listen to those records now, I don’t love every song. But I liked the aesthetic of recording live to 2-track. And some of the songs I really like a lot. So I didn’t really have any regrets, other than maybe I could have slowed it down then too. Maybe I could have edited out some stuff. But I wasn’t into editing then. Just do, do, do, do, do, do. Almost manic.
Any theories why you were like that?
Maybe I was manic. I liked the idea of working and it was fun. Maybe it’s an escape or
“We’re still a band. Kim Deal is still a Pixie. Do you see what I’m saying? She’s not the enemy.”
something, I don’t know. But I liked it. Until that all fell apart.
An escape from real life responsibilities?
Right. Typical musician. Arrested development (laughs).
The Pixies reformed in 2004. How was it, given the previous turbulence between yourself and Kim?
It was a little awkward, but we got through it pretty fast. We played some really good shows and we had some fun, and we probably did it too long. But it became a thing that we did for almost 10 years with her. We got to go to a lot of places that we’d never been to before. We got to have the success that we didn’t quite reach the first time. And we got to prove we were professionals, that we could still sound just as good as we always did. We didn’t lose anything.
Kim Deal won’t talk about the Pixies now. Do you know why? Are there legal reasons?
No, I think it was like, “Well what’s there to say?” She’s not interested in bad mouthing us or giving people juicy tidbits. And we’re not either. We’re still a band. She’s still a Pixie. Do you see what I’m saying? She’s not the enemy. She’s made an artistic choice. She could have stayed in the Pixies and made more records with us and who knows what would have happened. Maybe it would’ve been 10 times more successful. I don’t know. She made a decision for her art. And for her lifestyle.
You say she’s still a Pixie. What if she was to tell you: “I want to do this again?” I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it! But I bet you she’s not going to. It finally took us eight or nine years to get her into a recording studio to do new stuff, and that fell apart. So clearly she wants to do other things with her time. And how can you not respect that? Totally, I get it. I did it before myself, once. I left the band.
Why didn’t it work out with Kim Shattuck?
Just a different personality than us. And she’s used to being a frontperson in the band. I thought it would work out. She was my choice that I really pushed for. The other guys were already pushing for Paz. I was like, “No, no, no, it’s gonna be great.” But then pretty quickly it was like, “Oops, sorry.”
It sounds like a silly question, but did the fact that her name was Kim sway you?
I thought it was funny. I don’t know how much magical thinking I would have applied to that. Maybe a little bit. I liked her. So I was attracted to her energy. But it didn’t work with the Pixies. Nothing against her, it was just totally different types of people. We’re way more introverted and she’s totally extroverted. Have you considered it might be difficult for the one woman with the three men in the Pixies?
No, I don’t think it’s that. It’s other way around. It’s not the woman fitting in with the three dudes. It’s the three dudes fitting in with the woman, and her vibe. And if we don’t fit into her vibe, then it doesn’t work. We fit into Paz just fine. We did not fit in with Kim Deal. Eventually. I feel like it’s more like Joey and Dave and Charles are more of a unit, so it’s not like, ‘There’s three of you and only one of me, and I’m the chick. This is imbalanced.’ It’s whether or not we can feel comfortable with her.
You’ve made three Pixies albums in the last five years, but no Frank Black or Black Francis albums in almost 10. How come?
Now that [Pixies] are making records, there’s no need. I have an outlet for musical stuff. I don’t need to go on tour again, away from my kids, and make way less money. I can’t really justify it. So if I have other creative energy, I’ve found other ways to direct that. I’ve been painting a lot in the last five or six years. Whether or not the painting is good, I don’t know. But it’s taught me patience, I’m way more patient about music now. For the first time in my life.
So those late-’00s Black Francis records and the records you made with Violet Clark as Grand Duchy exist because the re-formed Pixies were not yet a recording entity?
Exactly. Any of those records could have been Pixies records.
There’s some great songs from that period, notably Threshold Apprehension, on Bluefinger (2007)…
That originally was the Pixies. That’s left over from Surfer Rosa, that chord progression.
Surely if that had been on a Pixies album, it would have received due recognition?
Well, that’s showbiz. I had fun making the record. I have no regrets.
During that same period you also made two albums in Nashville with a stellar cast of soul and country session players: Steve Cropper, Buddy Miller, Spooner Oldham, Dan Penn. How was that experience?
Very illuminating. Just seeing how different types of musicians work, from that world. I really liked it a lot. I’d like to do it again sometime. It was nice to be the kid.
On Honeycomb, the first of your Nashville albums, the song Strange Goodbye is a duet with your ex-wife Jean, about a broken marriage. That seemed openly autobiographical, unusually so.
Right. Once in a while I do that, but I tend to move away from being too literal, into a more poetic headspace. Actually, I’m writing a bunch of songs now with this guy, Bobby Bare Jr, more in a country vein. So it fits with the genre to be more straight up. It’s interesting to try something that’s like a Merle Haggard song. Whether or not I get there, I don’t know. But because of my personal life, I’m able to go to places I’ve never gone to before.
Death Horizon, the closing song on Beneath The Eyrie, has a breezy tune, but the lyrics are so bleak.
It feels like a very Velvet Underground-inspired song, like Lou Reed’s Tin Pan Alley traditional chord shapes juxtaposed with the darker lyric. You know, it’s just about three levels of death. A relationship, civilization and planetary – boom, boom, boom. People seem to like that one (laughs). So that makes me happy.