I've been keeping a secret, but since I've only written two reviews for Pitchfork, I figure no damage has been done yet. To avoid a potentially disastrous situation in the future-- which would inevitably involve accusations of fraudulence-- I'll fess up now: I didn't grow up on indie rock. I know everyone has had their embarrassing early years, but I didn't get into indie rock until the Pixies' Bossanova. After that discovery, I backtracked to Fugazi, Big Black and other revelatory bands. But before I knew it, Nirvana's Nevermind had arrived and I was off to boarding school.
Nirvana, of course, was the beginning and the end, all at once. College confined me within ivied brick walls that refused entrance to any music that didn't "jam." The Internet did not exist then. I was isolated and force-fed Phish and the Grateful Dead, among others. As no one shared my interests, these bands soon fought The Pixies and Fugazi for space in my CD player. Then, after graduating, I entered a university with a burgeoning indie scene. Sadly, I was four years behind. I slaved to catch up.
Luckily, I haven't forgotten my roots. The Pixies still sound as fresh as they did back in 1990, and my loyalties remain true. Which is why I followed Pixies frontman Black Francis' transformation into Frank Black. His self-titled debut and Teenager of the Year are inarguably brilliant pop records, doused with Black's trademark weirdness and originality. 1996's The Cult of Ray, on the other hand, was a heinous letdown, and Frank knew he had to change direction. He did. His next two albums, Frank Black and the Catholics and Pistolero, were strong, straightforward rock 'n' roll records recorded live to two-track. Now, don't take that the wrong way-- I said they were strong, not incredible; one wouldn't necessarily want to hear the songs that were left off.
Oddballs, though, is a collection of such leftovers-- you know, b-sides and outtakes-- that were recorded between 1994 and 1997. These were his less innovative years, so it's no surprise that this record is about as dispensable as the plot of Gladiator. The opening track, "Pray a Little Faster", is the encapsulation of Frank Black at his weakest, replete with basic chord variations and an unexceptional solo. "Village of the Sun" (circa The Cult of Ray) is yet another song that opens with hushed vocals over buried keyboards. And the punk opening of "At the End of the World" is reminiscent of Teenager of the Year's "Bad, Wicked World", yet the song slows for the chorus, apparently so that Black can showcase his vocals at their most Dicky Barrett.
His lyrics don't help matters, either. Where Black once effortlessly spewed line after line of unquestionable genius, he now resorts to lines like, "Well, I've been hanging downside-up." Not quite as eloquently stated as, say, "We go to sleep/ As breathing flows, my mind secedes." On "Hate Me", he must be joking when he screams, guttural as ever, "Hate me/ My jacket's not right.../ Hate me/ My shirt is shitty." At least, I hope he is. And if you thought "I Don't Want to Hurt You (Every Single Time)" was his corniest song ever, meet its contender, "Can I Get a Witness", which features the spectacular awakening, "Maybe you've got faith in where this is going/ Maybe I'll pull up the stakes, and I'll be letting go."
As one would expect from a legend, though, there are some redeeming moments. "Just a Little" is a catchy, Western guitar-tinged cover of the folk-rock band The Beau Brummels' 1965 track. The tempo of "Jumpin' Beans" cleverly befits its title, and its simple poetic phrasing ranks it alongside Frank's best solo work. And the title track is another rare gem; "Odd-balls," he chimes during the simple, yet affecting chorus, "Well, everybody's different." And even if the music here still isn't up to par with his Pixies days, at least it includes lines like, "Mathematics moves at such a crawl/ And gravity is a-mighty strong."
Oddballs also ends fittingly. The last two minutes of the closer, "Man of Steel", a track culled from the X-Files soundtrack, Songs in the Key of X, is utterly repetitive, forcing one to forget the album's high points. As far as producing raucous music, our subject is a man of steel, but even the real Man of Steel is now para... well, I'm not gonna say it.
