BLACK FRANCIS - Bluefinger

They killed rock. Rock is dead. Rock is naked! Long live rock! Rock the way it's been made for years, but the way it hadn't been heard in quite some time.

More than fifteen years after his suicide and a few years after the unexpected resurrection of rock's most mercurial pixies, Charles Thompson - aka Black Francis (or, if you prefer, Frank Black) - returns to the studio with a handful of illustrious unknowns (Dan Schmid on bass, Jason Carter on drums and Violet Clark on backing vocals) to put together one of the most sincere, enjoyable and exciting musical statements of this murky 2007.

With "Bluefinger", Thompson goes back to signing his work with the moniker that introduced him to the world when, together with Kim Deal, Joey Santiago and David Lovering, he founded Pixies: a good sign, one that sounds like a statement of intent aimed at putting distance between himself and a turbulent, uneven solo career (though it's worth pointing out the phantasmagoric "Dog In The Sand" from 2000) in order to reconnect with past glories. "Bluefinger", in fact, delivers a breathtaking tracklist, one that could easily go toe to toe with the Boston combo's last studio chapters (1991's "Trompe Le Monde" and, above all, the preceding "Bossanova").

Eleven easy pieces that flow from first to last without losing tension or bite. Let's be clear: nothing new under the sun here - just great rock music, tight, raw and immediate as ever. These are qualities that have been in short supply in the New World's "indie rock-oriented" output for some time, and given their consistently high level, they make this album a rare gem indeed.

By Thompson's own admission, "Bluefinger" was conceived under the influence of Herman Brood, a Dutch musician active as far back as the Sixties as a member of Cuby & The Blizzards, so physically ravaged by drugs that he decided to take his own life by jumping off the top floor of the building that, in Amsterdam, houses the Hilton hotel (the very same hotel that, as Black Francis recalls in one of the album's tracks, hosted John & Yoko's pacifist happenings©).

"Captain Pasty" kicks off the journey with a handful of clattering guitar chords, soon joined by a frantic, anxiety-ridden bass line. A drum roll lets the band explode out of the speakers, unleashing a melodic rage that instantly stuns the listener and immediately establishes the greatness of what's on offer, both for the hands and for the ears.

"Threshold Apprehension" is the irresistible trait d'union linking AC/DC and Grandmaster Flash, with a memorable chorus sung by Clark that eerily recalls the vocal counterpoints of Kim Deal in her prime.

"Test Pilot Blues" opens with a Beefheart-ian riff that sets up Francis's winks delivered over twelve bars, interspersed with syncopated, martial rhythms.

"Lolita" is a ballad boasting a bridge so distinctive it becomes an instant classic; the skillful use of a harmonica à-la Dylan only confirms the song's stature. The fetishistic anathema "Tight Black Rubber" is built around an obsessive fuzz guitar riff that refuses to let up even once the track has ended.

"Angels Come To Confort You" is an incisive, deeply "cool" boogie that pairs well with the insistent "Your Mouth Into Mine", a messy, ungrammatical ditty bound to leave its mark.

The incipit of "Discoteque 36" recalls No Doubt's "Don't Speak", but the La Chapelle-esque sappiness of Gwen Stefani is just a mirage that fades instantly, as soon as the man treats us to one of the finest sequences of dissonant chords ever. A little pop gem.

"You Can't Break A Heart And Have It" is an incisive, biting version of the Herman Brood song of the same name.

The memorable sha-la-la of "She Took All The Money" is as naive as it is irresistible.

The title track, placed at the close, is a country-rock number rooted in American rural culture, sounding like a sand-stained memory of the Mojave: dry and intangible as a pain long forgotten, once searing.

"Bluefinger" is a work composed with remarkable skill and tremendously entertaining, arriving unexpectedly at a point in Thompson's career when he seemed to have lost his creative spark. Long live our little, giant Charles!

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19/09/2007