Frank Black
Teenager of the Year

THE REVIEW

Frank Black is a damned genius of a chubby guy, and I care about him.

I cared about him deeply because he brutally penetrated right down into my eustachian tubes to the point of endangering my young pharyngeal apparatus and then took me among the stars of deep space in full coitus; that's where my gun goes, off into space on a wave of mutilation, he tamed me, I'm docile taaaaaame! Hey, may Zeus bless him, Black Francis, with his feet up to the sky and his head down in the water, and then again extinction! Named extinction! And then down with the blows, my face is broken, all my bones shattered. And then making love again on the road to Roswell, with Joey playing two notes in the verse, just two damn notes and everything is so magical, and Kim, sweet Kim, watching us go crazy together and poor thing feeling left out, smiling less and less, she leaves. It's all over.

But there has always been a special feeling between me and Francis, even if he doesn't know it. I knew it couldn't have ended like that.

And there he is, the youngster of the year. The year was '94 and I didn't even speak so well at that time, with the horrible mushroom bowl cuts and various center parts, the flashy tracksuits and post-eighties pseudo-futuristic musical tackiness that when I hear them today makes me die laughing.

22 songs for an album are too many? No. Teenager Of The Year sounds like they will record it the day after tomorrow, despite the tackiness, it's fast and engaging, slow and dreamy. He hurls you and caresses you and you love him: it starts with Whatever Happened To Pong, furious, Frank black as night seems like a Lou Reed affected by Tourette's syndrome, here comes Thalassocracy and I don't even notice it. Distorted guitar, obsessive chant, how much I care about you Frank. And so the fairies are back, the acoustic and rarefied atmospheres are back, I also feel like experiencing something abstract. Layers of keyboards and strings, minimalist but perfect guitars, it's Speedy Marie, but above all Sir Rockaby.

We're back among the clouds, Frank now does everything by himself, but, devil of a bald man, there's something that drives me crazy in his way of putting one chord after another, in his voice, in his being a sophisticated buffoon, a damn genius of the three-minute song. It's practically physiological. Ole Mulholland, edgy and dreamy with that guitar there, that non-violent distortion, what a delight. Bravo Lyle Workman, there's room for you in my heart too. I reach the last three tracks confused and happy like Consoli, and there is Joey on guitar, I can feel it's him. Saying it's a beautiful ending is an understatement.

The journey ends and you want to start it all over again. How much I care about you, Black Francis, Frank Black, thank you for everything.