I love Black Francis/Frank Black’s quieter albums because they’re still loud as fuck. The man did not come equipped with a tremor control. Since he’s a seriously underappreciated lyricist, it’s a pleasure to have all the words (and not just buzzwords like “Debaser”) rise above the glorious din. In fact, it’s the playing and singing that shines through on this debut album for a duo who’ve worked together on and off in band situations for years. The songs can be rather uneven, but if you concentrate on how Black Francis and Reid Paley poke and prod each other as performer, the lighter-weight material catches right up to the better-written stuff.
I was a Boston scenester in the ‘80s, so Reid Paley comes separately into my consciousness, and not as Black’s “discovery” or somesuch. I knew about Paley for years before I stumbled onto the Pixies. He was a guitarist punks could dig—economical, never show-offy. It’s a pleasure to hear him sing again on this album in his distinguished rasp, which he can band into the blues (“On the Corner”) or deliver matter-of-factly as in “Ugly Life.” Black Francis rightfully rules the mic for most songs, however. If you only connect him with his growling past, you forget he has a higher register he can access, howling at the moon in “Magic Cup” and

Stripping the arrangements down to Paley & Francis’ own best instruments allows for nuance. Since neither man is prone to jamminess or trippiness, we’re talking neat solos and jabby instrumental interchanges that remind you of the Beatles in how much gets done in a short amount of time. The album was produced by Jon Tiven (Connecticut-raised brother of Dumptruck’s Seth Tiven; the Tivens were fighting the good indie rock battle in New Haven around the same time that Francis and Paley were setting things up in Boston.

Friendly and comfortable then. Mature in the we-can-do-this-sitting-down sense. Still experimenting, though, and challenging each other, beholden to no influences save for early Velvet Underground. In Paley & Francis’ hands, a simple riff and insignificant chorus (“the sun is bright/the sky is blue/and so are you/and so are you”) become “Deconstructed”—literally, that’s the name of the song, as intricately blown apart and put back together as anything either man has done, and you can hear every dainty deconstruction.