In 1929, Luis Bunuel directed a film called Un Chien Andalou. Perhaps you’ve heard of it: co-written with then-Surrealist artist and provocateur Salvador Dali and possessed of an infamous opening sequence that still shocks today, it was met with admiration in artistic circles but with much more widespread revulsion from the general public – though not, as is often apocryphally claimed, with the riots which would eventually greet Bunuel’s second collaboration with Dali, 1930′s L’Age d’Or. Look at the first two films by this director, and a career trajectory seems immediately obvious. Here is a man who would attack social taboos and mores with shocking, dreamlike images and juxtapositions; a bold, uncompromising filmmaker who could only truly be appreciated by a niche audience. Of course he would continue in the direction suggested by Un Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or… who could imagine him doing anything else?

Except, of course, he did do something else. Fifteen years later, the film released by Bunuel was not another bizarre psycho-sexual journey into the surreal, but simply an adaptation of Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. More faithful to its source material than anyone had a right to expect, Bunuel’s Crusoe had a coherent plot and a filmmaking style that was “Hollywood” enough to net lead actor Dan O’Herlihy a 1955 Academy Award nomination. So why, you might ask, did such a fearless filmmaker settle for such a “typical” film? Was he under studio pressure? Did he simply recognize that one can only make so many films like Un Chien Andalou before financial concerns force one to either sell out or get a straight job? Perhaps; but the bottom line is, whether Bunuel went from Andalusian dogs to British classics in 15 years for love or for money, he ultimately did it because he wanted to.

Now maybe this is a strange and roundabout way to talk about the new album by Frank Black, but think about it for a moment. The time between Black’s glory days with his old band, the Pixies (don’t suppose you’ve heard of them, too?), and Fast Man Raider Man is longer than the 15 years which separated Bunuel’s first film and Crusoe; seventeen years, to be exact, since 1989′s Doolittle, when, of course, Black brought Bunuel’s own Andalou to a wider public consciousness with “Debaser” and its references to “slicin’ up eyeballs.”

But there are more than a few parallels. Here’s a guy who in the late 1980s played a key role in laying the groundwork for alternative rock’s rise to fame – and did so with a weirder and, yes, more Surreal approach than pretty much any of his followers. Listen to the end of “Tame,” on which Mr. Black (then known as Black Francis) metamorphoses into a sort of ragged-breathing wild animal, and it’s as difficult to imagine him any other way as it was to imagine Luis Bunuel adapting English literature and winning Academy Awards. But like his admitted hero Bunuel, given less than two decades Black has achieved a new and decidedly un-edgy respectability: in his case, by recording two mellow albums with country-soul masters like Spooner Oldham, Dan Penn and Steve Cropper. And man, are there a lot of people who wish that rabid beast Black Francis would come back.

For the record, you can count me among their number – sort of. I would be a fool to stand here and say that Fast Man Raider Man, or even last year’s tighter but ultimately similar Honeycomb, is a match for the best of the Pixies. Those albums were monumental, and the first two – Surfer Rosa and Doolittle, three if you count the 1987 mini-LP Come On Pilgrim – were pretty much as close to perfect as rock music can get. I won’t even step on the toes of people who say Frank Black and Teenager of the Year were Black’s most essential solo records, although frankly, with their overstuffed running orders and occasionally throwaway songwriting, they exhibit many of the same flaws currently being ascribed to Fast Man Raider Man. But the thing is, I know Black Francis is alive and well. I saw him as recently as late 2004, at the Fox Theatre in Detroit, and you can see him too, at any of the upcoming dates on the Pixies’ seemingly neverending reunion tour – if you live in Slovakia, you can even see him next month! So can we please just let Charles Thompson, the man behind Blacks Frank and Francis, make a few albums of his own for once?

I know, I know. We’re not supposed to make excuses for artists’ current work based on their past achievements…but where I come from, we’re not supposed to force them to relive their college years for our own entertainment, either. There’s no doubt in anyone’s minds that “Cactus” and “Hey” are more exciting, more vital songs than “Kiss My Ring” and “When the Paint Grows Darker Still,” but at the same time, who says there isn’t room for both – or, for that matter, the 24 other songs on Black’s latest “disappointment?” There’s good music to be found here, if we can only put our Pixies-sized expectations aside; it’s just that we have to look for it first.

Critics aren’t supposed to say that, incidentally. Instead, I’m supposed to be reprimanding Black for putting out too much damn music – again. This is, after all, the guy who put out a full six albums in five years with backing band the Catholics to near-universal indifference; two of which, 2002′s Black Letter Days and Devil’s Workshop, were released on the same day. Thing is, though, that’s Frank Black: he’s been a boutique artist basically since 1996′s The Cult of Ray, and if critics and casuals will lament the idea of two full CDs to digest this summer, then a certain kind of fan will probably cheer. I, myself, could probably do without a few of these tunes; Black’s “House of the Rising Sun”-pilfering Gothic folk on “The End of the Summer” gets tedious fast, and “I’m Not Dead (I’m in Pittsburgh),” while fun, isn’t much more than a cute title. But then again, I could do without more than a little of the White Album, too. And all said, it’s tough to say which songs here are truly dispensable: even though “Dog Sleep” doesn’t hold on to the promise of its lovely opening verse, the Hammond organ swells, barrelhouse piano and drunken trombone swoons which color the rest of its arrangement still bring it pleasingly close to Black’s original vision of a Blonde on Blonde tribute.

There are, of course, downsides to the sheer wealth of music here. Where Honeycomb came off somewhat monochrome – if sepia-tinted – Fast Man Raider Man is the end result of two years’ worth of pick-up sessions, from the week in Nashville which yielded Honeycomb to one day in L.A. as recently as this January. And the patchwork shows, sometimes for the worse: if “Where the Wind is Going” puts a roots spin on Black’s early solo material and still manages to rock, then “Johnny Barleycorn” sounds a little like something the Crash Test Dummies forgot to record. But when the all-star sessioneers Black has assembled stick to what they know best, the results can be truly magical. Check out the first of Fast Man Raider Man‘s title tracks, a spellbinding soul ballad which Black’s fragile falsetto yelp sells in spite of his somewhat forced lyrics. Or better yet, there’s “Wanderlust,” which would almost sound like it was written by Dan Penn himself if it didn’t bear a “Black” songwriting credit.

In the end, my conclusion probably isn’t going to surprise anyone. Your enjoyment of Fast Man Raider Man will relate directly to your ability to see Charles Thompson for who he is: not the shrieking, androgynous madman of the Pixies, or even the whimsical eccentric of Teenager of the Year, but a middle-aged man. This isn’t “exciting” music in the way the Pixies were exciting. It’s reflective, muted even when it reaches for the uptempo rock numbers. It’s “mature” and “accomplished,” with all the good and not-so-good connotations those two words suggest. Give it the time and attention it deserves, and it will reward you; and if the shout Black lets loose with on his (excellent) cover of Ewan MacColl’s “Dirty Old Town” sounds a little like a meow next to the roars of “Tame,” well, that’s maturing for ya.

But for those of you who aren’t convinced, just keep in mind: less than ten years after Robinson Crusoe, Bunuel directed The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, a biting satire which delved once more into the disjointed surrealism and absurdist social commentary of his early work. In other words, folks, respectability don’t have to last forever.

Reviewed by Zach Hoskins