Frank Black/Photo: Michael Halsband

Colored by mischievous biblical motifs, dystopian sci-fi imaginings and offbeat character studies, the compositions of Charles Thompson—known as Frank Black as a solo act and Black Francis as the frontman of the Pixies—have provided immersive narrative architectures esteemed by a multigenerational fanbase for over four decades.

Having shelved his solo career almost a decade ago (though releasing “The Night the Zombies Came” in 2024 with the Pixies), Thompson is back on tour as Frank Black in tribute to the thirtieth anniversary of his solo album “Teenager of the Year” (1994).

Thompson is as much a maniacal dramatist as a musician, with an erratic hunger for experimentation across genres, endeavoring to tell immersive stories with distinct theatrical soundscapes. Of course, he is best known for the Pixies’ post-punk alternative rock of the late eighties and early nineties, delivered by his nonpareil yowl and driven by the juxtaposition of melodic and dissonant instrumental textures. But with a body of work comprising nineteen solo studio albums and thirteen with the Pixies, there is a wealth of experimentation distinct from the sounds of old favorites like “Here Comes Your Man” (1989), particularly on “Teenager of the Year.”

Within the thirty-year-old solo album, you’ll find reggae in “Fiddle Riddle,” a tribute to both Lou Reed and Joy Division in “Olé Mulholland,” and something out of Frank Zappa’s coloring book in “I Could Stay Here Forever.” It’s not necessarily an album with a beginning, middle and end but rather an anthology of vignette-like sketches—episodic and evocative individually, but collectively a thematic tribute to the notion of liberal experimentation.

Thompson will be playing at Metro on January 25-26 as Frank Black with Chicago area-natives Verböten. I had a chance to catch up with him in advance of his show and enjoy a wonderful conversation about revisiting old work, his newfound freedom to tour as a solo artist, the death of the rock star, his time in San Juan, Puerto Rico (the old stomping grounds of another writer named Thompson, first name Hunter S.) and more.

Charles, thanks for taking the time. I’m a big fan and I’m a little nervous.

Well, you ought to be, man. I’m one of the hardest-boiled eggs in show business.

Years ago, you suggested you were done with your solo career—or at least with touring. What changed?

At the time, I had five kids, and when the Pixies reunited, we were shocked by the response. What was supposed to be a one-year reunion turned into decades, and it became more lucrative than it had ever been. I started doing this when I worked at a warehouse, so the fact that I could make money doing this was a huge deal. Honestly—and there’s no reason for artists not to be honest about this—getting out of the red and into the black is about as motivating as anything else.

I had obligations—families, ex-wives, alimony, a shitload of financial responsibility. I couldn’t justify going off on solo tours for “artistic reasons” when the Pixies were working so well. Imagine bringing home all the bacon, then saying, “I’m going to take off and not bring back any this time because I need to express myself.” It wouldn’t fly with my family.

Now, my kids are older, some are in college, and there’s less pressure to be the breadwinner. I’ve picked up solo work here and there, but even now, I’m not eager to do anything just for the sake of it.

“Teenager of the Year” was recently re-released. I spoke to Sebastien Grainger of Death From Above 1979, who recently re-recorded an anniversary album, and he said parts of it felt super cringe or uncomfortable to revisit. What’s it like revisiting music you wrote thirty years ago? Does it ever feel awkward?

The further back I go, the more I forgive myself. That naivete has a certain charm, even if some lines or performances aren’t great. As you get older, you lose that innocence, and everything becomes about what you can or can’t do.

Revisiting old work isn’t usually a musical issue—it’s the lyrics that stand out. On “Teenager of the Year,” there are moments I think, “That could’ve been better.” But the record has a frenetic, spontaneous energy. With that comes trial and error. Not every joke lands, you know? I like seeing the naivete of my old self. Thirty years is a long time—why would I ever hold that against myself? Maybe if I catch a mistake in something more recent, it might feel different.

Let’s try ten or fifteen years ago then—closer to now. If you find something you’d change in a more recent piece, how does that feel?

It’s less about regret and more about accepting imperfection. I don’t fault other artists for missing the mark; losing your way is part of the process. I don’t fight myself too much. I create a bunch of ideas, try to find the ideas that don’t bore me, and then put them out and just hope for the best.

As an artist, you have to allow humanity in your work, and obsessing over perfection gets in the way of that. Sometimes it’s about saying, “I did this because I wanted to.” That attitude can serve certain projects really well. You can’t get too boo-hoo about these things. Maybe I’m rationalizing about being a bad self-editor, but losing your way at times is all part of the process. I mean, if I see something from an artist that doesn’t turn me on, I don’t hold it against them. To be a real artist, you have to make mistakes. That adds to the humanity of your work.

It’s okay for music to be flawed. That carries a kind of cool energy, because ultimately what feels flawed to one person might feel incredible to someone else. Look, I didn’t get into this to be perfect, and aspiring to perfection will hurt you as an artist. No one told me it would be a good idea to make music—I did it because I wanted to do it, and my attitude was basically “fuck you, I’ll do what I want.” That’s a good attitude. You need some of that, especially early on. All I had going for me was my job in a warehouse, everyone else thought it was a stupid idea for me to get into this, and I didn’t give a shit.

I never had like a five-year plan to win a fucking Grammy. I just didn’t want to go back to the warehouse.

How has the music industry changed, and how has that impacted your process?

It’s unrecognizable in some ways. Rock stars used to have this mystique, especially if they had a gold record. They were pedestalized, maybe incorrectly so—I’m not sure. Largely because of streaming and digital availability, that pedestal is gone now—or at the very least, they make a lot less money. Perhaps it’s a correction, maybe it’s an overcorrection.

So streaming royalties are low, sure, but people still love live music. I actually think they go to concerts now more than ever. As a performer, live shows have become the primary point of connection with fans. Streaming might dominate, but if I play in their town, they’ll show up, grab a drink, and maybe even buy a T-shirt. That personal connection is still alive, and I’m grateful for it.

I wanted to ask about your time in San Juan. One of my old favorites spent his formative years there (Hunter S. Thompson). What is it about that place that fuels such vivid, demented storytelling? How did it shape you as an artist?

Puerto Rico is fascinating. Its history is layered and complex, and that shapes its character. There’s an identity crisis—you’re kind of American but kind of not, kind of Latino but kind of not. That tension creates a unique energy.

I lived there for a year as a young student, struggling with Puerto Rican Spanish and meeting incredible people, some of them extraordinarily wild and erratic. Those characters and experiences shaped a lot of my earlier songs because they were so fresh in my mind. Over time, the memories have faded, but the complexity of San Juan, Rincón, Arecibo, Vieques and Ponce left a lasting impression.

What’s gotten easier or harder for you as a songwriter over the years?

Interestingly, the process feels consistent. The industry’s changed, but the work hasn’t. You still have to work hard, whether it’s 1989 or 2024. I still write the same way as I did thirty years ago, which I think is kind of interesting.

What’s easier now is access to music and ideas. For example, my kids can dive into any genre or era instantly, and that’s inspiring. I love learning about what they’re listening to because it’s just so prolific, they’re able to dive into new music so effortlessly, and they take advantage of it—I love that. What’s harder is cutting through the noise. Still, the essence hasn’t changed: I want to keep playing music, staying out of the red and in the black. That’s the root of everything.

Any final thoughts on your career, past and present?

I’ve learned not to get too uptight. Some ideas work, some don’t—that’s the nature of being an artist. You can’t be afraid to fail.

I just want to keep making music, playing live, and not go back to managing a warehouse. It’s as simple as that.

Frank Black plays Metro, 3730 North Clark, on Saturday, January 25, and Sunday, January 26, with Verböten. Tickets for Saturday are sold out, and tickets for Sunday are $35 before fees, available here.