Pixies

For Frank Black, these are the times that try men's backs. No sunshine patriot in the rock 'n' roll wars, this much-praised, quirky alterna-rock auteur says he's in it for the long haul, which nowadays means he has to do some of the hauling himself every night he and his band, the Catholics, play. For the first time since 1987-88, when his old band, the Pixies, helped lead the last spasm of pre-Nirvana, truly underground "alternative"-ness, Black doesn't have a major-label record deal.

Margaret Kerry is quite earnest in describing herself as Tinker Bell's alter ego. She is hardly the type to astrally regress to Never Land, or to fannishly emulate a character from a cartoon. If anything, it would be closer to the truth to say that Tinker Bell, instead, was the one to imitate Kerry. Before Peter Pan's glittering sidekick ever fluttered to screen, Kerry had already gone through all her pixie paces.

COULDN'T YOU just gag over all this Anna Nicole Smith coverage? Here we have suffered through February, a cruel and chilly month dominated by the underdressed -- Cupid and Oscar strumpets. And the best we can do is tune into this gawd-awful Florida hearing over where they will bury the poor dear, assuming that's even physically possible. The entire nasty episode is exposing us for what we really are, the "trailer trash nation."

"Keep in mind smoothness, and watch your space," calls Joe McGeough to three floating children. He's teaching them to fly. All you need is a little fairy dust and some "lovely, wonderful thoughts," according to Peter Pan. Plus ropes, cables, wires, pulleys, harnesses and strong stagehands with firm grips, McGeough would add. He works for Flying by Foy.

Half the parts to your kids' "E-Z assembly" Christmas toys are missing, the cat choked on the one gingerbread man you didn't burn, and the mailman just delivered a Visa bill that will make mincemeat out of January's paycheck. To paraphrase Peter Pan, being grown up is a crock.

Frank Black's first solo album is full of homages to contemporary pop-music heroes, from Iggy Pop to John Denver, the Ramones to the Beach Boys. But the musician he identified with the most when he abruptly ended the prosperous career of his band the Pixies a few months ago was from a different era altogether. " A la Glenn Miller, on New Year's Eve I broke up the band," he said. Black relishes the connection as he tells the story over a martini in the bar of an old Burbank restaurant.

Charles Thompson guides his Detroit gas guzzler along the colorfully seedy eastern end of Hollywood Boulevard and considers his options. "What do you feel like eatin'? There's a Thai restaurant, Chuan Chim, it's the best Thai that I've found. . . . And there's Bodhi Garden, this vegetarian restaurant run by some Vietnamese people. "Or there's a pretty good taco place I always go to. They use whole beans, it's not greasy or anything like that. . . .

In Burbank, the creative technicians at Disney use the term imagineering to describe the process of letting their imaginations run wild and then trying to engineer fantasy into reality. In Sacramento, the creative politicians at the Capitol use the term budgeting to describe a similar exercise. The principal difference is that the Disney folks are good at it.

The Pixies are coming to Ventura, but Tinker Bell won't be able to make it. These Pixies are different than those pixies. No mischievous little elfin critters, no daffodils, no daisies, no fairies. These Pixies aren't even cute. This quartet has little in common with its name. It would be like finding out that the New Kids On The Block were really the Dead Kennedys with spiffy new haircuts and wardrobes. The Pixies are this gnarly rock band from Boston.

On their second major-label album, alternative rock faves the Pixies come off as a cross between art monsters Sonic Youth and moody nostalgiameister Chris Isaak--full of noise and rage and clever/off-putting deconstruction, but deferring to classic pop instincts at surprising turns. "Bossa Nova" starts off with a sprightly surf instrumental (the Surftones' "Cecilia Ann"), foretelling the kind of guitar sound that pops up repeatedly on the album.