Come On Pilgrims! The Pixies are meant to be heard LOUD.
Sure, one of the many reasons they are considered a legendary and hugely influential act is their template of dynamics, that whole quiet-verse-loud-chorus thing but, even then, those verses too, sound staggeringly good when cranked up to 11.
Loud and live, then, is the way to experience Pixieland, and at the Great Hall at the Auckland Town Hall last night, it was the place to be, no question.
And pretty much everything was cranked up to 11 – the songs, the sound, the light show, and certainly the energy of Frank Black/Black Francis, Joey Santiago, David Lovering and Emma Richardson.
They poured it on and pulled off a remarkable ninety plus minute set of, well, post-Punk/Punk/Indie/Surf-Rock, and a bit more besides.
Local duo Elliot & Vincent – a curiosity of only drums and guitar – played a blistering half hour warm-up, setting the stage nicely, literally, for what was to come. And what was to come, was over and above what could have been expected.
There’s a bit of A Thing happening with these long-standing acts that continue to tour, and it’s in no way a bad thing.
Faced with the – what do we play from our forty year back catalogue conundrum, many bands are choosing to highlight an album or two, and play ‘em right through. Hence, we had the Pixies’ Bossa Nova and Trompe le Monde tour, with those two early nineties gems showcased in full.
While hardcore fans might bemoan the lack of the hits, this approach gives the show an arc, a focus, and a purpose. Plus, you know what you’re in for.
That said, The Pixies will always deliver the unexpected, so while I had a copy of the setlist, a song title or two only primes the pump. The delivery, well, that was something else.
Against a monstrous backdrop that looked like grainy concrete – a trompe l’oeil perhaps – with a flying P front and centre, a moody, eerie instrumental built the atmosphere to a heightened tension, until the four Pixies took the stage and, without fanfare or bluster, launched into the snaky guitar lines and rhythmic propulsion that is Cecelia Ann.
It took a song or two for the mix to bed in – I could see Lovering feathering those hi-hats and smashing that snare, so why couldn’t I hear it – but that came quickly right and by song three, the crowd fave Velouria, we were riding the wave of 90s Surf Rock with no land in sight.
One of the joys of seeing a band that’s played so many shows together for such a long time is that their musicianship is simply impeccable, and their unison polished to perfection.
Even on the express-train-tempo tracks – the fast bits in The Sad Punk would’ve made the Dead Kennedy’s sound positively pedestrian – Richardson and Lovering pinned down the songs with consummate ease, even if the rest of us were hanging on for dear life.
And then in the songs with space, they executed with grace, Santiago’s almost Arabic guitar lines, picked out on an exquisite Gretch, seemed to hang suspended in the air of this beautiful old venue, as the audience held its collective breath, awaiting the next onslaught.
And that’s the genius of this band, really. The swift, sudden, extreme changes, often within a song – of dynamics, of tempo, of mood.
While the Pixies have a very clearly defined sound, which, as we know virtually became the template for Grunge, it never sounds samey. It’s intelligent Rock that’s never pompous, academic at times – the complicated song structures, curious time signatures, discordant, angular guitar lines that somehow complement rather than confuse each other – but it’s grounded in the street.
There’s very much a punk ethic here. It’s played loud and fast, and with those songs often barely surpassing the two-minute mark, they’re a great reminder of how disappointing it was that Grunge (that the Pixies signalled in a sense), decided nine-minute epics with endless guitar solos would, by the mid-nineties be di rigueur.
Interestingly, Tool were playing across town on the same night, to reinforce that contrast.
Our Frank found time to tell amusing anecdotes between the avalanche of audio, with an ongoing motif on the sun setting on college Rock weaving its way through a few stories.
The man who often did an entire gig without a word has perhaps mellowed (no!). He was entertaining and generous in his commentary.
But nothing got in the way of the music, which, too, was generous. I’ve never seen so many guitar changes in a single ninety-minute show – that roadie certainly hit his step count on the night – and when Black’s sweet acoustic sliced through Santiago’s oceanic Les Paul roar, it was a wild ride indeed.
Just to send us home with a smile on our faces, they finished with three crowd-pleasers: Wave of Mutilation, Where is My Mind? and the delicious Winterlong, the Neil Young cover which graced the Dig for Fire single release.
This fab finale allowed Richardson to vocalise sweetly with Black, as she had done on occasion throughout the night, and Santiago to really let loose – you’d have sworn there were half a dozen folks delivering that wall of sound, not just the four faithful pilgrims.
The crowd, perhaps a little tepid to begin with, were in full flight from said Dig for Fire just a few songs in, and we all rode that fabulous Surf Rock punkish wave to the sweet echoes of Winterlong.
Befitting the venue, the Pixies stood at the stage’s apron and bowed to a very appreciative audience. And then they were gone.
None of that encore Rock’n’roll bullshit. Just a fine performance from one of the most legendary bands of the last four decades. Stunning.
Michael Larsen
Photography by #marcpwphoto
Pixies
