1,270 THE PIXIES, Slow Readers Club, Cardiff International Arena, Saturday 18th March 2023

(Calm down, it's the support's list!)

“You can’t go too far wrong with the Pixies!” Those were my words to Logan, as my son was mulling over the purchase of a green army shirt from a Camden street vendor, during a quick shopping trip immediately prior to the “Rick Astley/ Blossoms do The Smiths” gig in October 2021 (gig 1,191). Yes to the shirt, but which back design? Ultimately, heeding my fatherly advice, Logan went for the “Monkey Gone To Heaven” design (over SLF and Dead Kennedys, as I recall…), and when I then played him that track on my phone, he immediately knew his decision was the right one. Since then, Logan’s been jonesin’ to see The Pixies “live”, so when Boston’s veteran and cutting-edge acerbic late 80’s alt-indie noiseniks and grunge pioneers announced UK arena shows, ostensibly promoting 2022 album “Doggerel”, we were in like a shot. Not their best work, this one, but given Black Francis’ penchant for leading the band, setlist-less, through whatever the hell he fancies playing from their now-extensive and stellar canon at any given time, who cares?

 Making an afternoon of it, we hit the road at 2ish for a very swift hurtle along the M4. Shopped until Cardiff started closing around us (at an early-feeling 5!) so we grabbed cola and cake in Bru, next to the Arena, joining the queue just after 6 and chatting with a father/ son combo who’d driven from Stoke for this one. Stoke! Fair play fellas! Despite the hordes in front of us, we still grabbed a barrier spot, house right, under the large bank of ceiling-hung speakers. This is gonna get loud…! Greeted Shannon, Rachel’s cousin’s daughter, who was a few along from us on the barrier (!) before the support joined us at 7.30. Happily, this was Slow Readers Club, fine hosts of gig 1,268, again kicking off with the robotic synth and fist-pumping hook of “Modernise”. “It’s an honour to be supporting Pixies tonight!” proclaimed vocalist Aaron Starkie before the taut, clipped “All I Hear”, but, time pressure notwithstanding, the Readers were men on a mission tonight, to win over as many of the Pixies massive as possible with another splendid performance. “We’re going to play [another] new one… but I guess they’re all new to you,” deadpanned Starkie before a marvellously morose and melancholy “Lay Your Troubles On Me” built to a crescendo; “I Saw A Ghost” saw a receptive crowd handclap along; and by the stentorian march of the penultimate “Forever In Your Debt” there were more than a few new Readers converts in evidence. An urgent “Lunatic” ended a splendid 7 song vignette of a set in which Slow Readers Club firmly established their own future arena credentials, a nice footnote being bassist James hearing my shouts and sorting his list for me. Nice!

 Quick loo trips and brief chats with fellow punters saw an easy passage to the appointed hour of 8.30. The lights then smashed to black and the Pixies sauntered onstage, waving nonchalantly at the crowd as they set up, then David Lovering’s unmistakable drumbeat and Joey Santiago’s sinister descending riff heralded opener “Wave Of Mutilation”, and we were away, flying into a cascading and thunderous version of this classic. Newie “Human Crime” followed, all jagged and seething power with a soaring middle 8, then a stentorian “Monkey Gone To Heaven” saw Black Francis deliver an insouciant verse vocal before savagely roaring the “then God is Seven!!!” hook from the depths of his black soul. Quite brilliant, but incredibly this level was maintained with a pounding and relentless early salvo of old school Pixies moshpit catnip, the hurtling “Broken Face”, the squalling surf-punk paean “Head On” and a gravelly, growling “Planet Of Sound” prominent in this early barrage of gut punches. Hell of a start!

 

The Pixies were simply quite, quite brilliant tonight, the set perfectly paced, veering off after this initial clutch into somewhat calmer waters, showcasing the new album material which nonetheless soared above its’ recorded versions by some considerable distance. “Vault Of Heaven” harked back to the singer’s own solo oeuvre with its understated backwoods menace and “Dregs Of The Wine” was discordant and dissonant, before a lengthy intro to metronomic oldie “Gouge Away” then ceded to the almost joyous, change-of-pace “Nomatterday”, for me the best of the newer material on display tonight.

 But as ever, the oldies won the day, and Francis threw plenty in, regularly retreating to the dumb mic by the drumkit to plan out the next clutch of numbers with the band (ah, so that’s how they do it!). “Caribou” saw another leonesque roar from the depths of hell (or Francis’ larynx… whichever is more evil!); the crowd singalong to the slow-burn “Hey!” resounded around the whole arena; “Bone Machine” was all flesh-tinglingly creepy and seething backbeat sleaze, as was a later, almost yearning “Cactus”. A crazed superfast “Vamos” saw Francis’ gabbling Esperanto subsumed by Santiago’s undulating and stretched fiery middle 8 riffery, and the joyously profane “Nimrod’s Son” was a late highlight, segueing into and out of “Motorway To Roswell”, seemingly at random. All too soon, a mammoth 36-song (!) 2 hour plus set concluded with the elegiac “Winterlong”, nonetheless still overlaid with some squalling Santiago guitar, before the band took a lengthy and well-deserved curtain call, the band rather uncoordinatedly bowing together(ish), after Francis surveyed the adoring masses from each corner of the stage.

 A quick exit via the merch stand and an equally breathless hurtle home got us back just after midnight, 2 happy boys, thrilled to have caught this fabled band on such epic form. Listen to your dad, son; you can’t go too far wrong with The Pixies!