(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!
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