Pixies Back in Boston

The Pixies’ 12-year exile from their native Boston ended last Thursday at Avalon with what had to have been the most anticipated show of the young decade. And they lived up to the hype…almost.

A primer for the uninitiated: the Pixies (Frank Black, a.k.a. Black Francis on guitar and vocals, Kim Deal on bass, Joey Santiago on lead guitar and David Lovering on drums) formed in Boston in 1986, put out five albums of genius pop/punk, influenced essentially every guitar-based band of the ’90s (Kurt Cobain once admitted that “Smells Like Teen Spirit” is just a Pixies rip-off) and gave real meaning to the word “alternative,” then imploded acrimoniously in 1993. Deal rejoined her previous band, the Breeders, Black and Santiago continued to make music together and Lovering worked as a professional magician.

Since then, their cult has grown exponentially to such an extent that it’s hard to overstate their influence on the current musical landscape. Even those that don’t obviously ape them are indebted to the scene that catalyzed around them (for a good example, see TV on the Radio’s recent cover of “Mr. Grieves”).

By this past winter, apparently enough time had elapsed to heal the divisions that had estranged the band. They announced in February that they were back together and would tour, but appeared to place no special priority on getting to Boston. In fact, this show was not on the original schedule; the closest that they had planned to come to Boston in recent months were shows in Lowell and Amherst. The performance at Avalon was put forth in guerilla style, announced only a week before it was to happen. Perhaps the relative stealth was to prevent the hype around these prodigal sons from growing to unrealistic heights.

But they should have known better that hype was inevitable. What was to transpire last Thursday wasn’t simply a rock show—there was at least some historical weight attached. The purported importance was reinforced by the accoutrements surrounding the show: between the $200 tickets being scalped, hawkers surrounding the venue and endless line of fans stretching far down Lansdowne St., the approach to the club felt more like going to a Sox game than to a concert. Also unusual was the mostly 30-something crowd, composed primarily of yuppies fondly remembering their dormitory days rather than the normal college-age scenesters. With the commercial flurry outside and the relative senescence of the audience (to say nothing of the band itself), passersby could easily have speculated that the band playing inside were the Rolling Stones.

Fortunately, the crowd inside were witnessing a sight far superior to the modern-day horrors of Mick Jagger’s hip thrust. The Pixies’ entrance was somewhat anticlimactic, as there was no opening act (not even, as pre-show rumors had it, a magic show by Lovering), and thus no build-up to their performance. That’s not to say that they didn’t get things going quickly; rather, they took the Satanic Verses approach, beginning the set with the explosive “Debaser.” The song, the closest thing the college rock scene ever got to an anthem—as well as the catchiest (and only) love song ever written about Buñuel and Dalí’s Un chien andalou—immediately animated the crowd. The sound was clean, loud and well-mixed. The bass anchored, the drums propelled, the guitars sang and Black’s voice mauled. The Pixies were back together. This is what the crowd had waited 12 years to hear.

The group knew what their audience had been waiting for. The completely improvised set list stuck to the hits, especially heavy on songs from 1988’s Surfer Rosa and 1989’s Doolittle, widely considered their creative peak.

It was clear that the audience enjoyed it, but there was disagreement over how to express this. Apparently the rules of ex-hipster concert etiquette haven’t been cemented yet: bouquets of flowers were thrown onstage, as were bras. Some felt the need to crowd surf, while others applauded politely.

The songs really did sound great, as long as they could agree on which to play. It appeared that the rest of the band were watching for Mr. Black’s lead, but they interpreted it in different ways, leading at one point to half the band playing “Here Comes Your Man” while the other half tried “Where is My Mind.” In lapses like this, and in the near-complete lack of dialogue with the audience and with each other, it seemed like the band were far from top form.

One gets the suspicion that the Pixies just don’t care as much anymore. On the basis of the show, it wouldn’t be unfair to conclude that, as Frank Black has obliquely alluded in recent interviews, the reunion is all about cash. That’s not to say that the show wasn’t enjoyable; the songs themselves haven’t been tarnished with age, and the Pixies are all still competent musicians. They turned in an excellent performance, just not a particularly transcendent one.

The Pixies never made sense. A bald, fat genius, a transplant from the Philippines, a chain-smoking matron and a stage magician have no right to write songs about Puerto Rico, the Old Testament and UFOs that are actually good, much less classics. They were far too improbable to exist for any length of time. The concert Thursday was a fair historical reconstruction of that period, and it would be too much to hope for the real thing.