A couple years ago, I decided it was time to start wearing earplugs to concerts. I was pretty sure I was already starting to go deaf and wanted to make sure I would still be able to have a rock journalism career after college. However, last Tuesday, I threw out the neon ear buds. The show I saw at the McDonald Theatre was worthy of hearing loss.
It was The Pixies.
The Pixies originally formed in Boston in 1986 with Charles Thompson, who later adopted the stage name Black Francis and now goes by Frank Black, as their guitarist and lead singer. With Joey Santiago on guitar and Kim Deal playing bass, the group was rounded out by percussionist David Lovering. The band released five albums and quickly developed a cult following. The unique juxtaposition of Black’s urgent screams and Deal’s sweet singing, coupled with rabid guitar and surfer grooves, helped the group become one of the most influential rock bands of the late 20th century.
In 1993, a now-infamous fax message announced the dissolution of the band. But this past fall, after a decade of solo projects, the group members announced to the elation of fans worldwide that they would be reuniting to tour, and possibly record a new album. Tuesday’s show marked their third in the United States since reuniting.
Just after 9 p.m., the silhouettes of four figures caused a sold-out audience to erupt in mass euphoria as the opening notes of “Bone Machine” were broadcast across the venue’s PA system. The musicians definitely looked older, but they sounded just as energetic and raw as they ever had. The music seemed to come as second nature to them as they pummeled through a set list consisting mostly of hits from their albums “Surfer Rosa” and “Doolittle.”
The show really took off when, after the third song, the lights darkened and Deal’s thick bassline announced “I Bleed.” Then, some audience members started getting rowdy enough to warrant their removal by security guards. Next, sounding like the national anthem for punk rock was “Velouria,” and then “Caribou.” Black alternated between sounding like a Boreas wind gust and crazed mental patient while singing “Where I was born I now repent / Caribou-ou-ou-ooo / Repent, Repe-e-ent.”
Ranging in age from about 20 to 40, the audience consisted of long-haired dudes in Led Zeppelin T-shirts, college kids in black hoodies and trucker caps and women sporting tattoos up and down their arms and flowers in their hair. The ecstatic group echoed every single one of the eerie “ooohs” of “Where Is My Mind?,” not to mention every other Pixies lyric.
Santiago — who had previously existed as “the other guitar player” in my mind — proved to be the stone-faced backbone of the band. In the middle of “Vamos,” Lovering threw a drumstick across the stage to Santiago, who used it as a bow across his guitar frets, creating a screeching reverb.
The show continued with almost the entire tracklist of 1989’s “Doolittle,” including “Hey,” “No. 13 Baby,” “Debaser,” “Wave of Mutilation,” “Monkey Gone to Heaven” and “Gouge Away.” It wasn’t until the last song, “Gigantic” — when Deal forgot the lyrics to the second verse and had to ask Black — that the band members actually did any talking. The Pixies went from song to song, and played the entire show without any explanation for the reunion and tour, not that the crowd seemed to need it.
After “Gigantic” finished and much stomping and clapping erupted from below the stage, the band came back out for an encore of “La La Love You,” the U.K. Surf version of “Wave of Mutilation” and “Into the White.”
It was a performance visibly savored by both the audience and the band.