The Pixies haven’t changed much in 40 years… and that’s just how I like it
The Pixies have got history with Brixton Academy. It was at the south London venue that they last played in the UK, in 1991, before their split in 1993, ending an imperial five-album phase that rewired alternative rock into something viscerally unsettling: the howled songs of Charles Thompson IV (stage name Black Francis) set incest, biblical death, witchcraft, intergalactic life and sex monsters to a unique blend of punk, hardcore and surf rock.
When the band returned out of the blue in 2004, a four-night residency reintroduced their quiet/loud/quiet dynamic to a new generation of fans who looked on with is-this-really-happening rapt awe.
More than 20 years later – three times longer than their initial run – and the Bostonians were back in Brixton for the first of two nights with their power undiminished.
Five albums and three bass players on since striking up recording again in 2013 – Emma Richardson, formerly of Southampton noughties rockers, Band of Skulls, is the latest to fill Kim Deal’s inimitable shoes – they nonetheless continue on their singular path.
Held to near-impossible standards, newer albums have found critical acclaim harder to come by, though last year’s 10th, The Night The Zombies Came, is a very good middle-aged update on the Pixies’ sound: the slower, Shirley Collins-inspired acoustic led-tracks like “Chicken”, “Mercy Me” and the lovely “Vegas Suite”, played in a row with a subtle swagger, showed Thompson still has a knack for mixing melody and strangeness (the former is a love song about a chicken getting its head cut off).
But the Pixies remain a live draw for a reason. In truth, not much has changed in 40 years: a single letter “P” hung from the ceiling against the backdrop above the stage; the band barely moved and never spoke. Most of the set, 31-song strong, was drawn from their 1986-1993 heyday. But song after song was dispatched with bruising intensity. That many came with a barrage of noise was a given: highly imaginative guitarist Joey Santiago made “Hey” and “Gouge Away” sound feral. Recently turned 60, Thompson’s guttural screams, particularly on “Tame”, remained impressively intact: he took “Caribou” from a gentle coo to a violent climax.
But among the weirdness – when Thompson gave his pitch-perfect manic laugh on “Mr Grieves”, everyone laughed along manically too – was some dark pop moments to saviour: “Monkey Gone to Heaven” and “Where is My Mind” were twisted anthems; “Debaser” as thrilling as ever. After nearly two hours, they left with a wave and a bow without as much as a word; as ever, the music said it all.
