Pixies at Aragon Ballroom
With the recent influx of best-of-the-decade-lists popping up music publications, it felt especially appropriate to see the Pixies pass through the Aragon Ballroom last night to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Doolittle, an album with considerable influence on the past two decades of alternative and indie-rock. While the venue seemed only half-full on the first of a consecutive three-night stand, the Pixies came out swinging—with a film. Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali’s feel-good avant-garde romp, Un Chien Andalou, featuring the infamous “sliced-open eyeball” scene and a reoccurring shot of ants crawling around a human hand, played as a 16-minute introduction. All in all, a kind of unpleasant way to start a show, but Pixies buffs understood the connection: Andalou serves as the basis to the lyrics of Doolittle opener ”Debaser.”
After opening with four Doolittle b-sides including "Bailey's Walk" and "Dancing The Manta Ray" (obscure to any non-diehard), the band ripped into a straight-forward but potent version of “Debaser,” with frontman Black Francis belting out maniacal shouts with a little extra oomph, cupping his hands around his mouth for emphasis. To his credit, lines like “Slicing up eyeballs / Ha-ha-ha-ho” sounded even more like the clamoring of a deranged animal than usual. From there, the band tackled Doolittle in order, from “Tame” to “Here Comes Your Man” down to “Gouge Away,” not particularly improving on the songs, just sounding sharp and crisp. If anything, the live show allowed lead guitarist Joey Santiago to cut through the mix, his ubiquitous tension-filled guitar bends proving vital to the band’s trademark soft-loud dynamic.
Honed in on replicating Doolittle with warmth and accuracy, the band mostly ignored showmanship. Black didn’t utter a single word between songs. Bassist Kim Deal was ostensibly giddy throughout, but her narration of the album (“Woo, the record’s started,” “there’s only one song left on the first side,” “we’re getting to the deeper cuts now”) was a little perplexing. Short, synched films (one for each Doolittle song) were projected behind the stage, allowing some marked visual stimuli to distract from the motionless band. A “Here Comes Your Man” video showed the band nodding along happily with the beat—a cute gesture that nonetheless displayed more flair than the band on the stage. Would it kill somebody to bust out the windmill?
That said, it was a solid, contentedly nostalgic show. With the final note of “Gouge Away,” the band spent several minutes at the edge of the stage, choosing to take an awkward bow (Santiago is apparently not very flexible). Two encores followed. The first consisted of two more b-sides, the slow version of “Wave Of Mutilation” and “Into The White,” a full-out mayhem rocker with Deal on lead vocals; the second touched non-Doolittle tracks, like “Gigantic” and “Where Is My Mind?,” which induced the floor crowd into a lazy trance that had people slowly flailing into their neighbors. But it was Doolittle’s birthday, and those other songs weren’t about to steal the party. Same time, same place in 2029?
