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THE PIXIES
WELCOME BACK

It’ll go into the record books as the year two unshakable articles of faith were smashed: the Sox would always find a way to lose, and the Pixies — the band, so the story goes, who set and then abdicated the stage for Nirvana’s great alt-rock breakthrough — would never get back together. Happy ending #1 last Wednesday night at Tsongas Arena: Mission of Burma closing with "That’s When I Reach for My Revolver," sounding as lean as they’ve ever sounded, to a several-thousand-strong audience that was at the least attentive and, to judge from the standing O, appreciative as well. Once upon a time, Burma might’ve thought it a vulgarity to play their most popular song last. But the small gestures that bands like Burma and the Pixies once denied themselves in order to express their distance from the rest of the rock world are no longer necessary; the point has long been made, the war won. And so when Roger Miller swept the neck of his guitar above his shoulder and Clint Conley giddily blurted from the stage, "It’s fun playing this shit," you could be forgiven if you forgot, for a moment, that all was not right with the world.

As for the Pixies, their unlikely comeback is even unlikelier than they’re given credit for. After all, in 1994, Nirvana failed to sell out a Fitchburg hockey rink. Ten years later, the Pixies nearly sold out two similarly sized gigs, with enough steam left over to have sold out their gig at Avalon tonight (December 9) in about 30 seconds.

If their long-awaited prodigal return stirred any sentiment, they kept it to themselves: on Wednesday, at least, the Pixies said almost nothing to the crowd. Still, Kim Deal spoke volumes with a smile that never left her face. Charles Thompson, the kind of passive-aggressive guy who shitcans his band via fax, is not the kind of person to say "Thank you" — even to an audience that has waited so long for the privilege of filling his retirement account. But make no mistake: it was a thank-you, in the only way they knew how — almost two hours covering nearly 30 songs, including all their best-known singles and both versions of "Wave of Mutilation." Sure, in one way or another the band have made it clear that money is what brought them back together, but it’s hard to imagine any other circumstance under which the Pixies could have been induced to present this best version of themselves.

Make that versions. The Pixies were, after all, at least three different bands. They began their set, tentatively, as a mutant roots-rock band — their cover of Neil Young’s "Winterlong," the "surf" version of "Wave of Mutilation," and Kim Deal’s hatchet-burying rendition of "In Heaven (The Lady in the Radiator Song)," a doo-wop sung from the end of the world. Then came the band whom Nirvana loved, the one who could echo the Velvet Underground and also go toe-to-toe with the Jesus Lizard in "Here Comes Your Man" and "Bone Machine." Later still, Charles Thompson turned on the old Black Francis magic, and they transformed into a surrealist Spanish hardcore band, spouting cryptic pronouncements over birdcalls and dirt-caked thrash — "U-Mass," kissing ass and kissing sky, like some scatological end-times version of "Louie Louie"; Kim Deal’s primal-screaming "Tame"; "Planet of Sound" with its transmission of fission ignitions. More enchantment lurked in between: in the middle of "Vamos," Joey Santiago placed his guitar in a stand at centerstage, cranked up the distortion, and played it like a theremin, summoning gurgles of feedback by waving a drumstick in the air. (The wand belonged, of course, to drummer David Lovering, who made his post-Pixies career as an illusionist.) At the end, there was still-smiling Kim Deal and "Gigantic." Like Burma’s closing with "Revolver," it seemed like the lifting of a weight off their shoulders: no, they’d never been the biggest rock band in the world; and yes, this was as good a song as they’d ever written. Why pretend otherwise? Then another standing ovation, and finally an encore of the eerie, wind-whistling "Where Is My Mind?", which rang out as an elegy, maybe an explanation for why Thompson faxed the band into oblivion more than a decade ago. But not an apology. Because there’s nothing to apologize for anymore.

BY CARLY CARIOLI

Issue Date: December 10 - 16, 2004
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