E-Mail This Article to a Friend Stunned in the sun (continued)

Doolittle also cut Kim Deal out of the action, not as a bassist (her bass on that album remains the subject of much debate among American Studies post-graduate students) but as a sweet vocal respite from Thompson’s increasingly disturbed if not quite so shrill outbursts. Also at around that time, the band, at Thompson’s direction, started cutting "Gigantic" from their live sets. And as well as they played (nobody missed a note, not even Joey Santiago, who always managed to overbend those notes just enough to approach the precipice of pure dissonance), you could feel the bad blood brewing up there on stage, at the Rat, the Paradise, Avalon, wherever. Rumors still abound as to who stopped talking to who first, what may have caused certain rifts, and when ego began to overshadow artistry. But after the one-two punch-drunk pastiche of "Monkey Gone to Heaven" and "Gouge Away," not to mention the wretched beauty of "Debaser," Bossanova (4AD; 1990) and Trompe Le Monde (4AD; 1991) couldn’t have been bigger letdowns.

Yeah, we all tried to find songs we liked on those albums. And there were a few to choose from: "U-Mass" for its wry "It’s educational" soccer chant; "Velouria" for its powerhouse drumming, odd chord changes, and even odder lyrics. But mostly, the last two Pixies albums were the Frank Black show — surf-rock-meets-Star-Trek genre pieces that presaged his rocky descent into solo-artist obscurity. Perhaps banishing Deal was the nicest thing Thompson did in those latter days of the Pixies, leaving her free to pick up where "Gigantic" left off with her here-today/gone-tomorrow Breeders, who did have their glorious moment in the Lollapalooza sun.

Ah, how different it might all have been if Thompson, Deal, Santiago, and drummer David Lovering had had any idea what was going on 3000 miles away in Seattle, where the messianic mess that would become Kurt Cobain was gouging his way through his favorite post-punk rock and finding something special in the jarring, loud/soft dynamic dissonance of Surfer Rosa. Cobain would make no bones about the fact that "Smells like Teen Spirit" was a Pixies homage. And from that point on, the legend of the Pixies took on a life of its own.

Just as Mission of Burma before them had accidentally invented the art-damaged noise that Sonic Youth would build on even as R.E.M. trumpeted their underground hipness by covering "Academy Fight Song," the Pixies had unwittingly catalyzed the birth of America’s alternative nation. If they were bitter, well, they had a right to be. Sure, they were bigger than Zeppelin for about a year in England, and they toured the US with U2. But they’d never really cashed in on a cultural revolution that they deserved a lot of credit for. Until now. After the summer of 2004, nobody will complain that the Pixies didn’t get their due. Because they’re back, they seem happy, and their legend has grown bigger than Black’s belly, to the point where they command the reverence of a Radiohead among hundreds of thousands of kids from coast to coast and continent to continent. Alex Chilton never had it so good.

Participating in this Pixies reunion — a business move that now seems certain to kick all four band members up a few tax brackets — hasn’t, of yet, been easy. A newly invigorated Lollapalooza has been trying to sign the Pixies on as a main-stage act for obvious reasons, but as we go to press, the band have agreed to play only the New York and LA dates. As far as Boston goes, there’s no word yet on when, where, or even if the Pixies (who as legend has it came together through an ad placed in the pages of this very newspaper) will play here.

But back to Indio, where the relentless sun has just set behind those distant hills, the noise from the four other stages (three of which are inside inhumanely humid tents) has died down, the scramble to catch the inspired rock of Sparta and Death Cab for Cutie, the blooze rock of Black Keys and Josh Homme’s Desert Sessions, the folk mess of Beck, or the post-something soothe of Savath & Savalas has finally ended and the moment of truth has arrived. No fireworks. No explosions. No big introductions. Just the familiar emerging figures of big Black Francis, a smoking Kim Deal, a shorn Santiago, and a long-haired Lovering and the huge, twisted wreckage of "Bone Machine" blasting out into an enthralled crowd of 40,000. Thompson/Francis/Black works himself into a frenzy right off the bat, and he keeps himself wired as the band segue into "U-Mass," one of only two latter-day Pixies tunes they’ll play (the other being "Velouria"), and Deal, his foil, just looks cool as hell, smoking and smiling, her bass’s big bottom end effortlessly pushing it all forward toward some glorious climax until Lovering pulls the rug out from under them and it all starts all over again. The next 40 minutes pass much too quickly, but there are moments that stand out: a rejuvenated "Gigantic" (with Deal singing again), a crazed "Debaser," a sublime "Monkey Gone to Heaven," even "Here Comes Your Man." The band don’t sound better so much as they seem to feel better than ever before. I sense that they’re getting along, that they understand that their unit is greater than the sum of their individual parts. The vibe from the stage is a good one. And that makes a huge difference. Here’s hoping that the next time I see the Pixies, you can be there too. And that it won’t involve flying to a desert 3000 miles away.