Like Jellyroll Like Sculpture (Pixies, Hammerstein, again)

Ah, much better.  Neverever sit in the balcony at a rock concert. 

The second go-round at the Pixies was a mixed blessing, but a blessing all the same.  There’s just so much more joy in a crowd when they don’t have assigned seats.  Thirty feet from the stage, Black/Frank/Charles looked a lot less like Matt Pinfield; Kim – who’s gained a lot of weight – looks just like a truck-stop waitress... and that just makes her even more endearing.

They were all smiling and laughing with each other.  When they trade-off “I love yous” during “La La Love You,” they might actually mean it.  What band is this?

If the prospect of happy, lovey-dovey Pixies frustrates you... shame, shame.  These are a bunch of folks who deserve the delayed-reaction success they’re enjoying, and deserve to enjoy it.  Besides, no terminally depressing band could ever be responsible for something as sublime as “Here Comes Your Man.”

Whether the band had more energy, tonight, or whether it was just the proximity, I don’t know.  I couldn’t properly bop – like sardines, we were, and the only widdle mosh pit was... way... over... there... – but just being able to pogo and shimmy to “Crackity Jones” and “Broken Face” (simply one of the best slamdance songs EVER) made things all okay.  Joey Santiago’s feedback solo during “Vamos” was better, tonight; he pulled out his chord and started smacking the plug against his dome.  The sound, all night, was big and loud and sloppy.

The only downside was the setlist.  Much of it was the same as Sunday’s show, just shuffled around a bit.  They added more Trompe le Monde material – “Subbacultcha,” “UMass,” “Space (I Believe in)” – and excised my own favorites, “Is She Weird?” and “Isla de Cantata.”  They played, early on, the slow version of “Wave of Mutilation”... and then, later, played it again, faster.  All of which I would’ve happily traded for “Levitate Me” and “Tony’s Theme” (No, I didn’t get to explode, tonight).  Also, I can’t enjoy “Number 13 Baby” as I blame it for Adam Sandler’s attempt at a musical career.

It should be said, here,  that David Lovering is to percussion what a broken watch is to time.  He was right twice, this day.  Maybe he was nervous because his mom was in the crowd (Charles thanked her for letting them use her garage); maybe he’s just awful.  And, for all the talk of a “dry tour,” the roadies set beer bottles out at each station, and recovering addict Kim came out nursing an open brewski. 

None of that was going to get me down, though.  I barely slept last night, was exhausted after the closing and wondered if I’d have enough energy to get through the show.  But as soon as Broken Social Scene – I’d bought the tix before opening acts were announced, and the rock n’ roll gods smiled upon me – came onstage my entire being took flight. 

I’ll write about them tomorrow – am going to see them headline at the Bowery Ballroom – but by the time they’d finished their set I’d already gotten a show’s worth of utter bliss.  They won over a bunch of new fans, too; people who saw me singing and bouncing along kept asking, “Who are these guys?” and I diligently scribbled the name of the CD they all should have bought two years ago. 

I left as happy as a pig in shit.  Or, I suppose, as a Pixie on a reunion tour.

It has finally gotten cold, a good thing.  I like it when the seasons assert themselves, and the holidays aren’t the holidays without shiverers and bundlers and puffs of breath rising, short bursts of visible frustration, towards the heavens.

I could do, though, without the Endless Coat Check Line of Doom.  Bad enough waiting in queue to buy something... but to get back something you already own? 

Slint is fucking touring.  Slint!  Who next?  Hüsker Dü?  The Replacements?  Good God, why not dig up Cobain and tour him along with Tutankhammen?  Mine my nostalgia gold, rainy days are here again.

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