You’re So Pretty When You’re Faithful to Me (Pixies, Hammerstein)

I’ll admit it:  I’m a Johnny-come-lately when it comes to the Pixies.  Well, Johnny-come-later, at least.  It’s shameful:  I was out of knee-pants and stompin’ ‘round concerts when the Pixies were just a college radio band from Boston, but I was too caught up in my suburban-bred blues-based Classic Rock World to open my nut up to anything more adventurous than the Chili Peppers.  My nutcracker, like so many peoples’, was Mr. Kurt Cobain... and by then the Pixies had gone from ignored to overshadowed.

I heard David Bowie’s “Cactus” before Black Francis’,  Local H’s sloppy “Tame” before the proper one.  Owned a Breeders CD before any from Kim Deal’s former band.  Part of it was my dislike for Frank Black’s solo stuff; the rest was pure ignorance.  I couldn’t tell a Pixie from a Posie.  Finally, a few years ago, I broke down, bought Doolittle, and have only looked back to see the self-inflicted lashings.

I came around, and now so have they:  The Pixies – THE PIXIES! – started a week-long stint at the Hammerstein Ballroom this weekend, and... it felt all wrong, at first.

I was in a shitty mood, my nostrils burning with ammonia and paint fumes, my head distracted by nonsense and my soul crushed with frustration. 

And I felt guilty about going to see the band – twice, I’m seeing them during this run – because I felt oh-so-poseurish.  I love the music, the way it’s simultaneously unique and accessible, like its vocabulary is a hidden second language with which we’re all born but never use.  I love how Francis’ Tourette’s-like non-sequiturs make perfect sense only because in this crazy world nothing else does, love how the words always work texturally, love how they sometimes make you stop dancing and go, “Wait... Is he talking about Buñuel?”  It’s like there’s a man handing out lollipops ‘round every corner.

So, yeah, I love the music.  But surely the folks that were there supporting the band back, y’know, in the day... they should get first dibs, no? 

Well, they might very well have, and that would lead to the third problem:  The Hammerstein is huge.  Okay, it’s no arena, but it’s the largest venue in which I’ve been for a while.  I was sitting up in the second mezzanine, and while I could see the band clearly, there was a huge disconnect.  As they entered to Pink Floyd’s old “Interstellar Overdrive” and launched into “Wave of Mutilation,” they seemed so far away that they needn’t have bothered even coming back.

Then I stopped worrying and learned to love the thing.

About five or six songs in, they hit a barrage of incredibly moshable stuff – Isla de Encanta, Crackling Jones, Oh My Golly!, etc. – and though there was no way to slam in the second mezz, and though there were only the tinsiest lil’ pockets of rubberbabybuggybumpers breaking out on the main floor, the energy was overwhelming. 

From then on, they could do no wrong.  They played the bulk of Doolittle and Surfer Rosa, and tossed in “Planet of Sound” and “In Heaven” (Eraserhead’s Lady in the Radiator song) and “Velouria” and “Is She Weird?” and “Caribouuuuuuuuuuuuu...”

Andandand.

The whole building whistled along with “La La Love You.”

I would happily go deaf to this music.

They get another chance on Tuesday, when – joy! – Broken Social Scene opens, and I’m down on the floor.  And if I hear Kim utter those thirteen magic words – “This is a song about a superhero named Tony!  It’s called ‘Tony’s Theme!’” – I’m going to motherfucking explode.

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