Live | Pixies

Pixies landed in Cardiff as legends, as the grandees of the feedback rage rock of the late-eighties, as the diners at the high table of the 4AD/Sub-pop cultural legacy, as the shining light of experimental, out-there, three minute nail-bomb tunes, carrying with them still, in some quarters of fandom, the final wafts of the slight stink that emanated from the departure of iconic bass-player Kim Deal in 2013, and who is replaced now by the über-chic Paz Lenchantin, whose “kind-of-Deal” and “kind-of-not” presence on stage has a nice duality about it, fresh and vibrant, but also bringing that all important female vocal to the Pixies’ sound, not to mention that driving bass-line, for the Pixies are, in essence, a band dominated by their rhythm section, and Lenchantin, louche and statuesque, is one immovable pillar of that sound now, just like drummer David Lovering has been since day one, and he still plays as tightly and aggressively as the power-bursts of Frank Black’s songs need him to, a symbol of controlled ferocity, a ferocity that makes the veins pop in your neck watching him go through tracks like “Subbacultcha” and “Isla de Encanta”, songs that hold firm in Cardiff’s Motorpoint Arena, which still has the acoustical temperament of a 4-acre trashcan, still has the value-for-money corporate attitude that means if you stand in the wrong spot all you can hear is the kickdrum smash off the back wall, and let’s be honest, in many cases, Pixies are just one tantrum away from being sheer noise, so this is, to put it mildly, an imperfect venue for them, but stand wisely, and it should all grip together – sit down in the Motorpoint’s gantry and you’ll be washed over with uncontrolled fizz and snaps, but that’s a secondary concern to what are you doing sitting down at a Pixies gig? because the band are here to play loud and play, mostly, fast, and they’re not too polished either which is something of a relief, but even if you prefer your iconic post-punk delivered by wiry young guys not dressed in jeans, t-shirt and “sports jacket”, you can hardly argue with a setlist of 37 songs plus the encore of “Into the White” played from within a belting cloud of smoke, Lenchantin chantin’ the refrain like an untrustworthy goddess, the only figure visible, silhouetted in the cloud, bass pounding, a gravelly ethereal end to a night that crammed in all the “hits” in a breathless onslaught – no room here for “thanks for having us”, or “we love you, Cardiff”, barely enough room for a change of guitar, Black Francis like a Christmas Island statue with yellow telecaster pinged to his front, his reedy whine, then his growl, then his larynx-shattering howl, he is the sergeant-at-arms in what increasingly seems like a war of attrition, possibly with the audience, but most likely with the songs themselves, “Vamos”, “Debaser”, “Motorway to Roswell”, raise the roof of course, and the guitar technician, huddled in the corner shadows has a jiddery time of it retuning, changing Joe Santiagio’s snapped strings on his glistening black Gretsch, and waiting in sweet anticipation for Black Francis to take the acoustic guitar from him and break into those famous opening phrases of “Where Is My Mind?”, which come in the final act of this blistering set, atop scarring renditions of “U-Mass”, “Hey”, “Crackity Jones”, a tender and yet still visceral “Velouria” and a back-breaking “Wave of Mutliation”, a gig which began with “Bone Machine”, “This Monkey’s Gone to Heaven” and the first of the tracks from latest album Head Carrier, “Bel Espirit”, a collection of songs that really took off tonight, really held their own, stood tall, fit in, effortlessly, and perhaps against all the odds, it is the refrain from new track “Oona” that rings out longest after the gig has ended: “I wanna be in your band”.