In June 2013, just a day after it was announced that Kim Deal had left Pixies, nine years into one of the unlikeliest of reunions (yes, maybe even more than you-know-who), The Breeders stopped off at the Limelight in Belfast. In my review, I noted that the latter alt-rock heroes—helmed, of course, by Deal and her sister Kelley—delivered a “momentous, altogether unforgettable trip into the recent past.”
Fast forward to 2024—on the very day Pixies return to the city after five years, with their latest bassist, Emma Richardson, in tow—news of Deal’s long-awaited solo debut LP lands in my inbox. Due out in November via 4AD—an imprint whose very DNA runs parallel with the arcs of both Pixies and The Breeders—Nobody Loves You More will arrive almost 40 years after Deal, Black Francis, Joey Santiago, and Dave Lovering formed Pixies and upended unfuckwithable, searingly unpredictable guitar music forever.
When Deal left the band eleven years ago, the quality of that legacy suddenly felt cloaked in a strange, sad incompleteness. But this evening, at Pixies’ sold-out return to Custom House Square, the purgatorial sense of in-between that has shadowed the latter years feels cast out. Even without Deal, five months after Band of Skulls bassist Emma Richardson stepped in to replace Paz Lenchantin—who had replaced the late, great Kim Shattuck, who in turn had been the first to attempt filling frankly unfillable boots—the present no longer feels like some curiously wistful or incomplete space.
For this fan, at least, the outline of this realisation first came into view at the Olympia earlier this year when Pixies celebrated what I’m convinced are their two best studio albums, Bossanova and Trompe Le Monde (the latter, especially, holds a sonic dominion for me that is unlikely ever to be dethroned). Now, five months later, there’s a sense that everyone is exactly where they’re meant to be, more at peace with it than perhaps ever before. With time and one of the all-time great back catalogues, that curiously wistful feeling has transformed into a fully healed one; everything is in its right place.
On the penultimate show of the tour, few bands on the island are more apt to set the scene than Dublin quartet SPRINTS. A few short months after packing out the Ulster Sports Club, a stone’s throw from Custom House Square, frontwoman Karla Chubb—with a scream to rival the very best—leads the charge. Whether on peaks like ‘Literary Mind’ and ‘Up and Comer’ or in winning over a slew of eager new listeners, the band wield dynamics and a giddy zeal that filters a deep love of tonight’s headliners. As expected, it doubles up as a pitch-perfect prelude from the fast-rising four-piece.
As Pixies emerge to a note-perfect ‘Gouge Away,’ it’s never been clearer how much they mean to such a remarkable range of people, perhaps more so than any other cultish, yet arena-filling, heroes of their ilk. Seeing teenagers lose their shit to Surfer Rosa highlights like ‘Cactus’ and ‘Vamos’ (featuring a hat solo by Santiago, no less) is full testament to special, generation-leaping appeal. But many stone-cold classics stand out the most tonight. Maybe it’s the last-day-at-festival-like energy, but for all one’s love of the deep cuts, sometimes—on certain nights, surrounded by every conceivable fan, old and new, hardcore and fairweather alike—the big hitters land hardest. This is laid bare early on when a three-in-a-row salvo from Doolittle—‘Monkey Gone to Heaven,’ ‘Debaser,’ and ‘Hey’—verges on grandstanding.
All-timers from Trompe Le Monde and Bossanova feel like gifts, too—never guaranteed but always deeply valued. While ‘Planet of Sound’ could benefit from a few more dBs, as it did at the Olympia, it’s still an all-time drop-tuned rager. ‘Motorway to Roswell,’ meanwhile, is a quintessentially space-obsessed masterclass from Francis and co., offering sublime reprieve. Elsewhere, ‘Dig for Fire’ and ‘Velouria’ feel timeless to the nth degree, standalone masterclasses with a harmonic majesty that seems to defy the odds every single time. Which, of course, is why we’re always lured to return.
In an almost 30-song set, some lesser-spotted classics gain special power. Among the most burrowing are the heart-stung ‘Ana,’ the UK surf version of ‘Wave of Mutilation,’ and ‘In Heaven,’ the band’s long-standing take on the Peter Ivers and David Lynch gem. This time, ‘In Heaven’ is sung by Emma Richardson instead of Francis, who originally sang it, with Deal taking over during the early years of the reunion. Richardson, who feels endlessly more believable than Paz Lenchantin—who, though more than capable, conjured Deal without ever really summoning her power—already feels like a fully-fledged fixture within the band. With that, it’s cause to rejoice: the perfectly passable cosplaying of yore has all but faded. Richardson strikes a perfect balance between honouring the glorious past and carving out her own territory, with two eyes on the future.
While Francis was unusually effusive during their Dublin show a few months back, tonight he remains traditionally schtum between songs. It’s a little frustrating, especially knowing how scythe-sharp he can be when he does let loose, but who can say he hasn’t earned the right to be Dylan-esque in his reticence? Ultimately, it gets to the root of what continues to set them apart: whether on record or stage, just when you think you know where they’re at or where they’re headed, they flip the script.
Granted, there mightn’t be many who suspect the band’s upcoming ninth LP, The Night the Zombies Came, will rank right up there with their most vital but early signs are encouraging. Especially considering the sheer number of younger fans in tonight’s audience, it’s crucial to stay present and look forward (thanks for all the legwork, 6 Music das. I see you.) ‘Chicken,’ a standout that forsakes any number of exhausted hallmarks in favour of an almost doo-wop-inspired chorus, supports the case with deceptive aplomb.
In the end, a closing one-two of ‘Where Is My Mind?’ (which I once spoke to Joey Santiago, Steve Albini and more about here) their well-travelled cover of Neil Young’s ‘Winterlong’ seals the deal on a set that caters to every ilk of Pixies fan: young, not-so-young, newcomer, diehard, and all good things in between. As their fanbase continues to expand in ways few could ever have predicted, resulting in smitten sold-out crowds like these, the past, present, and future finally seem close to indistinguishable. In this space—more potent and unselfconscious than it’s been in two decades—all things level out. It’s there where peace, and these songs, above all, reign supreme. Surely that’s more than enough reason to be excited about what’s next. Brian Coney
Photos by Jane Donnelly
