Concert Review: The Pixies - Auckland - 6th March 2020
/The Pixies | All Photos Megan Moss
CLICK HERE TO SEE THE FULL PIXIES GALLERY BY MEGAN MOSS
By: Andra Jenkin
Artist: The Pixies
Date: Friday 6th March 2020
Venue: Spark Arena, Auckland, NZ
I saw the Pixies last time they came, and like the rest of the fans, I moshed for the entire time because they are so danceable and their music transports me in a way no other band does.
Support this time round is The Beths, a band I’ve wanted to see more of since they rocked the VMAs, picking up an award for Best Group. Their happy, optimistic, original sound is a perfect warm up for the Pixies. I cannot wait. This is my music and I intend to listen with all of the ears.
Upon arrival my bag is understandably rifled through. A massive security risk, I’m instructed to ‘cloak my knife’ which sounds like something a spy might do. It’s fair enough - muggins here forgot there was a Swiss army knife on my key ring.
I arrive in time to hear Elizabeth plug in her guitar and introduce the band she fronts as The Beths. Charming and humble, she sings, “You’re so high now,” in a sweet voice over dirty, old, distorted guitar. The bass thrums through a simple verse, building to a more intense chorus, played to an appreciative crowd who are filling up Spark Arena fast.
As suspected I’ve been put in the seated section where sedate reviewers are supposed to behave. It’s weird for me to be out of the mosh pit. Though my seats are second from the front of the glass barrier high above the stage, a lovely Pixier-goer, Kate, allows me to crash her group’s seats up the very back where it’s possible to dance. In fact, here I go!
Elizabeth’s soft high melodic voice washes over you, while the drummer keeps it right and tight, in a beat that sounds like the hypnotic repetition of a train. He lays down the tracks for the strings to travel over and the voice to soar above, reminding me of the Summer Series in Albert Park.
Benjamin Sinclair is introduced by Elizabeth, he’s on bass, and in turn introduces Tristan Jeremy Deck on drums, who continues the round announcing Johnathon Pearce on guitar who brings us full circle to Elizabeth Stokes on songs singing and guitar.
‘Die a Little Death’ feels like a Foo Fighters intro, and starts a soundscape of melodic layers. This is the one that hooked me and left me wanting more at the VMAs. A powerhouse stomping kick is throbbing , a strong foundational heartbeat with fast rock guitar. It’s an insistent beat and I’m inclined to agree to whatever it wants. This is music to dance to at its finest.
Their stage presence is adorable and unassuming as if they haven’t noticed they’re not in the band practice room anymore. I’m betting this band have spent the few short years they’ve been on the planet listening to crash hot music constantly and playing their instruments all day long.
I often feel a gig can be measured by the mosh pit, which is starting to move, as one. I’m dancing to every song, justified in my desire to see the Beths’ full set. These guys deserve to go all the way. I hope the industry throw money at them and then leave them alone to write more songs like these ones.
Splitting the bands is an interim film. “Bigger than the sum of its parts” is written large on the stage screens playing tunnels of nostalgic sepia light and piles of rusty nails. It’s a documentary about the album art, and inspiration. The narrator reading the words on the screen, doesn’t sound pre-recorded, but definitely is. Vaughan Oliver 1957 – 2019 is sobering at the end of a reasonably long and artistic film, that some punters loved and others were confused by. They had come to rock, not learn.
There’s whistles as the music starts, but no one is yet on the stage, devoid even of sound techs now. A slow piano version of ‘Where is My Mind’, with mournful minor notes plays. Then there’s the legendary echo of the reverb and the hollow howling voice, bang on, even the screeching is on key and recording studio perfect, with the bassist Paz bringing a thrusting groove, the coolest thing that ever created herself, kicking and swinging, part of a dipping, swirling, swooping, moving tapestry of noise. The music rises above the need for antics.
Vamosa Jugar Por la Playa, an intense twisting and bending of notes with the constant beat pushing it all forward to a carnival call of spoken and shouted words, which is indeed, better than the sum of its parts, as good as it ever was and a total acid trip of a song.
The plaintive tones of Vamos are a welcome assault, followed up by Isla De Encanta Me Voy! Short and violent, it feels like getting mugged by the song, and the mosh pit is going off and it’s punk AF and I’m gutted I’m writing and not in amongst it. This is the point of the Pixies; it’s not just about hearing them, but surrendering to the beat.
Ed is Dead transforms the shape of the mosh, a triangle in the centre, people jumping to the noises that are abrasive and almost like barking now. I know that sounds bad, but it’s hard to describe how good the Pixies make this. It’s interesting, experimental yet harmonious and joyous, a sound easy to dance to.
“Let me tell you a story,” The clean, bright acoustic sound changes to the shouty Nimrod’s Son with the brutal, “You are the son of a mutherfucker” played fast. The long, drawn out notes building to a wall of noise.
Annoyingly I get told off for dancing, in a perfectly safe place where no one’s vision is disturbed, no stairwell blocked and with no possibility of falling. I despair of overzealous staff, impinging on a good time at a rock concert. In the mosh pit those who’ve climbed onto the shoulders of others also don’t last long up there before more sedate behaviour is required and they are back at crowd level.
On screen “And they kissed until they were dead,” is juxtaposed with Levitate me. The drummer is getting into it, fast fills and thrashing optimistic punk beat. Then the distinctive kick and bass combo of Bone Machine hits us in the guts just like it should – feels so good. Paz singing the high, beautiful chorus line and as the instruments drop away “Your Bone’s got a little Machine” whined by both her and Black Francis. Another punter risks the ire of the staff by dancing.
Break my Body is discordant, the “break my bones” lyrics, supposed to be screamed rather than sung, is hard to listen to, verging on painful, but deliberate, leaving the ears ringing. Quirky, innovative and original, The Pixies, Black Francais, Joey Santiago, David Lovering and with Piz Lechantin (replacement for Kim Deal), have never been afraid to experiment. We are all beaten with the noisy stick, the mood evocative and aggressive, a rage unleashed turning into the hollow prairie howls, overlaid with shouts and the guitars chiming in, so tight they start and stop with uncanny precision.
The bass immediately gives away the song, and “Hey Paul,” is chanted. We are having a ball and we’ve got a gigantic, big, big love for the Pixies. The full mosh that’s a monster now, taking over most of the floor. The layers of sound, sitting back and letting the beat do the work. The monster thrashes.
Everyone knows Where is My Mind, now the proper full version is being played, lyrical, beautiful and as good as it gets in any studio. I’m in awe. Surfer Rosa produces a jumpy, shoving mosh pit and my neck twinges in sympathy. The crowd goes nuts when they hear the next song will be recorded again. We come to understand the entire concert is being recorded, and while a hat used as a makeshift slide and the power of the pedal tortures notes into submission, in a sound unsettling and amazing and excellent. The driving drums holding it all together. Paz in a pact with them, the bouncing mosh gathering energy, the crowd now playing their part with commitment since this is for posterity.
In a strange aside Black Francis announces he’s left his phone in his hotel room and needs to look something up, telling us he’ll be back shortly, yelling, “If you touch my pedals you fucking die!” “You’ll fucking die if you leave the room while I’m gone. You’ll fucking die!” But it’s all in good fun.
The encore is a foregone conclusion. Happily, Debaser is first up and we’re all on our feet again, Wave of Mutilation, a person favourite, is next, and Head On finishes before the whisper of “Lips like Cinderella”. The voice is incredible; Black Francis’ chops still holding up after all the howling, shouting, screeching and guttural hissing. I’m amazed it’s not wreaked.
The mosh moves to the breathy, sexual panting, needy and intense, the crescendo, “Been trying to meet you. Must be a Devil between us.” They don’t play it the same as on the album, which for a live performance is exactly what you want.
Last up is Gouge Away, from Doolittle. The arena sings along as the guitarist takes the note on a journey, we follow, and it’s easy to see why The Pixies are credited with creating a new movement in music, the quiet/loud industrial to celestial ecstatic experience that has influenced artists from Bowie to Cobain. They can’t be pinned down and really are more than a band. If you have a chance to see them live, do not miss it.
Review Edited By: Jake Ebdale