And so Boston's second finest band's much heralded return finally happens. Having secured a coveted ticket in ticketmaster's fucking lottery system, I arrived early to imbibe the atmosphere of the old place in advance of one of the most eagerly awaited gigs at the tail end of this decade. There is a fear (within me at least) that this expectation will prove too much, that this will be the gig where the band came, saw and lifelessly ran through 'Doolittle'. Upon arrival the first thing you notice is the iconic 'P' upon David Lovering's drum kit and with no support act (who'd want to open for The Pixies tonight eh?) we're left with an irritating compilation of hastily cobbled together 80's underground hits which loops endlessly. Wonderful it may have been to hear 'Just Like Heaven' but by the third fucking play the novelty had worn off. There's much speculation beforehand about what the set list will be made up of other than 'Doolittle' and more hope than expectation that the band will dip into their pre- and post-'Doolittle' period.
And then just after 9pm, the lights go down, the compilation finally eats itself and the mythical is about to become reality. The sense of expectation is genuinely palpable and then, with little or no fanfare, the band emerge from the shadows to take up their positions.
Now, call this churlish if you will but we're all here to listen to 'Doolittle' with the hope of some surprises thrown in for good measure but it is fucking imperative that the band begin with 'Debaser'. But they don't. And it's possibly the only anti-climax of the night but it's one that lingers as, perversely, the band hold off until Song 5, when the spotlight focuses solely on Kim Deal for that intro and, holy shit, it's 1989 again.
It takes me some 3-4 songs for it to sink in that I'm listening to The Pixies race through note perfect renditions of 'Debaser', 'Tame', 'Wave of Mutilation' and 'I Bleed'. Ah, but once 'Here Comes Your Man' strikes up and 1,300 indie kid wet dreams come true, it's the prelude to a set of unrelenting tightness and unfettered nostalgia.
The band, quite literally, race through 'Doolittle' in its entirety from 'Debaser' to 'Gouge Away' and they don't miss a beat all night - 'Monkey Gone To Heaven' is as epic as you want it to be and that riff on 'No. 13 Baby' remains note perfect. Given the fact that folk know exactly what's coming next, unlike most gigs, they can choose their moment to head for the toilet or another pint. Unfortunately for Kim, this occurs during 'Silver', when everyone heads away to return in time for 'Gouge Away'. That Kim Deal is the star of the night is unquestionable however, standing stage right and exuding an insouciant cool throughout. Tellingly she is the only Pixie to communicate with the crowd for the duration of the show.
And then, just under an hour after they began, the band exit stage right. Touchingly, the four members move to the front of the stage to wave to all corners of the audience, seemingly reluctant to leave. They return and run through the surf version of 'Wave of Mutilation' and close out the show with 'Into The White'. No frills, no 'Caribou', no need. A magnificent night.
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