The Pixies are 40-foot tall Dr. Martins hypo-Zippo lighters never could melt.
The Pixies are beat-up boots tattooed lizard acid Blacklite green, a mystical reptilian, some weird dream you had walking across the middle of the 90’s in ribbed webbed feet, mind smashed tight against divorcedeconomicrecess in the War on Drugs they D.A.R.E.’d to keep your mind stranded in the third grade, wondering if the aliens were looking for you?
The Pixies were there, man. They were wondering too.
The Pixies grew grunge before anybody knew it was illegal. Before anybody knew that anybody but farmers wore flannel. Before it was against the law to play on the playground with a flannel-wearing camel.
Kurt Cobain admitted he ripped them off, but he looked cooler in ripped blue jeans, MTV eyeballs dripping angst.
Because Black Francis stutters into the mic. Black Francis is nervous crazy mind pealing, scabs screaming sweat blisters, a mystery of misery in the chlorinated halls of a white coat wardrobe.
Kim Deal is bass bone, female femur murdering feminine Nazis. Her voice still muscles rippling rivulets filled with gold, a feminist vision, the soul of a woman who is what she is when commercials mean nothing but fucked up show biz.
And Joey Santiago sings Saints in agony, electrical calling the Damned Land, crying for the Christians’ crucifixion of a golden god named Pan.
While David Lovering is the Remington gold plated pistol echo in the nightmare drive-by of my own mind.
The Pixies broke up when only 5 people even knew who they were, one of whom happened to be Kurt Cobain. Grunge grew great flannel tentacles overtaking MTV, screaming alienation pain in an ancient orgy of frustrated gods. But the Pixies did it all better, and they did it all before the world even noticed. But those five fans told their friends, who told their cousin’s friends, who turned this shit on to the guy down the hall, and everyone poured Pixie dust down their Eye Pods, weeping.
A decade after they broke their own sound barrier, the Pixies were broke, sleeping on clown’s couches, feeling background documentaries for 52 cents a cop. Then kids became born rebound, so fingers itched to play. They got back together. Crowds exploded, souls sold out, and once again the Pixies bleed all over the stage as Vampires feed….
