Pixies + Mogwai

At a distance that only God knows how many aeons in the biological calendar of any self-respecting rock fan, the Pixies are back in Paris, reunited for a tour poised "between nostalgia and monetisation", as the city edition of Time Out puts it. Well, in any case it hardly matters if Frank Black, sorry, Black Francis and co. did all this to pay for a villa by the sea. What matters is that they're back on the road, for those who never had the chance to see them back then and for those who did, but inevitably still missed them. Going to see a Pixies show can only do you good. That's probably why the roughly 6,500 tickets sold out within a day. Not bad for a band that hasn't put out a studio album since 1991... Everyone knows the story of their influence on 90s rock (and sure enough there's no shortage of long-haired lads in Nirvana t-shirts), and everyone credits the Pixies with an inimitable, singular ability to fuse rage and melody, churning out songs that are memorable in every part, not just in the choruses.

Opening the night are Mogwai, fresh off "Happy Songs For Happy People", a record that had led some to wonder if they were running low on fuel. Their set is short on songs but long on length, the exact opposite of the headliners they're warming up for. Much to the surprise of this writer, who expected a Mogwai short of breath even live, the Scottish quintet, lined up in a row on stage, delivers more than one surprise and a performance of the highest order. They kick off straight away with the highlight of their set, which is also the oldest track on offer (cruel to point out, but true). "Mogwai Fear Satan", the closing track of "Mogwai Young Team" (1997), is an astonishing display of skill, as well as a breathless gallop through the Scottish band's world. They could hardly have introduced themselves better. Surges and slowdowns, noise passages and reflective, almost intimate pauses. Most of the visible work, or at least its most striking part, falls to Stuart Braithwaite, intense as ever on his Fender. But it's teamwork that's the real star: Mogwai mesh together wonderfully, unleashing a sound even more compact than on record (when needed) and giving their music a solidity, an almost tangible "presence" over the crowd. And that they're a genuine, well-oiled team shows even in the little things. Take Braithwaite taking centre stage to draw attention to himself when, during "Killing All The Flies", the computer and keyboard stop working and two band members scramble to fix the problem. As soon as everything's back in order, Braithwaite obediently falls back into line. Above all, though, their understanding shows in the incredible interplay of glances that governs every performance. They seek each other out with their eyes, nod, communicate with a simple look. It's a joy to watch: almost worthy of the famous gaze scene in "Barry Lyndon"! "Hunted By A Freak", from the recent "Happy Songs For Happy People", also leaves a fine impression, with its (relative) conciseness and heavily filtered vocals.

Even the songs from "Rock Action", arguably the Scottish quintet's weakest record, hold up well: "You Don't Know Jesus" and, above all, "2 Rights Make 1 Wrong" operate on a far higher level than their studio originals. Closing things out, an excellent "Ratts Of The Capital", in which post-rock's hairy good guys let loose their fury and a rare gift for building atmosphere. An avalanche of false endings, and then the real one. Well done, truly a fine performance. Pixies fans clearly know their stuff: the applause given to Mogwai is long, and well deserved.

After a good half hour, it's finally the Pixies' turn. Tension is sky-high (or at least ceiling-high, given the Zénith's roof). When the Fantastic Four walk on stage, a single unified howl goes up. Black and co. smile, and know exactly how to repay such devotion. The opening stretch of the show sets the air alight. A terrifying run: ten songs with virtually no pause between them, every one of them exceptional. Opening, as has become the norm on this tour, is "Bone Machine", belted out at full volume by everyone present. Then "Crackity Jones", somewhat surprisingly, already gets the pit going. "River Euphrates" unleashes its massive riff and its unmistakable "Let's Ride The Tiger". "Wave Of Mutilation" is "Wave Of Mutilation": nobody but Frank Black could drop to those registers without the means to pull it off, and still add value to a song through small, calculated dissonances. "Monkey Gone To Heaven" gets a stellar rendition, above all from Joey Santiago, seemingly relaxed as ever, almost impassive, as he unleashes riffs for the rock history books. The song, combined with the greatness of everything seen and heard so far, raises a blasphemous doubt: if man is five, the devil is six and God is seven, could it be that the Pixies are... OK, OK, I'll stop there.

Then, once more, "I Bleed" to catch a bit of breath - however little - followed by two songs already road-tested on Frank Black & The Catholics' last tour: "Caribou", oddly placed in the middle of the set, and a "Cactus" wrenched forcibly from David Bowie's clutches. The difference is there, and you can feel all of it: the Thin White Duke's cactus had blunted spines, while the Pixies' version still pricks from the very first notes! "Broken Face" is another superb Frank Black performance, immense in every sense. Not exactly featherweight, eyes less open than Bud Spencer's, voice from the glory days. And a charisma that lets him stir a crowd with the mere raise of an eyebrow. Closing out a first salvo that alone is worth triple the ticket price, another track from "Surfer Rosa": "Something Against You". The band pauses for a moment (finally, we're all already exhausted!) and immediately kicks back into high gear. "Isla De Encanta" is played with a ferocity that's almost disorienting. Then the treats keep coming: "Hey" and "Number 13 Baby" become near karaoke moments, such is the crowd's heartfelt participation. Even Frank Black lets himself go into theatrical interpretations, especially with some curious expressions he pulls when he's not singing. "Dead" and "U-Mass" go by: the crowd is a lake of sweat, and so is our frontman's figure-eight-shaped shirt. Then it's Kim Deal's turn, greeted rapturously on "Gigantic", a celebration for anyone who's ever felt it in their bones. The Pixies leave nothing out, mind you: here come "Velouria", "Ed Is Dead" and "In Heaven", before... "Uuuh uuh, uh... Uuuh uuh, uh..." "Where Is My Mind?". History riding on their shoulders doesn't seem to weigh too heavily on the Boston quartet. Down in the crowd, a legend is being sung; up on stage, it's being played with evident satisfaction.

Is that it? Of course not! A sped-up, expanded, positively possessed "Mr. Grieves" catches fire in no time. "Here Comes Your Man" is gorgeous, as always. "Holiday Song" reminds us that the Pixies had already written excellent songs even before "Surfer Rosa" (not that we'd forgotten), and "Vamos", unexpectedly stretched out, elevated by slowdowns and sudden, furious accelerations, sets up a round of thanks and goodbyes.

The band heads back behind the stage, but not for long. Just enough time to resharpen their guitars, and the Pixies are already ready to satisfy the crowd's last requests. "Into The White" is almost noise, and it's not easy to make out Kim's vocals distinctly, though her voice too remains as commanding as it was more than ten years ago. Then, by huge popular demand, here comes "Gouge Away", another masterful show of strength from Frank Black and co. Santiago plays his guitar reinventing the very concept of the bottleneck: on the fretboard he uses the neck of a bottle, while over the body of the guitar he plays with the body of the (beer) bottle in question... Sublime. There's no time to bask in it, though: it's time for another showstopper... "Debaser"! Black screams like a man possessed, and the crowd somehow digs up its last reserves of energy to unleash chaos: "Got me a movie... Ha ha ha hoa!" Closing things out is a "Tame" every bit as strong as what came before, then the lights come up, blinding: reflecting off thirty-two teeth on every single face in the room...

When I walk out of the Zénith I am something very close to the happiest man on the planet. I'm drenched, from the tips of my hair to the soles of my feet. I'm jumping around everywhere, laughing, howling with joy.

I don't know about you, but I am an Andalusian dog.

Ride the wave of great music

Add OndaRock to your favorite sources on Google Discover. Don't miss our reviews, milestones and latest news straight in your feed.

Follow on Google