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There are few bands that can unite a room of grizzled punks, post-grads and nostalgic dads with such cultic ease as the Pixies.
Playing to a packed-out O2 Brixton Academy on May 17th, the band reminded the crowd why they’ve earned their place in rock royalty (though admittedly they never needed to). An enthusiastic audience was catapulted out of the 21st century entirely and dropped straight into the riotous, ragged euphoria of a different era.
The night opened with Midlands duo BIG SPECIAL, whose explosive set could be felt even behind the thickened glass of the VIP room. The bass was so intense it made the windows rattle like they were about to shatter; a fitting description of their overall sound. With just two members, the energy was surprisingly colossal. The drummer, in particular, delivered a performance so ferocious it bordered on a spiritual experience. In his frantic, sweat-soaked bubble, Moloney was entirely mesmerising. Their set was a perfect warm-up for the sonic hurricane that was about to follow.
When Pixies finally emerged, the room fell into a reverent hush; almost holy, very punk. It was a collision of old-world angst and fresh energy. From the smell of spilled lager and Old Spice lingering in the air, to the buzz of twenty-somethings and fifty-somethings locking eyes across pints, the crowd was a beautiful mess of generational crossover.
Black Francis, the ever-elusive frontman, remained mostly silent between songs but his vocals did all the talking. His distinctive scream-to-croon delivery, paired with the achingly poetic harmonies from Emma Richardson, created a sonic texture that felt both familiar and gloriously alive. Richardson - who replaced Paz Lenchantin last year - has firmly claimed her space in the band by now, and her performance tonight proved it. Her extravagant basslines didn’t just anchor the music, they ascended it.
As the band ripped through a tight, unrelenting set, the audience transformed. Mosh pits bubbled at the front of the crowd like a pot about to boil over. One shirtless fan in particular became a kind of mosh pit messiah, arms raised, eyes closed, drenched in a mixture of beer and devotion. ‘Here Comes Your Man’ sent the entire venue into a kind of collective hysteria; drinks flew, strangers hugged, and for those three minutes, everyone was 17 again.
There was an undeniable air of protest to the performance; defiance, longevity. The Pixies aren’t just still here; they’re still pissed off, still poetic, and still punk. With David Lovering steady on drums and Joey Santiago peeling out guitar riffs with effortless cool, the current lineup feels tight and intuitive, yet still hungry. There was a definite ‘Fall’-like quality to the evening. It was raw, jagged, literary, and a little bit unhinged.
Their music, as ever, defies categorisation. It’s not nostalgia, it’s survival. It’s not legacy, it’s life. The crowd sang back lyrics like “if man is five / then the devil is six” with the kind of fury usually reserved for protest chants. That’s the thing about the Pixies: even after all this time, they still sound like they’re trying to tear something down.
As the final notes rang out and the sweat-soaked crowd slowly dispersed, you could feel something lingering in the air. Not just tinnitus but that feeling that you've witnessed something feral, fleeting, and unforgettable. In a time where live music can sometimes feel overly polished and predictable, the Pixies reminded us why chaos, sweat, and distortion are still the holy trinity of rock.
Ellie McWilliam
Image: Travis Shinn
