About a year and a half ago, I started working on writing a book. However between my desire to always tackle too many projects, and my total lack of organizational skills, the book has been relegated to the bedside coffee jar of my life. It lies amongst the many pieces of equipment to be fixed, instrument parts and tools to be organized, unfinished remix projects, and a compilation CD I’m trying to issue, (hopefully this summer or fall).
I met with a respected friend who is a music writer, and among some of the great advice I got from him was…start smaller. He said the book sounds like a great idea, but because my previous writing was confined to many “letters to the editor” of newspapers and magazines, writing a book was like running a marathon. If you’ve never built the discipline, and stamina, you’ll never reach the finish line.
Because of this, I’m starting to write on a regular basis. Mostly in blog form, but I’m hoping to start contributing to some local publications as well. This is my first step.
Last night I saw the Pixies.
I became a Pixies fan when I bought Doolittle in the winter of 1989, (the album they played front to back last night). It was in my early days of cd’s, (it was probably in the first 10-20 that I owned), and it stood out like a sore thumb. First it wouldn’t close properly. Those who own the album on cd know, the booklet was huge, with a piece of art to go with the lyrics for each song (all 15 of them), it was impossible to get it to fit back in the case. So mine was dog-eared with many bends folds and crescent shaped dents from trying to muscle it back in it’s case.
But where it really stood out was on the cd player. This was the REAL pop-punk. Unfortunately, now pop-punk is a filthy word to music fans. It conjures up images of an inked up boy band, playing instruments, (although quantized and pitch corrected for Top 40 consumption), they have skateboarders in the videos, (never band members), and there is 33% mohawk quota rigidly enforced by whichever major label holds their leash.
No, the Pixies were everything pop-punk should’ve been defined as. Hooks as sweet as the Carpenters, sat in between and amongst Jello Biafra howls, oversized drums, and Dick Dale-on-acid guitar leads. Tempo’s ranged from lilting, to frenetic, but usually chose to find a sturdy seat somewhere in the middle. Lyrics went from toddler like innocence, to Robert Pickton gruesome, without advanced warning.
Like all great albums, it’s rewards weren’t uncovered or fully digested until you’d had a few months to live with it. And last night they played it all.
They started with four B-sides that were as strong as the album tracks, (Manta Ray, Bailey’s Walk, Into the White and Weird At My School). Then regrouped and kicked it off with Debaser, (the French short film Un Chien Andalou that inspired it was played before the show), and didn’t let up until the end of Gouge Away..
The playing was mostly flawless, Frank’s vocals were effortlessly powerful, and the sounds and mix, faithful to the album. The concert itself was less joyful than the victory lap “Sellout” tour of 2004 when the Pixies finally got to enjoy the spoils of the ground they broke 15 years prior. Because of the venue, (Centre in the Square), the constraints of playing the album, and the fact that the Doolittle Anniversary tour was now itself two years old, it was a more subdued affair on both sides of the stage. this was more a celebration of the album itself than of the band. This was their London Calling, an album made when their creativity was at it’s peak, and they had the blessing and resources of a small label (4AD) to follow their vision.
Most bands don’t get to make that record. Most bands either have their vision limited by financial constraints, or if the money’s flowing, someone’s tapping the toe of a black patent loafer asking where the singles are. On this record, there was easily 5-10 singles, although only two were issued.. All the record company needed was a time machine, or (more practically) the patience to let the rest of the world catch up. Unfortunately, time is something most record labels won’t invest. It’s much easier to find an obedient crew of 20 year olds, and slap them into the studio where their biggest artistic decision will be…which one is going to Supercuts for the mohawk.
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