After four decades of chaos, catharsis and cryptic songcraft, alt-rock pioneers Pixies are still doing things their own way. Touring in support of their tenth album, ‘The Night the Zombies Came’, the Boston legends hit Birmingham for a night of noise, nostalgia and no compromise.
Before the main event come the Black Country pair, Big Special. And oh boy, they come out swinging! Frontman Joe Hicklin bellowing and pacing like a man exorcising something deep, while drummer Callum Moloney hammers out pounding, industrial-strength rhythms. Not only are they here to open the show – but they grab us by the collar and don’t let go.
It’s a thunderous, unflinching sound that carries a hint of IDLES, with a confrontational, spoken-word delivery that demands attention. From their debut album ‘Postindustrial Hometown Blues’ comes the punk fury and emotional grit of ‘Black Country Gothic’, ‘Shithouse’, ‘Mongrel’, ‘DiG!’ and more. It’s raw and relentless, but never sloppy – each track building on the last, with a visceral intensity that pins you in place. Big Special might be new to some, but they sound like a band already built for bigger things.
Pixies take the stage without a word and ease into the surf-rock instrumental ‘Cecilia Ann’. A lone “P” hangs above the stage and for the next 90 minutes, the band let the music speak for itself. I’ve wanted to catch Pixies live for a long time, so when they crash into ‘Monkey Gone to Heaven’, from ‘Doolittle’ – it feels both surreal and a little overwhelming to finally hear it in the flesh. What follows is a relentless, tightly-wound set that barely pauses for breath.
The classics, of course, land like seismic jolts. The sunny melody and dark undercurrent of ‘Wave of Mutilation’, and ‘Hey’ aching with unhinged tension. But what really impresses is how confidently they weave in material from ‘The Night the Zombies Came’. ‘Chicken’, ‘Jane’, and ‘Mercy Me’ sitting comfortably alongside the old staples – less frantic maybe, but beautifully eerie. ‘The Vegas Suite’ in particular shimmers with slow-burning, lullaby weirdness.
At 60, Black Francis still commands the stage with raw intensity – his ability to shift from a croon to a full-throated scream remains electrifying. Joey Santiago stays still, but his jagged, wiry leads cut through with purpose. Emma Richardson, stepping in after Paz Lenchantin, feels like a natural fit – her bass lines solid and unfussy, her harmonies adding warmth and texture without softening the edges. Together with David Lovering’s steady drumming, it’s a rhythm section built for precision, not spectacle.
There’s no crowd work, no chit-chat, no theatrics. Songs bleed into one another, the band moving as a unit – shifting moods, keys, and tempos like a muscle memory exercise. But within that quiet efficiency lies the Pixies’ power: the contrast between structure and chaos, melody and menace. They don’t need to say a word – every screech, every silence, every riff already knows exactly where it’s going.
Across what I’ve counted as a 28-track set, it’s the big guns that really shake the room. ‘Gouge Away’ with its brute force, a wall of sound that feels both muscular and unmoored. ‘Where Is My Mind?’ floats out haunted and dreamlike, that instantly recognisable riff triggering a sea of raised arms and faraway stares. And then there’s ‘Debaser’ – snarling, spinning, still refusing to sit still after all these years.
The set closes with unhinged fury, as Black Francis howls through the feral assault of ‘Tame’, before Emma Richardson takes the spotlight for the disorienting swirl of ‘Into the White’. The band then come together centre stage to show their appreciation – met with a roar of applause and cheers from a crowd who know they’ve just witnessed something special.
After years of meaning to catch them and missing out, finally seeing Pixies live was as powerful as I’d hoped. More than just ticking a box, it was a reminder of what made this band so vital in the first place – and why they still draw sell-out crowds after all this time. After ten albums and countless reinventions – Pixies still sound like nobody else. Long may they entertain and haunt us.
Review & Photography: Steve Johnston
