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THE PIXIES: BEANTOWN’S
ELFIN MAGIC
Where does genius meet insanity? Put on a Pixies record;
you may find the bridge. The howling voice of Black Francis blasts
out at you like a straitjacketed escapee streaking past the padlocked
doors of the seventh floor ward. Layers of guitar swarm and subside
like a blitzkrieg while Francis sings about gratuitous bone-breaking
or Biblical numerology or Biblical numerology, or the eye-cutting
scene from the Surrealist film Un Chien Andalou.
"Il like stuff that’s weird and doesn’t
make any sense because we’re weird and we don’t make any
sense at all," confesses Francis. Like a mad alchemist furiously
mixing potions, Francis blends words and images from every imaginable
source, endowing the Pixies’ songs with a smoky ambiguity steeped
in cross-cultural contradictions. "It’s not like you can’t
have a topic or a narrative, but if you’re going to do that,
it’s gotta be damn good," he explains. "Our stories
are more like flipping through cable [television] ; stuff with no
beginning, middle or end, stuff that’s totally disoriented,
confused and abstract."
Makes perfect sense for a guy whose favorite television
shows are the old science fiction classics The Outer Limits and
The Twilight Zone, and whose bedtime reading includes Ray
Bradbury and Samuel Beckett. "I’m really into Richard
Brautigan now," Francis says of the hippie poet and suicide
victim. "He’s really arty, poetic, silly but he’s
really male, he’s really insulting. I love it." Slouched
comfortably in a swivel chair, unshaven and slightly rumpled, Francis
looks more like a sleepy collegiate than a potential rock godhead.
One would never suspect him capable of the foaming-at-the-mouth
verbal attack of songs like "Gouge Away," "I Bleed"
or "Debaser." During the day, the dragon only sleeps.
There’s a hint pf dormant fury in the quiet lead
guitarist Joey Santiago, who sits beside him. "I miss riding
Huffy bikes over dirt ramps," he complains. "You go up,
you just go for it, and you don’t care if you crash. You can’t
do that now." Therein lies the real appeal of The Pixies: their
music has the naïve recklessness of boyhood, when danger and
fun were indistinguishable and inseparable. As dark and menacing
as they may seem, The Pixies buffer their madness with currents
of catchy pop rhythms. They drive their music to the edge then brake
just before the abyss. They throw caution to the gale force wind
in three-minute test patterns. A pixie by definition is merely mischievous,
not malevolent.
The raucous Boston quartet "fell together"
in 1986, when schoolmates Santiago and Charles Michael Thompson (V (a.k.a., Black Francis) dropped out to
perform around New England with bassist Kim Deal and drummer Dave
Lovering. The band’s raison d’etre — "a
great way to see Europe" — deflected any severe parental
disapproval, and The Pixies have been sprinkling their devilish
magic ever since.
Their version of "The Grand Tour" (did you
think they would lie to their parents?) with friends Throwing Muses
gained them a strong cult of fans throughout Europe, plus opening
act status for The Cure. British label 4AD released their Come
On Pilgrim EP the same year, followed by Surfer Rosa
in 1987. Both stormed the U.K. indie charts and caught fire on college
playlists across the United States. Their third warped testament,
Doolittle, has been unleashed by Elektra Records, and
is climbing into the shadowy hearts and charts of alternative radio.
"I hate to say this, but we’re just starting
to get the star bologna now," laments Francis. "It’s
amusing when you get to meet Robert Smith [lead singer of The Cure]
or David Bowie, but for the most part, it’s boring and stupid."
He’s very laissez faire about their growing success.
"We’re just alive. We’re just walking around, looking
for something to do."
And what are The Pixies looking to do on their next
album? "It’s a secret," says Santiago with a smile.
"We don’t want it out; somebody might steal it and it
won’t be fun to do anymore." After further pressing, Santiago
glances towards Francis with his gleaming black eyes and blurts,
"Tubas!" As their maniacal giggles echo off the bare white
walls, one wonders where genius meets insanity. Look no further:
The Pixies are hiding beneath the bridge.
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