A dream of youth, concocted in the dreary days of high school as I began discovering music no one else had heard of, was finally fulfilled last night. I still remember cutting out the article from my subscription to “Rolling Stone” that reported that the Pixies had broken up, and I thought I’d never get to see my ‘other’ favorite band perform live. When the rumors began a few months ago, reporting a possible reunion tour, I never thought I’d travel to a handball gym in suburban Reykjavik to see them, but that’s where I found myself last night, with 2500 sweaty Icelandic kids, singing along to “Bone Machine,” “Gigantic,” and “Velouria.” My friend Ásdís and I were about six or eight rows from the front, in what would turn out to be the epicenter of the mosh pit, and everyone around seemed to know all of the words, all of the bizarre Black Francis paranoid, gibberish, Spanish-inflected tales of aliens and nightmares that must make just as little sense to non-native speakers as they do to me.
After a brief stop at a friend’s place to meet Ásdís’ brother and sister-in-law and some others, where we had gin and tonics and bratwurst (?) and talked about crossover appearances among German crime shows like “Tatort” and “Derrek” (I suggested the “Magnum, PI” / “Murder, She Wrote” example, and was applauded), we showed up at the concert at around 8:30. It was light as can be outside, of course, so we made our way into the alcohol-free environment through packs of kids downing their beers and leaving them on the front steps of the building in the harsh afternoon-like light. Ghostigital, the opening act, the brainchild of ex-Sugarcube Einar Örn, was mercifully ending just as we made our way in, and we placed ourselves near the front for a good view of the band. After listening to about half of “Pet Sounds” on the PA, they appeared to raucous applause, and without another word, went into “Heaven,” seguing into the slow version of “Wave of Mutilation.” From there, it was song after song after song, with no breaks, no talking, nothing but classics and some obscure choices thrown in as well. “Trompe le Monde” wasn’t touched until the encore, with “Planet of Sound,” and most of the material was from their first three releases. It seemed like the weirdness of songs like “Caribou,” “Isla de Encanta,” and “Ed is Dead” fit the Icelandic mindset; the fans certainly knew and loved those songs more than the few later-era songs the band played.
The concert was a great experience, and the band played almost everything I could have wanted. They looked genuinely happy, especially Kim, and Frank Black, with his unnaturally small hands (or his massive torso and short arms, whichever you prefer), was a sight to behold. All the more memorable was the fact that I was watching them in a gym, with the wooden seats pulled out and full of kids sitting down, in Iceland, on a Wednesday night.
