“We are what’s called in the industry, a warm-up act.” Big Special drummer Callum Moloney barks sarcastically, a bit like Al Murray bellowing at his audience. It’s a wry self-deprecating line that offers a glimpse of Big Special’s approach to stage craft and songwriting.
Big Special hail from the Midlands and are two men, one vocalist, Joe Hicklin and one drummer, Moloney. They crash and pack snarling post-punk irreverence and bashing Royal Blood-style drum assaults and tie a bow around it of looping samples (even air horns), ladling it with Black country soul and brooding, darkly comical lines concerned with the absurdity, bleakness, and crushing disappointment of life. Whilst the preponderance of recent post-punk bands that are around right now might not always be my thing, Big Special do have their own kind of soul and charm.
Bludgeoning their way through ‘Black Country Gothic’ with barrelling drums and primal vocals, they are delighting members of the front row. They even hint at the Two-Tone scene on brooding standout ‘This Here Ain’t Water’ – with its clattering drums and ominous, buzzing Hammond organ drops, looping chorus line, interjected with withering diatribe that has hints of the flowing wordplay of Ian Drury as it meets the bittersweet accent and delivery of Mike Skinner – is an oasis in a wasteland. Closer ‘Dig’ has a touch of early Bad Seeds meets Idles, where surreal witty lines – “Swan diving into thе void for a ten-bag and a half-inched bread bakеr” are paired against the mind-numbing spirit-crushing of living a mundane nine to five existence. Bursting into a bruised anthemic chorus as muted horns carry us onwards, there is always hope on the horizon even in the darkest times if you can find it within yourself. Things are shit, but we keep moving.
Leaving to thumbs up all round they certainly make an impression, leaving the front grinning ear to ear, Big Special promise us“we are about to see a great band.” And we believe them. I set off to the bar and fetch myself a bottle of 7 Up and half a cup of J2O and find myself set back over eight pounds; I wonder how many small shows you could see just for that price alone!
In contrast to the supports, Pixies don’t talk much over the next two hours, but nevertheless these legendary hands deliver a sprawling set list packed with memorable tunes plus cuts from their recent records. All are delivered with the brooding, sometimes absurdist intensity of Black Francis who is now in his 60th year, but his synthing and corraling vocals are still intact. It’s twenty years since I last saw a full reunion Pixies play a fantastic come back show at the Manchester Move festival – Kim Deal having left in acriminious circmunstances. Now they are joined by Emma Richardson formerly of 00s band Band of Skulls on bass.
Beginning with the one-two punch of ‘Monkey’s Gone to Heaven’ – that is possessed of a subersive glee as it bounds forward – and ‘Wave of Mutilaion‘. The addictive loud /quiet dynamics of ‘Gouge Away’ and ‘Tame’ with its gutteral screams and fuzz pedal stomps, aid the notion that these Bostians were in many ways the year zero of alternative rock, their influence indelible upon Nirvana‘s primal rage and fierce dynamics that reached the mainstream. But more than that they helped retool alternative music for the ’90s. As if to symbolise their foundation and the lasting mark they have made, the granite like backdrop shows only a single P and the lights shift with the tone of each song.
Their early material was concerned with sideways looks at UFOs, sexual violence, and surrealist retellings of Bible stories. Black Francis switches guitar for ‘Caribou’ lifted from their classic debut Surfer Rosa, its jagged arpeggious and wonky percussion shot through with the sweetly-sung vocals of Emma Richardson while Francis plays foil, barking out discordant notes. It’s a rocky road, but a marvellously off-kilter and yet tuneful song that proves what a powerhouse Pixies were and still are.
Diving into a frenetic version of their anthemic and crushing classic ‘Debaser’ with Joey Santiago’s foreboding riffs reaching down at you like fingers from the sky, it is greeted with exhilaration by the thousands here as they scream along. Then they plunge into a great cover of ‘Head On’ by The Jesus and Mary Chain, perhaps nodding at the Scottish band’s influence on their recent material, their version careers with intensity, brooding vocals, nihilistic and the escapist chorus actually offers a moment of release. That is backed up with ‘Here Comes Your Man’ that is perhaps the closest the Pixies ever got to a pop song. In fact, if you didn’t know it was by the Pixies you might not recognise it as a Pixies’ song; you can jive to this. ‘Where is my Mind?’ is a stone cold classic and is probably their most well-known song now. That looping drop beat, and nimble bass line drags along sludgy guitar fuzz behind it like a ball and chain, while Francis tries to reassemble the detritus of his brain amidst whistling backings. It’s a moment of pure genius. It still sounds like your head being jammed apart by an car jack while the world falls apart, but is also the most subversely catchy song ever commited to tape. Then they play some songs I am less familiar or enamoured with, and there is a bit of a lull, which given its a thirty song set list is perhaps not surprising.
After that they play a series of cuts from their most recent album, last year’s The Night the Zombies Came my favourite of which is the introspective and surreal imagery of ‘Chicken’. With its cyclical, almost gospel delivery decorated in Joey Santiago ‘s glistening guitar motifs, it’s a moment of muted reflection. “You are the son of a Motherfucker’ sings Francis on the ominious pitch-black, Spaghetti Western rattle of ‘Nimrod’s Son’ lifted from their 1987 mini album Come On Pilgrim. It is a nightmarish vision of a crash. They finish off their exhaustive and brilliant set with ‘Into the White.’
Decades on from their hey day, Pixies have delivered a relentless testament to their enduring appeal. Whilst recent albums may not quite match the genius of their early years, live, Pixies still have an arsenal of greatness in their back pocket and we are still grateful to be in their presence. They hold the title as one of the most influential alternative bands that ever existed, and not many bands can boast that four decades into their career. As they take their final bow, they offer uncharacteristic smiles. They have grabbed us by the lapels, got us singing along and shaken our weary bones to the core for a few hours and they are seemingly as happy as we are about that.
Photo credit: Rachel Graveson
