Into the White: Pixies live in London

Their 2004 reunion following a decade-long hiatus was greeted with the level of elation and goodwill one would expect for a band that influenced almost every 90s alt-rock band you’d care to name, but their inexhaustible desire to wring out every potential dollar from their ’89 masterpiece Doolittle via endless, stolidly-delivered tours ultimately tested even the most devout fans.

Yet over the last couple of years things have changed, generally for the better. There’s no denying that the sad, perhaps inevitable departure of bassist Kim Deal - the personable, equanimous counterpoint to the yowling intensity of Black Francis - has left an indelible hole in the band; one that some fans will be unable to overlook. But with their first new records in 20 years (the admittedly middling Indie Cindy and the more commendable Head Carrier), plus a fresh, energised dynamic lent by Deal’s replacement Paz Lenchantin, Pixies finally appear to mean business again.

That they no longer look like they’re going through the motions happily translates to their live show too. Francis, clad in a black suit that makes him look like a minor Marvel villain, seems fully invested in the performance (which frankly hasn’t always been the case). Lenchantin may struggle to match Deal for vocal impact, but her instrumental chops are beyond debate, and she makes a decent stab at recreating the indefinable dynamic that lies at the heart of every classic Pixies’ song. Joey Santiago on guitar and Dave Lovering on drums may linger in the background as always, but there’s no faulting the tightness of their performance, or the fact they still seem to be enjoying this game 30 whole years after they first jammed together in a Boston garage.

The new material comprises a significant chunk of tonight's set (29 November), and is respectfully if mutedly received, but in truth most are there to hear classic-era Pixies, and rightfully so. The band’s disdain for static setlists means there’s always a chance of hearing relative obscurities - though by the same token, you’re unlikely to get “All The Hits” in a given show. Those who attended the previous night were treated to “Caribou”, “Planet of Sound” and “Debaser”, we in turn got “Wave of Mutilation”, “Vamos” and “Monkey Goes To Heaven” (which properly set off the commendably mixed crowd of young rock enthusiasts and pilled-up 40-somethings reliving their student years). In practice, that means you’re unlikely to get every single song you’d want to hear, but given they rattle through no less than 32 of them over the course of 100 minutes, it’d be churlish to complain.

It’s just a shame it was so difficult to appreciate all that due to a sound mix terrible even by the unreliable standards of Brixton Academy. Pixies have always adhered to a particular live doctrine - no banter, no visuals, no antics (indeed, it was rumoured Lenchantin’s predecessor was kicked out due to a spontaneous stage-dive) – and while it’s a formula that’s generally served them well, it also means there’s nothing to distract from the unyielding sludginess that blunts the edge of their trademark rawness. But not even dodgy sound could fully derail the fact that we’d experienced some of the greatest songs alternative music ever produced, and by the time the band disappear in a haze of strobe and smoke at the end of “Into The White”, there’s a definite feeling that we’d seen a band that might not be quite at their peak, but nonetheless had still something to offer.