"The Pixies sell out," read the t-shirt slogans at the vast merchandising stall. It's a wry joke, of sorts: this string of European comeback gigs sold out within seconds but are being played, so Frank Black claims, for solely financial reasons. There are no pretensions to reclaiming a cultural imperative here: this is a gimlet-eyed corporate merger.
The idea of the Pixies as sell-outs is hardly relevant, though, since they were far from an ethically rigorous band in the first place. While their '80s contemporaries like Sonic Youth, the Butthole Surfers and Big Black ferociously protected their underground status and their belief in DIY ethics, the Pixies never seemed bothered with such etiquette. They were, above all, a tremendous pop group, albeit one with more of a penchant for screaming than most.
It's that vigorous pop side that is most apparent in this cynical but wonderful comeback show. On one level, nothing much has changed – apart, perhaps, from Joey Santiago and David Lovering joining Frank Black in the baldness club. The Pixies still hurtle through their songs with barely a pause: 26 ruthlessly unadorned classics in 75 minutes. Kim Deal continues to smoke and sing backing vocals simultaneously. As a staggeringly good "Caribou" proves, Frank Black can still unleash a larynx-ripping howl when the mood takes him.
What's missing, though, is an authentic sense of menace. At their peak, the Pixies didn't just sound giddy and exciting, they sounded deranged, too. When Frank Black shrieked his tales of Biblical misdemeanour and sci-fi horror, punctuated by Santiago's nastily serrated riffs, there was something tantalisingly unhealthy about it all. Now, it seems relatively innocuous. Age has toned down their subversiveness, and the legions of dull copycat indie bands have blunted the Pixies' innovations.
Initially, as they start with their pretty cover of Neil Young's "Winterlong", it seems like this may be a problem. A cynical Pixies we can deal with, but not a toothless one: this, after all, is why Frank Black's solo career has been so constantly underwhelming. But the embarrassment of brilliant songs and the compelling chemistry which still exists between these four unlikely pop stars is plenty enough to make the show a triumph.
Black and Deal's unsteady harmonies are as oddly endearing as ever, and Santiago remains a meticulously vicious guitarist: his showcase solo in "Vamos" is now extended to a gimmicky but impressive routine involving a guitar stand, a drumstick and a lot of feedback.
A few of the barrios punk tunes like "Cactus" and "Something Against You" retain the fire, the frisson of extremity, of old. Predictably, though, the Pixies are now best at handling the lumbering, momentous songs which proved indie-rock could sound big enough for stadiums: "Bone Machine", "Gigantic", "River Euphrates", "Hey", "Gouge Away" and "Velouria" all sound magnificent. And there's a wonderful bit of nostalgia for the band's older fans when, during "Monkey Gone To Heaven", the crowd count the numbers off on their fingers as Black recites them.
For a moment it was like being at the Town & Country Club in 1989 all over again. But maybe that was just the mohawk puking up in the corner.
