Pixies are a no-nonsense noise machine – and they sound as good as they ever did

2 hours ago 3

MUSIC
Pixies ★★★★
Melbourne Festival Hall, November 19

Female bass players are to the Pixies as drummers are to Spinal Tap: they’ve had a lot of them. Kim Deal (1987-2012), Kim Shattuck (briefly in 2013), Paz Lenchantin (2014-2023) have all come and gone.

Black Francis of Pixies performs onstage at Festival Hall, November 19, 2025.

Now it’s Emma Richardson’s turn to provide the driving bass and sweet harmonies that are so crucial to the Boston-born band’s loud-quiet-loud dynamic. And she stands tall, literally and figuratively, towering over frontman Black Francis, guitarist Joey Santiago and drummer Dave Lovering when the four embrace and take a well-earned bow at the end of their blistering 32-song two-hour set on Wednesday night.

This is the back-to-back album show, in which the band play Bossanova (1990) and Trompe le Monde (1991) track by track, throwing in a handful of faves at the end for good measure. On this tour, they alternate set lists across two-night engagements, with the second set featuring a best-of collection from across their catalogue, plus some songs from their new album, The Night the Zombies Came.

Pixies are, and always have been, a no-nonsense noise machine. As they take the stage – unadorned, apart from a winged P and four spheres that morph from planets to eyes over the course of the show (nods to the respective albums’ cover art) – Francis takes a sip from a mug and says “hello time travellers” before offering some background on the origins of Cecilia Ann, the opening track on Bossanova (a cover of a Surftones song recorded in 1964 but not released until 1988, its origins are in French composer Gabriel Faure’s Sicilienne … apparently).

It’s the fourth time I’ve seen the Pixies live (the first was at their absolute peak in 1989), and before they’ve played a note, Francis has already said a lot more than in the three other shows combined.

He’s in a good mood, and no wonder. The band is tight as, ripping through songs at a rate of knots. “Thank you. The songs are kind of short, I know,” he says at one point. And he’s right. Some barely pass the 90-second mark.

His voice is different than it was in 1987, when their debut mini-album Come On Pilgrim blasted onto the world. It’s gruffer, scarred by the screams that litter many tracks, but the counterpoint upper register is still intact. It works.

Santiago’s guitar work is as good as ever, searing, surfy, scintillating, and on Velouria, Allison, Is She Weird and Dig For Fire, the band sounds as good as they ever did.

The energy kicks up a notch when they trip into the Trompe set, with barely a pause to note the transition. This is a punkier set of songs, fast and furious, and the crowd becomes more energised as the set wears on.

The influence of Pixies, who recorded just four studio albums in their first wave of mutilation before breaking up in 1993 (and another five since reforming in 2004), has been well noted, with Nirvana and Weezer among the many to have paid homage. But on this night, with this set list, the backward lineage was apparent too: a cover of Jesus and Mary Chain’s Head On, the aforementioned Surftones track (and a general infusion of surf-guitar sounds throughout), and, in the final bracket of non-album tracks, Neil Young’s Winterlong.

It was a welcome reminder that although it sometimes felt like they’d arrived from nowhere – or, maybe, from outer space – the Pixies were indeed born of this world. They’re strange, jarring, at times unfathomable, but on this form they remain as vital as ever.
Reviewed by Karl Quinn

DANCE
Brigid ★★★
Dancehouse, until November 22

The room fills with haze while the dancers lie prone, hiding their faces. It’s an opening scene that recalls those old images of Celtic romance: an orange twilight glow, frothing vapours and ancient figures half-buried in the earth.

Brigid is an evocation of the pagan Irish goddess of the same name

Brigid, created by Alice Heyward and Oisín Monaghan, is an evocation of the pagan Irish goddess of the same name, one of the folk divinities of that legendary age before recorded history – the imagined time of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

We actually know very little about this daughter of the Dagda. Her story has been partly obscured by the later Saint Brigid of Kildare, the famous abbess and miracle-worker, the so-called Mary of the Gael who turned dirty bathwater into beer.

In looking back to the older Brigid, Heyward and Monaghan seem to take her obscurity as a cue. This is a work full of uncertainties and strange vacancies amid the rattling, racketing old-style jigging that fills the space.

The three performers – Heyward, Monaghan and Oonagh Slater – slowly raise themselves. You feel the heaviness of it, the work of dragging something old and earth-loving back into motion. They fall and fall again, landing with real weight.

The dancing arrives gradually. At first, they fall into step together: a fleeting suggestion, perhaps, of the goddess’s triple aspect. Then they separate, moving with apparent freedom across the long, windy gap between lights set at either end of the studio.

Monaghan’s boots slap the boards like antique flat irons. Or maybe hammers. Is this a vision of Brigid in her role as patroness of blacksmiths? The loud percussive steps follow closely the work of sound designer Gregor Kompar, who also performs live.

Heyward is lighter, almost airy, her rhythms more intimate, reminding us that Brigid brought fire and poetry. Her energy rises into something half-fevered, movement flickering and bright. Slater is more conversational, brisk but more regular.

There are several clearly marked sections, including a moment where the dancers retreat to the corners and wail. This is a nod to the story of her lament for her son, but it comes off as almost comic, suggesting mingled grief and joy.

Ritual is often a translation from the numinous to the legible; this work reverses the process, trying to conjure a lost divinity from choreography and remembered gestures. It’s an attempt, which, if nothing else, has its moments of peculiarity and beauty.
Reviewed by Andrew Fuhrmann

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