Pixies in Sydney – photos and review
Still loud. Still strange. Still essential.
The Pixies walked onstage at the Hordern Pavilion with absolutely no theatrics — unless you count Frank Black calmly entering, clutching a plain white mug of what looked like tea or coffee. No announcement, no grand reveal — just four figures plugging in, tuning up, and preparing to summon noise.
Before each album section, Black paused to give the crowd a brief, dry anecdote — small, oddly poetic fragments about where they were when Bossanova and Trompe Le Monde were made: late-night recording sessions, songs that began as jokes and ended as staples. It was a glimpse behind the curtain — not sentimental, not nostalgic, just human. It warmed the room just enough before the band dropped back into their wall of sound.
The Bossanova stretch bloomed in reverb and warped surf-rock haze. “Velouria” shimmered under violet light, “Allison” flickered like a loose wire, and “Ana” floated in slow-motion melancholy. New bassist Emma Richardson brought a grounded presence — steady, unfussy, adding subtle depth with harmonies that wrapped around Black’s rasp rather than tidying it. Her tone was cool, measured, and unmistakably comfortable in the chaos.
And then it shifted.
With the first bars of Trompe Le Monde, the floor snapped to life. “Planet of Sound” landed like a siren, all distortion and pressure. “Head On” triggered the first proper surge of the night, and by “U-Mass,” the Hordern had transformed into a sweating, roaring organism. Santiago’s guitar work was jagged and instinctive — like he was trying to find melody inside static. Black’s voice — rough, rusted, perfect — still dropped from whisper to howl without warning.
The closing run felt built for catharsis. “Wave of Mutilation” hit like a shared memory everyone still knew by heart. “Where Is My Mind?” sent the whole venue into a blissed-out spiral — arms raised, voices cracked, no one caring. Then, the curveball: a beautifully ragged version of Neil Young’s “Winterlong”, played in tribute to his 80th birthday — honest, heart-first, wonderfully imperfect.
The Pixies didn’t feel like a legacy act tonight. They felt alive — strange, loud, uncompromising, and still capable of shaking a venue to its bones.
Review by Chloe Davis-Powell. Photos by Adam Davis-Powell.
