Pixies: Doggerel review – pristinely produced absurdism | Pixies

There was no indie band more influential, inimitable and prolific than 1987-91 Pixies. They perfectly mixed the mundane and the profane, the farcical with the galactic, served up depraved powerpop in viscera-dripping, three-minute gobbets. Which is why it was so disappointing when 2010s Pixies abandoned that velvet menace for professional competence on Indie Cindy, Head Carrier and Beneath the Eyrie.

Trailed by their best single in years, Doggerel finds happier concord between conventional rock arrangements and Pixies’ twisted tropes (necromancy, hallucinations, Neil Young). They lose their punkier edge without seeming over careerist. Still, it’s no coincidence that the single, the lupine There’s a Moon On, is the rawest meat on the menu, a thrilling take on classic 50s rock.

Elsewhere the album is becalmed yet pristinely produced, with acres of space for Paz Lenchantin’s spooked harmonies and prowling bass to twine round Joey Santiago’s guitars. Appropriately, Black Francis’s absurdist words are high in the mix (“went to 7-Eleven/ To try and get me straight/ I ended up there in outer space” is peak Pixie). It sounds like comfort, sometimes fun, even as you miss the dark fire they once summoned.

There was no indie band more influential, inimitable and prolific than 1987-91 Pixies. They perfectly mixed the mundane and the profane, the farcical with the galactic, served up depraved powerpop in viscera-dripping, three-minute gobbets. Which is why it was so disappointing when 2010s Pixies abandoned that velvet menace for professional competence on Indie Cindy, Head Carrier and Beneath the Eyrie.

Trailed by their best single in years, Doggerel finds happier concord between conventional rock arrangements and Pixies’ twisted tropes (necromancy, hallucinations, Neil Young). They lose their punkier edge without seeming over careerist. Still, it’s no coincidence that the single, the lupine There’s a Moon On, is the rawest meat on the menu, a thrilling take on classic 50s rock.

Elsewhere the album is becalmed yet pristinely produced, with acres of space for Paz Lenchantin’s spooked harmonies and prowling bass to twine round Joey Santiago’s guitars. Appropriately, Black Francis’s absurdist words are high in the mix (“went to 7-Eleven/ To try and get me straight/ I ended up there in outer space” is peak Pixie). It sounds like comfort, sometimes fun, even as you miss the dark fire they once summoned.