If Charles Thompson IV, formerly known as Frank Black and three decades ago as Black Francis, is pleased to be performing his band Pixies’ debut mini-album, Come on Pilgrim, and sublime first full-length, 1988’s Surfer Rosa, in full tonight, it’s hard to tell. His eyes hidden behind shades, he utters barely a syllable not found on those albums, even reading the infamous studio banter from Surfer Rosa off a printout. Any fears he might struggle to evince the deranged fire of his youth, however, are scorched by opener Caribou, slow-dancing to its own infernal, sweltering swoon as Thompson – having successfully located his inner Black Francis – bellows “Repent!” like a brimstone preacher, or a wild beast caught in a bear trap.
These records represent the nascent Pixies sound, before the more accessible later work that saw them tipped for the kind of success Nirvana arguably snatched from their fingertips. It’s wild music, still deeply weird 30 years on: Thompson screaming, often in Spanish, of lust and sex and insanity over mescal-soaked, stiletto-wielding punk-rock. The songs of Surfer Rosa in particular conjure a blackly comic fever-dream of South America, like some Tijuana Bible retelling of Touch of Evil. Just the sort of thing a 20-year-old gringo would cook up after a year in Puerto Rico.
The visceral rush of dervishes such as Broken Face, Something Against You and Oh My Golly remains undiminished, the brutal pelt of hardcore punk lent an unsettling, drunken violence. Vamos – played twice, somewhat pointlessly, as it appears on both Pilgrim and Rosa – is a pocket-epic awash in feedback, distortion and sordid innuendo, with Joey Santiago gleefully abusing his guitar during its extended instrumental excursion. Thompson, meanwhile, gibbers in a manner at once hilarious and terrifying.
Beyond its haywire thrashes, however, Surfer Rosa contains depths and glimmers of the melodic nous Thompson would go on to hone. River Euphrates makes for gloriously unlikely pop, its lopsided chorus and looping vocals like some abrasive nursery rhyme for adults. The lilting Gigantic – which Thompson penned with founding bassist Kim Deal – coins the quiet/loud dynamic that became their trademark. (Paz Lenchantin deputises for Deal tonight, as she has since the bassist’s 2013 exit. She performs faultlessly, but she’s just not Kim.)
While tonight’s performance showcases Pixies’ pre-fame roots – some fans can be heard grumbling at the absence of subsequent hits – there’s at least one career-defining song here. Where Is My Mind? has been sampled and soundtracked, but remains no more affecting than in its raw, original orchestration, its death-rattle strum and crashing, broken-glass crescendos building to something brutish and wonderful. As Frank Black, Thompson proved himself a songwriter of sophistication, but this material contains the ineffable kink that has always set him apart. And while this retrospective hardly seems a sentimental journey for him, it delivers us an evening of thrillingly unhinged, brilliantly twisted noise.
At Roundhouse, London until 3 November.
