Black Francis’s voice tore through the room with jagged grace, feral, melodic, unmistakable.
Some Fridays arrive pre-loaded with electricity, the kind that crackles the moment work is shrugged off and something older, louder, and long-awaited hums on the horizon.
Memories arrive first: sun-bleached afternoons, vinyl spinning endlessly, the soft crackle before Black Francis tore through the room like a sudden weather change.
Discovering an album by the Pixies on Vinyl feels like devotion.
No skipping, no fleeing, just the slow spiral of a whole story, absorbed in one breath.
The city heat pressed close as the train rattled south, mates folded into a booth built for two.
Knees touching, jokes tumbling out, that bubbling anticipation that makes everyone feel sixteen again.
The tram through Surry Hills threaded toward the Hordern with ease.
The gates were already heaving, a single creature made of elbows and excitement.
Everyone inching forward with the urgency of passengers unbuckling the moment a plane lands.
A quick escape into nearby pubs softened the wait, and by the time doors opened wide, the air had cooled into something gentler. Merch bags swung like tiny trophies.
Elliot & Vincent opened the night, a two-piece from Auckland that felt impossibly alive.
Drums and voice moving as one organism, guitar slicing through the air with clean intention.
Their chemistry felt effortless, like a second skin.
There’s a special kind of witchcraft in drumming and singing at once, half-possession, half-prayer,and her voice rose from somewhere ancient, a raw, cathartic release that left people blinking like they’d been baptised.
Their chemistry shimmered: two musicians moving like one animal with two hearts.
And then it hit: that unmistakable voice, sharper and more feral live than any speaker had ever managed.
Joey Santiago’s guitar work sliced the air clean, displaying how skillful he truly is by playing the guitar with his hat, a knowing relaxed smile gracing his face.
The stage glowed gorgeous and deliberate.
The Pixies’ signature P loomed behind them, pulsing through colours, blood-red, electric blue, ember-orange, like a heartbeat synced to each song.
And for once, the universe offered a small mercy: the crowd was surprisingly short.
Not short on spirit, but literally short.
A perfect sea of heads that fell just low enough to give a full, unobstructed view of the entire band. A rare, holy blessing in the land of general admission.
Black Francis’s voice tore through the room with jagged grace, feral, melodic, unmistakable.
Joey Santiago’s guitar work unfurled with masterful precision, notes bending and breaking like light through stained glass.
Their interplay felt like a livewire: chaos braided into beauty, punk sharpened into something mythic.
The set stretched and swelled, old songs and new stitched together, the pavilion breathing in its own rhythm.
Some nights don’t need epics or explanations.
Some nights are simply a return, to a sound that once carved itself into memory, an opener that lit the first spark, and a stage that felt, if only for an hour or two, like home.
The crowd old and young, a testament as to how popular the Pixies music remains throughout generations, no matter how you first discover them.
