And all of this was meant to be beneath me

Pixies tickets for October Brixton gigs went on sale today. They may have, from reports on twitter at least, already sold out. Even if they hadn’t sold out I couldn’t afford them on my current available funds.

They are, and have always been, my favourite band. That band that meant something to you when you were 18 in your room listening to Doolittle over and over again. The band that can always hit you right at the soft, gooey core of a faux-stone heart shelled over by years of cynicism and protective deflection . That heart a pretend lump of coal that wetly and redly sheds carbon and beats when Black Francis starts screaming

I! Got! Something Against Yooouuuuu!

I never saw them play. I have never seen them play. They never came to New Zealand when I lived there. There were always rumours they were going to come, first time around, but then they split and broke all our hearts. Now they’re playing in the town where I live - 20 years since Doolittle - and I can’t see them. It feels like those old feelings that I had, the self destructive and defeating ones: that the things that I really want are the things that I can never have. But I know that’s not true; it’s mostly that I’ve built the idea of seeing that band into some all consuming symbol of a great time, not just a symbol, a symbol charged with religious significance: the chance for some loudQUIETloud worship in the House of Francis,Deal,Santiago and Lovering, worship that will save me and everyone … That’s not true either, though.

Fuck it - it’s just a thing that ain’t no thing.

Tags: /disappointment /rock and fucking roll