Death to the Pixies

When I was in primary school I was an avid watcher of movies like Pretty in Pink, 16 Candles and, later, Beverly Hills 90210. Like most tweens I laboured under the misapprehension that when I was a teenager, my life would be as exciting, my skin as clear and clothing as beautiful as the actors I was watching. No one told me, back then, that the actors playing teens were in fact in their 30s because, quite frankly, teenagers are, on the whole, an unattractive group. Most teens are beset by acne, an odd body odour, mood swings and have more metal in their mouths than Mr T had on his body. When I finally became a teen and discovered these rude truths, I felt justifiably angry and robbed of a life about which I had dreamed. Like most teens, I then retreated to my room to listen to music and complain about "the man", not to return for a few years. During those years of living in my cave, I discovered the Pixies. With the same passion with which I hated "the man" I loved the Pixies. I spent hours sitting in my room, listening to their acclaimed 1989 album, Doolittle, and singing along to every song, finding meaning in every word. It didn't matter that the Pixies formed in 1986, when I was only 5 years old. Nor did it matter that they disbanded in 1993, when I was 12, and so about the time I started listening to their albums. It just made my passion all the greater, knowing that the Pixies were both physically (being a Boston band) and temporally out of my reach.

In short, the passion with which I loved the Pixies was that passion that only a teenager has. The overwhelming, intoxicating and almost painful sort of passion that seems to dissipate from your body the day you can legally drink alcohol. While I am now passionate about such important things as a 10 course degustation with matching wines, it is unlikely to bring me to tears the way the pixies did. Or at least, the tears are more likely to have to do with the 10 glasses of wine than any overwhelming passion for the wine or food.

I still love the Pixies. Part of that is the music and part of it is the nostalgia - the moment I hear a Pixies song, it brings back waves of memory of the passion I had for the band as a teenager. I was therefore more than a little excited when I heard the Pixies were reforming in celebration of the 20th Anniversary of Doolittle, and touring through England to boot. The day tickets went on sale G and I were on the tickets phone queue with the best of them, and managed to purchase tickets within the ten minutes it took for the tickets to sell out.

Wednesday night was the big night, and to say I was excited is an understatement. I harnessed the spirit of my teenage self and, after downing a few drinks for encouragement, went to the Brixton Academy ready to dance and scream. And dance and scream I did. The crowd was mainly people my age and older - a crowd who largely abandoned their ties for the night to scream along to the songs and dance the night away. I was proudly at the front, still able to remember every word to every song. I left the gig utterly exhausted, drenched in sweat, with bruised ribs and a horse voice. It was everything I'd ever dreamed and more.

I'm not sad that I've lost the ability I had as a teenager to feel that overwhelming and intoxicating passion. Especially given that it came hand in hand with an overwhelming and intoxicating sense of angst and anger at the world. However, it was truly great to be able to relive a bit of that passion as an adult, and to have a toast to my teenage self as I screamed along to the Pixies on Wednesday night.