The Pixies
Indie Cindy

After reading Madcat's review, which I appreciated for the indulgence shown, unlike much of the outraged press, towards a band to which I remain deeply devoted, I decided to share my thoughts on the latest album by the pixies with the intention of providing an elder's opinion on the matter. Ultimately, I imagine that two reviews on the same album aren't too many for a site named Debaser...

Putting aside doubts about the artistic urgency of making this album, doubts that were nonetheless anticipated by our Franck Black who candidly stated: "I know it's not a very punk thing to say but... I also have kids to send to college...", I wondered: if I were 18 today and listened to Indy Cindy as a newbie, how many stars would I give the album? Probably many. Ultimately, it is an intelligent and heavy rock album, a sound as charged as what Steve Albini might have wanted to achieve when they recorded Surfer Rosa, which he later disowned as stuff for chicks (poor fool...). There are still elegant and sticky choruses (Magdalena 318), the dirty and refined riffs of Joey Santiago (Greens and Blues, Jaime Bravo), intricate and unusual plots (Silver Snail), compressed or exploded rage (What Goes Boom, Blue Eyed Hexe). There are even female backing vocals, just as SHE used to do them (Bagboy - sigh!). If I were 18, it might be enough to light up my dark days (if you're 18 and don't have dark days, you can easily do without the Pixies). But not now. Not now that I know what magic is. The kind that was palpable, for example, at the Rolling Stones in Milan for the presentation of Bossanova, the four of them playing the terrible Cecilia Ann still behind the curtain, your legs trembling with emotion, Cecilia Ann ends, the curtain opens, we all scream, the relentless riff of Rock Music begins, we all kick each other as happy as kids. The magic that has infected many groups of the so-called foreign indie pop (we all know what K. K admitted) and beyond (just listen to the latest from Jokifocu).

The magic that worked for 3 and a half albums on the precarious balance between pop fantasy and punk violence in a formula that, if it hooked you, left no escape: you had to listen to Surfer Rosa, or Doolittle, or Come on Pilgrim again because each listen promised new surprises, new emotions, like a film you never tire of watching... Unfortunately, as you might have guessed, Indie Cindy does not have this effect on me, and I would like to think that it is only my fault, that I have stupidly aged... But in a way, it's as if time hasn't passed because ultimately Trompe le Monde had exactly the same effect on me. Frank Black's musical personality had overflowed, Kim Deal was relegated to the background, the magic of their violent marriage had clearly vanished, and I, who was the first in Florence to show up with my twenty thousand lire to buy the album, felt orphaned and sad. Indie Cindy, like Trompe le Monde, is a Frank Black album which, don't get me wrong, is a good thing; I love that damned fat man and he has indeed made some beautiful songs over the years, but please don't come telling me that these are the Pixies. I don't believe you.