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The crowd was subdued, but anxious. A bunch of us were at the bar trying to reclaim a door to 1990 via vodka tonics and Corona Light. The bouncers were letting groups of us out in small waves, knowing full well we’d be walking around the adjacent blocks sharing joints and hits of X. These were cool bouncers acting appropriately with a mellow crowd. We were almost too mellow, knowing exactly what we were in for. Doolittle.

I saw Bruce about a month ago knowing he was going to play Born to Run as a full set. Bruce bookends his sets with surprises, though. That’s how he gets goosebumps out of the crowd—by playing Rosie right after Jungleland.

This show was different. First of all, it didn’t take place in a concrete cereal bowl full of 80,000 people. It took place on a small stage in front of about 2,000 clued in fans starving for a different form of nostalgia. Something more akin to rebirth—not an acknowledgement of what had happened before—more like a revisit to some friends who no one fully appreciated at their peak. We thought The Pixies would be here forever to wrap our brains in Christmas tree lights. Turned out this was looking more and more like a last flicker of a tiny blue flame.

Second of all, I wasn’t baked out of my brain for some reason. I definitively imbibed more, but since I finished working for awhile I think I’m building up a resistance. The X might have had something to do with it, too. I didn’t have any urge to drink or smoke up, though the occasional Newport had me virtually writhing in menthol ecstasy.

I was offered a few lines but declined. Thou shalt not mix X and snow, lest your libido become an unpredictable blizzard. You’ll also end up with a blazing headache and a raging boner the next day—not a pleasant combo if you want to sleep, get laid, or all of the above.

They played Doolittle in its entirety, B sides included as well as the surf version of Wave of Mutilation. I felt old, and I think the band did, too. Francis was in fine voice. Joey was shy. David was thrashing. Kim was a goddess. There were some youngin’s there trying to mosh, but nothing much came of it.

All in all, it was like traveling through a time portal back to Boston circa 1989. The X and weed helped. But nothing could bring me back to those days of first discovering them via the purple cassette. That tape has long since been chewed by an old Toyota Celica I still have never forgiven for dining on my first beloved Pixies album and losing its transmission in one horrid day back in 1992. I finally realized after the show that it was time to move on. To where, I don’t know. Lucky for me, I have a wide open future.

I felt close to Kurdt and refelt his 1994 suicide the whole way home. I still want to grow up to be a debaser. I don't know about you but I am un chien andalusia. I want you to know.