Review Summary: Sometimes B-Sides are B-Sides for a reason
Pixies are a band that have attained a renown that would make introductory patter futile. Essential? Not quite the descriptor. Seminal? Nah, but we're getting close. They're ***ing canonical? Bingo. Fin. End of story. Good night ladies and gentlemen, thank you for playing. And, without meaning to bore you by getting all intimate this early in the game, they're irreplacably, irrevocably essential to me on a personal level too. My formative years were spent poring over their oeuvre with a kind of fanaticism unusual outside of religious institutions. I foisted my copy of Surfer Rosa on friends, acquaintances, family members, recommended it glowingly to meet-onces at parties. 'Soppy and sentimental clap-trap, get on with it' I hear you murmur while glancing at your watch, and I know, I know. But- there's that 2.0 at the top of the screen, and with a band as widely beloved as the Pixies are, that's going to take some explaining. Such is my loyalty to them that I feel treasonous, almost blasphemous, stating outright as I am that this collection of B-Sides is all too mediocre.
And yet, and yet. It is not as though the collection is entirely unsalvagable – it gets off to an excellent start with alternate versions to two of my Surfer Rosa picks (the tragically under-appreciated River Euphrates and a live rendition of Vamos) and continues along this trajectory for a short time. A menacing, goosebumps-inducing rendition of 'In Heaven' (David Lynch fans who haven't yet heard it; yes, it is THAT In Heaven) segues (or about-faces, rather) into a marvelous example of the group at their most poppy, the giddy Manta Ray. And then things take a drastic downward spiral of quality. Nearly all of the remainder of the tracks meander drearily, and do little (HA!) to this listener. Some, like 'Dancing the Manta Ray' and 'Bailey's Walk', have glimmers of genius in them that remain agonizingly unfulfilled. Others, as much as it pains me to say it, are just dreadful. There are a few rays of light sprinkled here and there. 'Into the White' and 'Winterlong', both good enough to justifiably be added to their greatest hits compilation; a 'UK Surf', or mellowed, version of fan favourite 'Wave of Mutilation'; an instrumental version of 'Letter to Memphis', the superior holistic sum of which can be found on Trompe le Monde. And yet, with songs as atrocious and dull as 'Weird at my school' and 'Make Believe' surrounding them, they feel like chocolate sprinkles on a turd.
Once again though: and yet, and yet. Although it's undoubtedly a compliment with a sting in its teeth, this selection of B-Sides demonstrates the craftsmanship of the Pixies in constructing their studio albums. It offers an insight into the method behind their madness, their savvy ears and judicious choices. As it turns out, they were a discerning band as well as a magnificent one. That they could distinguish between their greater and lesser works is a testaments to the band; and in a very weird way, makes this the most indispensable 'bad' album I own. Not that it needs to be heard exactly- the likes of Surfer Rosa and Doolittle are more than capable of being judged solely on their own merits, although hearing what didn't make the cut does bolster them further somewhat. That this collection offers insight into a band that is, to my mind, one of the most essential and important ever, renders it strangely important regardless of quality.
...Or maybe i'm clutching at straws. That's a possibility too.
