Four Muses + four Pixies take Europe, Melody Maker, 7 May 1988
Throwing Muses and the Pixies: both New England quartets, both American 4AD acts. They shared a manager, opened for each other. But where the world needs reminding of the Muses, the Pixies are fixed in the firmament.
Idling through YouTube, I was struck by how many videos there are of teenagers doing Pixies covers. Of the late Eighties/early Nineties US “alternative” bands, barring Nirvana, the Pixies could go the furthest distance. Their appeal to kids isn’t a mystery: their songs are (seemingly) easy to play, fun to sing, geeky, filthy. They may well be heard more today, if you compare their streams to ca. 1989 US radio and MTV.
They had no childhood or regional ties. Their booking agent Jeff Craft described them in the Fool the World Pixies oral history as “four completely and totally different people. They appeared to have nothing in common at all offstage.” In 1983, at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst, Charles Thompson, a South California ex-Pentecostal and UFO believer, met Joey Santiago, whose family had fled the Philippines after Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law in 1972. Thompson was an anthropology major; Santiago studied economics. They dropped out, moved to Boston, worked in warehouses, formed a band.
They found Kim Deal, an Ohio transplant working in a Brookline doctor’s office, via an ad in the Boston Phoenix (“no chops”) and David Lovering via Deal’s then-husband, John Murphy, who’d worked with him at a Radio Shack in Burlington. Deal, a guitarist, was the bassist by default while Lovering “was always a drummer,” Murphy later said.
Rehearsing in Lovering’s parents’ garage in Burlington and in a grotty room near Fenway, the band became, in under a year, the Pixies as we know them (see this T.T. the Bear’s performance from October 1986, about a month after their first gig, & a January 1987 WERS broadcast). It was as if they’d crystallized upon forming. They’d hone a piece until it was sharp, and that was it. Live performances differed little from recordings, apart from songs sometimes going louder or faster. No jams, no improvs, no fuss. They’d do setlists in alphabetical order, slot them by length or tempo. Deal was their charismatic because she talked between songs.
Some of their influences were open—the “1-2-3-4! here’s a chorus, and another, and another” pace of the Ramones; Iggy Pop’s Tarzan yells (cf. the end of “Funtime” with “Tame”); the Cars’ “muted and clicky” rhythm guitar lines and, especially on early tracks like “The Holiday Song,” Gordon Gano’s phrasings in the Violent Femmes. Santiago and Thompson grew up listening to Sixties pop (Deal was more of a Seventies rocker; Lovering mostly liked Rush) and shared a taste for surf music, first heard in Santiago’s lead lines, later becoming a strong color in the band’s sound in Bossanova.
“If you can get it down to one chord, a beat and no melody…that’s the best song,” Thompson told Sounds in 1989. “If you can keep stripping stuff away and still have it be fascinating…like rock music that anyone can play. EAEA [thumping a table] go like this, even the drums.”
That wasn’t how his band worked, though. The Pixies were askew formalists, with Thompson comparing his songwriting to doing crossword puzzles or math equations. “I want rules, I want standards,” he said in 1990. But only to break them, such as by throwing “wrong” chords into a sequence. “There’s a lot of half-steps, a lot of chords that don’t theoretically go with the key, but it seems to work,” Santiago said in 2008.
More often, it meant monkeying with structure. Shifting time signatures, for instance: see the long outro of “No. 13 Baby,” which moves to 2/4 every fourth bar (same as in the verse of “River Euphrates”); the shift to 6/4 in the first three bars of the refrains of “Wave of Mutilation”; the 6/8 “CB break” in “Trompe le Monde.”
They’d screw a five-chord progression into a four-beat measure or stretch a three-chord progression over four bars: see “I’ve Been Tired,” where “a four-chord sequence would sound natural, we’ll turn it into a three-chord sequence, make it trip over itself…it’s kind of religious sounding,” Thompson said. There’s “Velouria,” whose verse chord progression is at odds with its vocal line (five bars for chords, four for vocals—they soon go out of sync; also the case in “Gouge Away”); the seven-bar 3/4 verses of “Silver”; “Tame” and “Hey,” with their three-bar refrains whose repeats sound as if they’re showing up too soon. “We knock off two beats here on some lines and not necessarily go four, so we have all these twists and turns,” Santiago said.
It’s where Lovering was most valuable—he’s always right on the beat, whatever the song gets up to, and slips in fills when things need a boost, as if he’s working a bellows (he used mallets on floor tom and snare for a fatter sound on the likes of “Wave of Mutilation”). His only reported struggle was on “Havalina,” where Thompson wanted him to do fills in 4/4 while everyone else was in 6/4 (“we ended up playing a bunch of chords in 4, had David do the fills, and then we recorded our real parts in 6,” Thompson told Melody Maker in 1991).
The poster that roiled Boston, 1987: the band wrote the setlist for the “Purple Tape” session on the back of one
Thompson—a modest-looking man who’d won a “teenager of the year” award from the Kiwanis Club of Westport, Massachusetts—had a burrowing, scrabbling verse voice, sometimes vaulting up and down an octave (from “air” to “ground” in “Where Is My Mind”). He sang refrains as if someone gored him in the navel with a corkscrew. “This mass of screaming flesh,” as his fan David Bowie once described him.
The producer Gary Smith recalled that, when introducing a new song, Thompson “would get excited and stand inches away from my face with an acoustic guitar and say ‘and now it’s going to go BLAH-HA’ and he would do this chorus to the point where you could see his uvula.” He decided to call himself Black Francis when the band was designing their demo’s cassette cover; he took his stage name from a never-born sibling (his father had told him it was what he’d have called another son).
I was trying on clothes in an Old Navy and in the hallway between fitting rooms a boy walked back and forth, repeating door numbers. Five. Six. Seven…FIVE. SIX. SEVEN! [whine] Fiiiiive! [shriek] SIX!!! [bigger shriek] SEH-VEN!!!! That’s the heart of Thompson’s phrasings—this scraping against boredom, this rosy delight in being an irritant. “The pure satisfaction of screaming,” as he told Simon Reynolds in 1988. He’s picking at scabs: Elevator lady elevator lady elevator lady elevator lady ladylevitateme. Ri–ri–ri–ri ri–ri–ri–ri ri-ri-ri–ri ri–ri-ri–ri. Choruses are when they bleed: Uh huh huh uh huh huh uh huh huh uh huh huh: TAHYYYYYYYYYYYME. If the devil is SIX, then GOD IS SEH-VEN! IF GODDD IS SEH-VEN…
It culminates in “Debaser” which, as Santiago told Ben Sisario in the latter’s book on Doolittle, is “the whole formula of the Pixies, that one song…All the sound qualities are there.” A box is built: two bars of bass, two bars + lead guitar, four + drums, four + rhythm guitar and percussion. In it, Thompson’s flipping through television channels, flicking from Un Chien Andalou (“slicin’ up eyeballs! Hah-hah-hah-ho!”) to Purple Rain (“shed, Apollonia!” was a mooted opening line for the refrain). He wants to grow up, not to be some respectable member of society, but a canker sore in it, a worm, a rotter, a befouler. He longs for his diseased future. “De-base-er!” he screams in a cracked joy, while Deal quietly repeats the word after him, as if soothing a disturbed child.
Mainstream guitar had a lot of typewriting skills. They were typing as fast as they can, and I couldn’t hear it. The only thing that was impressive about it for me was the speed – how can they play so fast? But in the back of my mind I was like, ‘I don’t care’. It just wasn’t my thing. I’m more like a classic rock guy. You gotta hear some riffs or something you’re going to remember, and that requires less notes.
Joey Santiago, 2018
Santiago, self-professed non-ace guitarist (“there are enough real guitarists already”), is the hero of the Pixies. He was a scrapper, checking out records from the library and fastening on chords that sounded good: “it’s all derived from guitar moments that perk my ears up.” Hearing the VU’s “White Light/White Heat” he felt, for the first time, “this is doable. I can get my hands around this.” He grabbed “octave thingies” from Wes Montgomery and Jimi Hendrix records; the latter also gave him the dominant 7#9 chord (used on “Here Comes Your Man” and “Tame,” among many Pixies tracks).
It’s lead guitar with the boring bits cut out: all jump-cut riffs, the quick-change of a few chords, speedshots along the high E string, torturing a few notes for a fill, making songs uneasy by, as on “River Euphrates,” picking between root notes and leading tones.
The bass in Pixies is just glue; that’s all it is. It’s not supposed to be something else.
Kim Deal, 2004
Where did Deal fit in? Her bass style (initially she played an odd-sounding Aria Pro II Cardinal Series borrowed from her twin sister; she had a 1962 Fender Precision on Doolittle, a Music Man StingRay on Bossanova, and even a Steinberger on Trompe le Monde) was to play steady eighth notes. “I am good at that, aren’t I? It’s not easy to do. A lot of players lag behind. It’s so irritating. And they’re playing with their fingers, so they never really get a good attack at the top, and one hit is louder than the other,” she told Bass Player in 2004. She’s the deep current that propels songs (and holds it together in the middle of the Surfer Rosa “Vamos“), locking in on Lovering’s kick drum wherever he might be.
Because she’d only taken up bass for the Pixies gig, she didn’t have reverence for it. “I can step back and look at the instrument.” She saw no point in trying to be a virtuoso, but was happy to play a “static, groovy thing…We’re not a dance band. It would be awful to try to play some sort of interesting, intricate rhythm over a 4/4 drumbeat with the hi-hat constantly on the eighth-note.”
Pixies as normcore pioneers, ca. 1989
Everything we did was with the Pixies and they had three boys and one girl, and we had three girls and one boy, so we just kind of made one gender!
Kristin Hersh, 1994
Throwing Muses were their benefactors. After seeing the Pixies at the Rat (“when they walked onstage I thought they were all lesbians”), Hersh told her band’s manager Ken Goes that he should take on the Pixies; Gary Smith, who’d cut the Muses’ “Doghouse” demo, cut the Pixies’ “Purple Tape” demo in the same Roxbury studio, Fort Apache; said demo led the Muses’ label head, 4AD’s Ivo Watts-Russell, to sign the Pixies.
“The Muses had cut the trail….It was far easier for [the Pixies] to get to the same point in their careers than it had been for Kristin and Tanya and company,” said the late Joe Harvard, who co-founded Fort Apache. “There was no question…that they would have gotten there eventually, but [Smith’s] efforts on their behalf probably saved the Pixies a year or more in an industry where timing is everything.”
Watts-Russell also had learned from working with the Muses (“they were kind of the trial run for the Pixies in a lot of ways”). Rather than having the Pixies remake their demo, he picked what he thought were the tape’s eight strongest tracks and issued them in September 1987 as a 12″ EP, Come On Pilgrim (a reference to Christian rock musician Larry Norman’s “Watch What You’re Doing” and, given Thompson’s lyrics, an unavoidable double entendre).
It was the Pixies in twenty minutes: incest, screaming, disease, Spanish phrases, sexual frustration, loathing, guitar runs, whores, death, Deal harmonies. “When you don’t use physical imagery, you just end up talking about, you know, emotions and everything,” Thompson said in 1988. “But ‘Broken Face’…people understand what a broken face is.”
Meet the Pixies: their first Melody Maker cover, 19 March 1988
Within six months came Surfer Rosa, their debut LP, recorded in the South End of Boston by Steve Albini (4AD went with him because their warehouse manager was a Big Black fan). “He’s like this brainiac, about six foot tall but only 80 pounds, always reading, always figuring out manuals to see how things work,” Thompson said. The band had been using tiny amps (“that was how they got their reputation: underutilized equipment,” Murphy said) until Albini pushed for them to get Marshalls for the record, on which he made them gargantuan: guitars shearing through the mix, Lovering’s kick drum sounding like a giant knocking at a basement door.
Albini, in a 1991 Forced Exposure interview, bashed the Pixies as being sellouts “anxious to be led around by their nose rings” (he later apologized, and Deal would work with him several more times). The tension of Surfer Rosa is that of a producer who seems as interested in recording the sound of the room as he is the band playing in it, whose performances he graded either “pussy” or “non-pussy.” The album was a documentary short of a rapidly-developing band, shot in black and white, with hard cuts. Snippets of studio dialogue (Deal: “all...I…know is that there were rumors he was into field hockey players…it was so hush-hush“; Thompson: “I said you fucking die!”) were as memorable as its lesser tracks. “Because they had developed as bedroom players, they had distinct styles,” Albini told Spin in 2004. “People who taught themselves to play had an advantage because they wouldn’t be mimicking.”
Pixies around the time of Surfer Rosa‘s release, spring 1988 (Millicent Harvey)
Triumphs were “Cactus,” blueprint of the “whispered verse/ exploding refrain” style the Pixies bestowed upon the Nineties; a remade “Vamos,” on which Santiago and Albini literally pieced together a solo (Santiago played fragments, which Albini distorted or played backwards, then edited together on quarter-inch tape); Albini turning “Something Against You” into a noise-pop blast worthy of Husker Du; the cheery filth of “Bone Machine” (as per Thompson, “the hips of a woman…it’s an obscene song”), and the grand “illicit lust” piece “Gigantic,” recorded mostly in an industrial bathroom. Deal, given a title by Thompson, first thought of writing about a gigantic mall until she recalled the Sissy Spacek film Crimes of the Heart, where a married woman sleeps with a teenager. She’s only narrating the song, but sounds so delighted for the lovers in it, cheering them on, singing with this wild, goofy elation.
Phil Nicholls’ contact sheet for a Melody Maker feature, May 1988 (via KH Archives)
There’s the legend that the upstart Pixies, opening for Throwing Muses in a spring 1988 UK/European tour, blew the latter off the stage, soon demoting the Muses to their opening act. Watts-Russell said this wasn’t quite the case: that in the UK, the Muses held their own, and that the swap in headliners was owed to dismal European promotion of the Muses by their label there, Warner.
But the Pixies were connecting with audiences harder, with moshing crowds singing along to “Where Is My Mind” and “Gigantic.” Thompson said it felt like being in the Pogues; Deal said she found it weird when crowds cheered them as they walked on stage (“why are they applauding? We haven’t even played yet.”) Where Kristin Hersh filled her songs with dense lyrics to honor the Muses’ “make each bar complicated” credo, Thompson kept his words simple—the fewer you sang, the better. It let Pixies songs translate easily. Even if you had no idea what he was singing about, you could soon latch onto something—break my body, hold my bones!—and hurl it back at him.
“I honestly didn’t have a problem with the Pixies headlining but it was awkward at times, not between bands but within our band,” the Muses’ David Narcizo told Martin Aston. “The Muses was Kristin’s baby and she struggled with it.” For her part, Hersh told Aston that “to follow Pixies, it’s hard for audiences to get down and listen to subtleties when they want to crash some more. But it was such a great high to see a band that you love play before you play yourself.”
The bands ended their tour in May 1988 at different stations: the Muses would continue to struggle in the US; the Pixies were ready to jump to another tier. “After that tour, it was over, it was really over,” Hersh said in Fool the World. “They were always rock stars, they were rock stars from day one, and they expected people to like them, they expected to be valuable. We just felt like we were on our own planet.”
When they cut Doolittle at the end of 1988, again mostly in Boston, Thompson was at a boil—he’d written a batch of new songs, often so brutally short that the producer Gil Norton begged for some solos and second verses just to hit the two-minute mark. The lyrics were more elaborately surreal. “Dead” is the story of David and Bathsheba as told by a lunatic; “There Goes My Gun” is a murder in a sentence (Yoo hoo! Looka me! Frienda foe? BANG); “No. 13 Baby” is a memory of falling in love with a Samoan-American girl next door in Los Angeles (“six foot girl gonna/ sweat when she dig/ Stand close to the fire/ when they light the pig”).
Of course, this was mostly discernible via Thompson’s interviews—I’d long thought the last verse of “Dead,” which concerns the death of Bathsheba’s husband Uriah (“Uriah hit the crapper”), was Thompson singing “you are a hippo-crapper.”
As Pixies songs were formalist games, so were Thompson’s lyrics—structural restrictions meant as much as his words: “I Bleed,” with its AABCBDD rhyme scheme; “Ana” whose acrostic lines spell “surfer”; “Hang Wire,” whose first verses are haiku; the B-side “The Thing,” written as a sonnet.
In Doolittle, the body horror and self-revulsion of the first Pixies songs—-incestual lusts, masochistic urges, Thompson’s hunger to peel off his skin—broadens into a decaying world, aided by Norton’s overdub-heavy production. A businessman drives into the ocean, which is so polluted with sludge that it’s killed Neptune and his daughter. Even “Here Comes Your Man,” the would-be pop hit (“the Tom Petty song,” as they called it, though it’s more a sharp R.E.M. parody, from boxcars to Peter Buck guitar lines to Michael Stipe ah-hooos), ends with an earthquake.
The Pixies’ fun fourth, 1988
By the mixing of Doolittle, a foundation crack was visible: Thompson and Deal were growing estranged.
It started when 4AD chose “Gigantic” as the single off Surfer Rosa. The only song that Deal co-wrote and sang lead on became the Pixies’ most popular track. When Thompson met his idol Iggy Pop, Pop raved about the song Thompson didn’t sing. Deal’s stage presence was also, apparently, bugging him—he once griped that fans would cheer when Deal smoked a cigarette. She was the band’s open face, having a whale of a time, cracking up, grinning, yelling “hi!” between songs (Hersh recalled Deal constantly saying “we’re the Pixies!” at their first Rat gig), yet still enigmatic. To little surprise, she was the main visual interest in a band that looked rooted to the stage.
The core problem was that Thompson and Deal were temperamentally bandleaders, and it was Thompson’s band. For Deal, something she’d joined as a lark had become an all-consuming job, with no outlet for her songwriting. Soon after she started a side project [see Quartet 2(b)], she was nearly fired from the Pixies, who’d relocated to Los Angeles in early 1990 without telling her. A meeting in LA brokered by a lawyer managed to keep the band together, but whatever camaraderie had existed was dead. (Thompson reportedly wanted to fire her again just before recording Trompe le Monde.)
So she got pushed into the background, having no more lead vocals on albums after “Silver.” The sibling-like interplay of her and Thompson’s harmonies grew formal on Bossanova and she’s all but a ghost on Trompe le Monde, where Thompson sang most of what would have been her parts and scotched Norton’s bid to have her sing “Bird Dream of the Olympus Mons,” which Norton thought better suited her voice.
To Option in January 1991, Thompson described a band who seemed on the verge of being renamed Black Francis and (Some Of) the Pixies:
It kind of pisses me off when people ask me, ‘why aren’t there more Kim songs on the record?’ It’s like, I write the songs—it’s always been that way, and why shouldn’t it be?…Why should that change?…People have this notion that a band has to be this democratic unit, like’s it’s some kind of rule or something…This band was never a democracy…Joey and I were friends, and then the other two joined up. And if anybody has a problem with that, they can leave, y’know? I’m the president, Joey’s the vice-president. That’s the way it is.
Bob Stanley parses Bossanova for Melody Maker, 11 August 1990
The records were taking longer to make and costing far more, with the band using multiple studios on different continents (as per Sisario, Doolittle‘s production cost was roughly $40,000 while Bossanova‘s was $200,000 and Trompe le Monde‘s was over $250,000.) Doolittle was the last album the Pixies thoroughly demoed before recording. Thompson drew from a pile of old compositions (“Subbacultcha,” “Dig For Fire,” “U-Mass,” “Down to the Well,” among others) and wrote some new pieces in the brief rehearsals for Bossanova.
Bossanova, cut in Los Angeles in spring 1990 (the Muses were making The Real Ramona there at the time; the bands lived in the same apartment complex), was a retrenchment. Thompson felt pressured to top “Monkey Gone to Heaven,” whose spirit instead diffused into their quietest, prettiest record—sequence the songs seemingly named after women (though “Allison” is about Mose and “Havalina” a wild pig), and you have their most charming miniature. The album also had “The Happening,” their first true dud, a song in which weirdness curdles into banality.
Pixies gone Hollywood (Kevin Westenberg for Melody Maker, 11 August 1990)
By the time he cut Trompe le Monde a year later, Thompson had gone from writing during rehearsals to full-on studio improvisations. Norton would record drum tracks for songs that didn’t have melodies, the band tracked their parts at different times, and Thompson brought in Eric Drew Feldman for keyboards and synths. He’d whisk together lyrics at the mike. It could be inspired; it’s also why he’s riffing on the tabla player’s name (Jefrey, with one F) in “Space.”
It would be a double-LP to rival Zen Arcade, or an “eight-track punk album,” Thompson said during its making; Trompe le Monde wound up as another 14-track Pixies album that sagged on its second side. It’s their most guitar-crazy record, with Santiago having a go at heavy metal, doing hammer-ons, pull-offs and fretboard taps (“Trompe le Monde is hilarious,” he said in 2004. “There’s so much shredding on it!”). It didn’t sound like a last record as much as a transition piece, one which led nowhere (though it previewed Thompson’s solo years).
An “our car broke down in the desert” press photo as a sign of band spirits, 1991
Opening for U2 in their spring 1992 tour was supposed to break the Pixies at last (Elektra head Bob Krasnow, looking for a Nirvana on his label, put chips on them). And it did, just not commercially. Taking an arena-level opening gig was often dispiriting for Eighties “indie” bands—see the Replacements opening for Tom Petty in 1989. Nothing brought home your relative insignificance like playing your 120 Minutes hit to a two-thirds-empty stadium in daylight.
Even Saint Patrick’s Day at the Boston Garden—the hometown Pixies, opening for U2 on Boston’s carnival night—was the same empty rows of seats and tepid applause, Lovering said. A snarky U2 cover article in Spin by Deal’s then-boyfriend Jim Greer (cover tag: “The Story They Didn’t Want You to Read”), which recounted such gripes as the Pixies being called “Support Act” in tour materials, didn’t help.
At the Commodore Ballroom in Vancouver, on 25 April 1992, the band closed with “Vamos” and “U-Mass.” Thompson said he wanted a sabbatical, changed his stage name to Frank Black, spent the rest of the year making a solo album, and in January 1993, on a BBC radio show, claimed he’d killed the Pixies via fax. After this interview, Deal called Santiago to ask if he’d heard the Pixies had broken up.
Reunited: well, for a while. Washington DC, 1 December 2009 (Angie Garrett)
They got back together in 2004. Some of it was for the money, some of it was getting over, or papering over, old quarrels, some of it was validation. Doolittle had sold over a thousand copies a week, on average, in the late Nineties (it was certified platinum last year, while Surfer Rosa went gold in 2005). A generation who had been in embryo or kindergarten during the Pixies years had discovered the band second-hand, whether via older siblings’ CDs or hearing “Where Is My Mind” in Fight Club. “For some reason, over the decade we got popular,” Deal said in a Spin profile pegged to the reunion.
They played Coachella and were treated like the Rolling Stones, though a documentary of the 2004 tour showed a band who still acted like strangers off-stage (the New York Times: “Boring people who made extraordinary music, the Pixies are inexplicable.”) For years they sporadically considered making an album, while the only new music they issued in the 2000s was Deal’s fun “Bam Thwok,” rejected by the Shrek 2 soundtrack.
They finally decided to cut some new songs. Recording in Wales one day in spring 2013, the Pixies broke for dinner. Deal paid, and the next day she quit and flew home. “All we could do was ask her and plead with her, “Please, come on, Kim.” Like that. That was a decision she made and she left,” Lovering told Billboard in 2016. “Whether she didn’t like the music, or felt she didn’t want to go on—there’s nothing we can do about it and we just wish her well.” (Thompson described “All I Think About Now,” a song on their 2016 album Head Carrier that recycles the “Where Is My Mind” riff, as a “sort-of thank you letter to Kim.”)
It was ironic: after everything, Deal would fire herself from the band. She had her own to reunite, and apparently was skeptical about the worth of doing a new Pixies album. One new song, “Indie Cindy,” was a plea to a younger audience, its sentiment that of Iggy Pop in Lust for Life: fall in love with me (again).
New four (Q, November 2016).
Instead, the three Pixies EPs issued in 2013 and 2014 got some of the last great Pitchfork pans to date (the first EP was rated 1.0!). It was a band sounding vaguely like themselves, as if working based on others’ recollections—a Pixies with less vocal range, less dynamics, moving slower, having fewer hooks; like a harbinger of FaceApp. Things brightened when Paz Lenchantin joined, first as a touring bassist and then full-time member (she replaced Kim Shattuck, sacked after three months (“Personality-wise, [Shattuck’s] very west coast, she’s very extrovert. We’re very east coast, very introvert,” Thompson told the Guardian in 2014. Lenchantin, an Argentine-born west coaster, appears to have worked out, though).
The Pixies have been back for fifteen years now, far longer than they were originally together. I saw them not long ago, at Smith College. The crowd was about two-thirds middle-aged, the rest teenagers and college kids. The band was solid, were shrouded in dry ice much of the time, mostly did the old stuff. The likes of “Where Is My Mind,” “Bone Machine,” “Wave of Mutilation,” ringing one after the other through a college auditorium, felt as storied as a “Fortunate Son” or “Jack and Diane.” It was as if they’d become classic rock standards by sublimation.
They didn’t engage the crowd until the close of the encore, when they said thanks and took a bow. In a way, they have become their own tribute band, and there are worse fates.