Death to the muthafuckin’ Pixies

When I was nineteen, I was walking in to a club down town. I saw a sticker on a car window that said “You’ll never be as cool as Kim Deal.” Truer words were never spoke.

Saw the Pixies show in Columbia last Tuesday. What a fucking show!

I wanna be that short, fat, bald , white muthafucka Frank Black. Just to sing Gouge Away in front of a packed auditorium. Just to spit those lyrics and call them my own. But, alas, they’re all his. Those lyrics belong to that short, fat, bald, white muthafucka and ain’t nothing nobody can do about it.

You know the stuff you liked when you were a kid that you think you’ve grown out of, until you see it again? Then all of a sudden you’re that geeky seventeen-year-old all over. I felt that way twice this year: once watching Spider-Man 2, the other was having my crush on Kim Deal re-awakened at the concert. She’s so cute. The only thing sexier than that the sweet, angelic voice coming out of that tough, dykey, rock-chick exterior is hearing it through a professional PA system. Her voice coming out of those speakers was like a vibrator massaging me from inside my rib cage. Not a pretty analogy, but the best I can come up with. I love her smile. I love the way her microphone is a little too high so she has to crane her neck up to sing. I love the way she rocks her pelvis foward while she plays bass. The way she sings the words “debaser” or “chained” just makes my fingers numb.

She should start a power trio with Patty Schemel on drums and Ani DiFranco on gutiar and vocals. They could just call it “Orgasm”. Every lesbian in America would by a ticket to that show. Well, every lesbian and me.