June 12th, 2024 – Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, turned into a chaotic nexus of sound and sweat last night as the Pixies and Modest Mouse descended upon the Mann Center.
The air was thick with anticipation or humidity (your pick) and the sweet tang of beer as I ushered my way through the throngs of fans. Old-school Pixies devotees, clad in faded “Surfer Rosa” tees, mingled with the younger, plaid-wearing Modest Mouse disciples. It was a motley crew, united by a shared hunger for auditory transcendence.
Photos by Keith Baker ( @avgjoe_photo ) + Article by @a.j.kinney
Modest Mouse
First up, Modest Mouse. The stage lights dimmed, the air buzzed with a different kind of energy. Modest Mouse emerged, and the shift was palpable. Isaac Brock, wild-eyed and frenetic, commanded the stage like a deranged ringmaster. The opening notes of “The Stars Are Projectors” sent a shiver through the crowd, a slow burn that built into an uncontrollable blaze.
As Modest Mouse launched into “Dashboard,” the energy peaked, a fever pitch of pure, unadulterated joy and madness. The night air crackled with electricity, the crowd a live wire, feeding off the band’s intensity. It was a communion, a shared journey through the highs and lows of the human experience.
Brock’s voice—sharp, jagged, like a rusty blade—cut through the humid night. “Float On” was a euphoric explosion, a communal howl of defiance and hope. The band’s sprawling soundscapes, intricate and expansive, contrasted sharply with the Pixies’ raw minimalism. It was a yin-yang of the alt-rock universe, each band highlighting the other’s strengths through their differences.
When the final notes of “Float On” faded into the night, there was a moment of stunned silence, a collective breath held. Then the applause, deafening, reverberating through the night. We were all changed, baptized in the holy waters of rock ‘n’ roll.
Pixies
Then came the transition. Black Francis, a mad prophet with a guitar, stormed the stage with the ferocity of a man possessed. The opening riff of “Waves of Mutilation” hit like a lightning bolt, electrifying the crowd. Kim Deal’s absence was felt, but Paz Lenchantin’s basslines were a salve, a throbbing heartbeat that kept the chaos from tipping into anarchy. “Here Comes Your Man” washed over us, a melodic tsunami, while “Where Is My Mind?” sent us spiraling into a collective existential crisis. It was a beautiful, brutal cacophony, like watching a car crash in slow motion and not being able to look away.
The Mann Center, an oasis in the urban sprawl, became a cauldron of emotion. The acoustics, perfect for the venue, amplified every note, every scream, every whisper. Fans clung to each other, swaying, moshing, losing themselves in the music. It was a shared experience, a moment in time where nothing else mattered.
The Pixies’ set was a rollercoaster through a surreal landscape—jagged, dissonant, yet oddly comforting in its familiarity. Francis’s voice, alternately a guttural growl and a haunting wail, was the guiding beacon through this twisted terrain. The crowd, a seething mass of bodies, moved as one, caught in the centrifugal force of the music. It was raw, it was primal, it was everything rock ‘n’ roll should be.
Standout moments included two covers, first “In Heaven (Lady in the Radiator Song)” by Peter Ivers & David Lynch. And then finally the encore; “Winterlong” by Neil Young.
Walking out of the Mann Center, the world felt different. The music still thrummed in my veins, a reminder of the night’s chaos and beauty. The Pixies and Modest Mouse had delivered a masterclass in storytelling, a blast from the past through the sublime and the savage. This my friends is what it’s all about—the unfiltered, unvarnished, gloriously messy experience of live music. And damn, if it didn’t feel like the best kind of madness.
