Pixies: Trompe Le Monde

PIXIES: TROMPE LE MONDE (1991)

1) Trompe Le Monde; 2) Planet Of Sound; 3) Alec Eiffel; 4) The Sad Punk; 5) Head On; 6) U-Mass; 7) Palace Of The Brine; 8) Letter To Memphis; 9) Bird Dream Of The Olympus Mons; 10) Space (I Believe In); 11) Subbacultcha; 12) Distance Equals Rate Times Time; 13) Lovely Day; 14) Motorway To Roswell; 15) The Navajo Know.

General verdict: The Pixies get themselves a solid rocking sound for their swan song, but oddly sacrifice the hooks in favor of somewhat old-fashioned power-pop energy.

I wish I could continue the analogy that was dropped in the previous review and treat Trompe Le Monde as Pixiesʼ Abbey Road, but, in all honesty, this record is just a tad short of such a status. Perhaps a better analogy would be Pixiesʼ Let It Be, since Trompe Le Monde, too, seems to be driven by one manʼs desire to move a little closer to «the roots» and produce something a little more spontaneous, more wild, more rocking than usual. This is unquestionably the bandʼs loudest, most abrazive album, one on which they end up sounding influenced by Cheap Trick far more often than they do by Talking Heads; and while this is definitely not a problem in the large scheme of things — after all, the Pixies are a fuckinʼ rock band, are they not? — it does result in a certain lack of subtlety, and in the band occasionally slipping into the world of fairly generic rock clichés (at least, musical; «message-wise», Trompe Le Monde is still as idiosyncratically Pixies-ish as it gets).

Arguably the main reason why Trompe Le Monde, good as it is, is still the weakest Pixies album is that it is not too much of a Pixies album — it is more of a Frank Black solo album with guest musicians Kim Deal and Joey Santiago. Kim has no compositions of her own here (not sure if she was blocked by Francis or if she simply was saving them all for future Breeders records), no lead vocals, relatively few backing vocals, and even her bass lines are often relegated to purely supportive roles. And Joey, while still an essential contributor to the psychedelic textures of the music, has nowhere near as many memorable lead parts as he used to. For the most part, this is a Frank Black show all the way — his chugging rhythms, his weird vocal hooks, his twisted sense of humor, and his pissed-off attitude, of which we seem to be receiving a mighty huge dose here. You never really saw the Pixies in such a jerky mood throughout, believe me.

To try to understand what they were really going for on this album, it might make sense to begin with a comparison of their unexpected cover of The Jesus And Mary Chainʼs ʽHead Onʼ with the original. The most surprising thing is that although the cover postdates the original by two years, it actually sounds retro-fied: the JAMC version, with its heavy echo on the vocals and the drums, is immediately datable to the Eighties, while the Pixies here make it sound exactly like a Cheap Trick song circa 1977-78, with those thick, glammy guitar tones, exuberant barman-give-me-one-more-drink lead vocals, and a we-want-it-louder-than-everyone-else attitude. Could it be that a band whose purpose once seemed to be to push classic pop-rock in a futuristic direction is now showing signs of repentance, looking back at the old school glam-rock and punk-rock of the mid-Seventies as a key reference point? And could this «nostalgic reinvention» of a contemporary alt-rock hit be their flagman statement about it?

The thought hits harder when you combine it with all that anger captured on the record — anger clearly directed at none other than a large chunk of the Pixiesʼ own core audiences. Two songs stand out particularly in that respect, both of them well-known highlights of the album. One is, of course, ʽSubbacultchaʼ, an unusually straightforward (for Black) indictment of «club culture» as an excuse to find oneself a hot piece of ass — and set, might I add, to a very clearly retro melody, very reminiscent of the Modern Loversʼ ʽPablo Picassoʼ, except that first-rate production allows each rhythm and lead note to cut even sharper than Jonathan Richmanʼs band. The other one is ʽU-Massʼ, an even more vicious assault on the phoney varieties of progressive student subculture which Iʼm sure all their student audience must have loved with the exact same abandon that the Ramonesʼ core audience displayed while gleefully bopping along to ʽCretin Hopʼ and ʽTeenage Lobotomyʼ. The songʼs melody has been often compared to ʽSmells Like Teen Spiritʼ (itʼs funny that Nevermind and Trompe Le Monde were released with one dayʼs difference), but Pixies donʼt do achingly desperate grunge — they do deeply sarcastic grunge, and they play it here in such a way that the guitar chords are just as reminiscent of AC/DC and ZZ Top as they are of their own contemporary alt-rock scene.

None of this is to say that the Pixies have somehow turned into some sort of conservative musical reactionaries overnight. The music on the whole, be it the production, or the inventive weaving techniques between Black and Santiago, cannot be dismissed as a return to stale clichés; and the elements of vitriolic criticism against the bandʼs own breeding grounds still count as occasional blips among the usual sea of random impressionist imagery that covers territory all the way from the Eiffel Tower (ʽAlec Eiffelʼ) to Native American legends (ʽThe Navajo Knowsʼ). Whatever be the case, it is not very likely that a band with such a history as the Pixies could turn around and start churning out «generic rockʼnʼroll». The biggest problem is that by concentrating too much on rocking out and venting off, the Pixies slightly lost their grip on their legendary ability to create instantly captivating pop hooks. Even after a whole bunch of listens to the album, my mind still tends to remember much of it as a rather messy and monotonous sonic glop, instead of building a separate cozy cottage for each individual song.

Personally, I very much miss the stylistic diversity of Bossanova — there are, for instance, absolutely no moments of tender, subtle beauty of the ʽAnaʼ or ʽHavalinaʼ type here; not a single song, in fact, that could be labeled as a «ballad». The closest they get to being a little romantic here is on ʽMotorway To Roswellʼ, a winding epic about an alien beingʼs tragic death in an accident that does not really deserve its five-minute length — but even that one is ultimately so loud and crunchy that even its nicely placed piano flourish in the coda does not do much by way of reminding us of how tender Frank Black and the boys can be when a certain muse grabs them by the spleen. Not here. Not this time.

If you have not yet heard the album and these several paragraphs happen to be discouraging you from checking it out, though, do not be discouraged — just take a quick listen to the title track, since I think that those minute and forty seconds are perfectly representative of the album as a whole. Some thick, speedy, mammoth riffage; some flashy psychedelic guitar leads; some quirky changes in tempo; some cosmic lyrics delivered with the appropriate cosmic vocals. Itʼs a cool sound, and one that hasnʼt dated one bit in thirty years — you still have indie kids doing this kind of music to this very day. But it hasnʼt really got much to latch on to, does it? No "my boneʼs got a little machine" or "debaser, debaser!" or even a "Caribo-o-o-u!" to it. Sadly, the same type of impression applies to a good half of the album.

That said, let me quickly list a few songs which are right up there with the very best that Pixies ever put out. ʽAlec Eiffelʼ is a modest masterpiece of speedy pop-rock, sounding like a future blueprint for every fast Arcade Fire song ever made. ʽLovely Dayʼ takes the bass line of ʽYou Canʼt Hurry Loveʼ, gives it a little twist and briefly turns the Pixies into a «dark side of Motown» band. But where they really pull all the stops is on ʽSpace (I Believe In)ʼ, a one-of-a-kind mix of grunge, Goth, and psychedelic elements with the most brutally honest lyrics in the universe: "We needed something to move and fill up the space / We needed something — this always is just the case". As you can see, itʼs not about cosmic space, itʼs all about filler space, and somehow in this weird and wild universe the song that was most likely written on the spot to fill space ended up being the best number on the entire album. How can you ever forget "JEFREY WITH ONE 'F', JEFREY! JEFREY WITH ONE 'F', JEFREY!"? (Allegedly, the tablas guy who they got to play with them on the song was actually called Jef Feldman, with one 'f').

Okay, that wasnʼt too many songs, but the truth is, while I actually enjoy most of the album, somehow numbers such as ʽLetter To Memphisʼ just do not stimulate me to come up with any brilliant ideas, if you know what I mean. Quite a few people are ready to swear by Trompe Le Monde as the crowning moment of glory for the band, which stumps me — is this because of all the loudness and distortion? Because the actual songwriting is rather lazy, to be honest. One commenter on Mark Prindleʼs old review site actually confessed to loving the album because it was «MEAN and UGLY» where the previous ones were «CUTE and CLEVER» — I think this is a fairly appropriate description as far as minimalistic descriptions go, but maybe the problem is that a lot of other bands can be MEAN and UGLY like the Pixies, but very, very few can be CUTE and CLEVER like the Pixies. Just about anybody could come up with songs like ʽPlanet Of Soundʼ or ʽThe Sad Punkʼ (check out the career of Art Brut, for instance), but who the heck could come up with another ʽWave Of Mutilationʼ? Nobody has, so far.

As the final brick in the bandʼs classic house, though, Trompe Le Monde makes perfect sense: it has a sound all its own, and its raging energy guaranteed that the band would go out on a pretty powerful, if not particularly inventive, note. It was never specially planned as a swan song, and it does not sound like a swan song, but itʼs better to go out with a bang than a whimper in any case. Itʼs like ʽMotorway To Roswellʼ is an allegory for their entire journey — Trompe Le Monde is really the sound of the Pixiesʼ little flying saucer entering the atmosphere at full speed and burning up before it ever has the chance to land. I only wish I could enjoy the individual songs as much as I respect the overall idea of the album, but perhaps it is an unfortunate effect of not having had the chance to enjoy it back in 1991 — my ear being subsequently spoilt with way too much bombastic indie rock that was probably influenced by it. Then again, as I said, way too much of this album actually sounds like stuff that came before it, so itʼs all really part of that one big food chain, and maybe it is just that this particular link does not feel particularly outstanding in the larger context of swallowing and digesting.