Even the Weirdos Have a Place

Jane's Addiction at Aloha Tower in 1991 was my first concert. It was so exhilarating-- the crowds, the sweat, my friends, and the ANTICIPATION! Holy shit, I was so excited! It was to be the band's last show together. It was a farewell. And I had nothing to compare it to at the time, but the band seemed to embrace the goodbye sentiment. They were beautiful. They were stellar. Perry got naked. And this show would be the standard against which I would measure all other shows.

I cannot believe how lucky I have been that my first live concert was my favorite band, and I got to see them with all my besties of the time. I remember standing there, basking, letting the music wash over my fucking body and being fully aware that my friends were right there beside me. Like being on the receiving end of a Care Bear stare.

 
I've seen many bands in concert since then, and only a few have really hit that high mark. Weezer, Pearl Jam, No Doubt. Jack Johnson. 

And now fucking Pixies.

Bucket list band, them.

I have been waiting to see the Pixies since, I don't know, I was 16? Over 3 decades, yo. I played and replayed Doolittle a gazillion times on bus rides and late nights, lying in the dark. I danced to "Here Comes Your Man" at so many RFH events. I realized that I could play "Wave of Mutilation" on my ukulele. I fell in love with Kim Deal's haunting vocals.

And when I think of the Pixies, I am reminded of my youth. I see myself in denim shorts, leggings, and my fake Converse. That feeling of having my life in my backpack, and as long as I had a book, batteries in my Walkman, and a bus pass in my pocket, I could do anything. I could go anywhere. Anything and everything was possible.

I went to see the Pixies at the Republik last night, the last day of November 2025, with my friends, Meredith and Melissa. I donned my denim shorts, leggings, and Vans (in lieu of fake Cons), and in true old lady fashion, I even took a nap before we went.

 
But you know what I remembered? Sweaty bras. Oh my god, sweaty bras. And I worried that not knowing the band's newer songs, I'd be bored. Or at least LOST. I wasn't! Instead, listening to the stuff I didn't know, it reminded me why I've loved them for so long. They're so weird and loud. They are a dramatic mix of seemingly opposing forces-- loud/soft, melodic/discordant-- and Francis Black's singing and then screeching. And none of it feels out of place. I got lost in it last night. I felt it. It felt like a big fucking hug.

I didn't know anyone else in that crowd except for my two friends. I didn't feel any particular affection from the band, even. But that big hug? It felt like acceptance. "Even the weirdos have a place. Even the weirdos belong."

 
I'm not trying to wax poetic. I felt this after the Jane's Addiction concert, and I wrote about it then, too. I wrote a paper in my 10th grade English class and it was posted up on the wall with everyone else's work. I'm not making this up. This stuff MOVES.

In the crank of the guitar, in the crack of Francis Black's howl, the resonance of the bass and drums, I felt weird and seen and embraced. And, unbelievably, seen BY ME. Embraced BY ME. Like, a knowing. An acknowledgement. I needed the music that loud, that abrasive (and also, conversely, so sweet and gentle), I needed to see a grown man howl and screech on stage in order to see myself. (Not so unlike when Harry Potter had to open the egg underwater). These unique conditions happened and I could see part of myself usually quite well hidden. 

Anyway, I loved it. I loved the company. I loved hearing my favorites blowing out my eardrums. I really really wanted Kim Deal there, but I wasn't mad. And the band sounded amazing.