Pixies
– Doolittle
Some albums whisper, some seduce, some take their time. Doolittle kicks down the door, grins in your face, and hurls surrealist nightmares wrapped in sugar-coated hooks straight into your brain. It’s an explosion of contradictions—violent but playful, melodic but unhinged, polished but still crawling with the raw weirdness that made the Pixies the most influential underground band of their era.
Black Francis screams like a man who’s just seen the end of the world and found it hilarious. Joey Santiago’s guitar slashes and bends reality itself, veering from surf rock twang to walls of noise with reckless glee. Kim Deal’s basslines hold everything together, her harmonies making even the strangest moments feel strangely inviting. And David Lovering’s drumming? As precise as it is unpredictable. Together, they sound like a band on the verge of implosion, bottling chaos and making it sound effortless.
What makes Doolittle special—beyond the carnage, the biblical visions, the quiet-loud-quiet detonations—is how much fun it is. Songs about mutilation, destruction, and impending doom shouldn’t sound this catchy, but somehow, every track is a hook-laden thrill ride. No wonder every alternative band that followed took notes.
Choice Tracks
Debaser
The only way to start this album. That bassline snakes in, Black Francis starts yelping about slicing eyeballs, and before you know it, you’re in the middle of a tornado of razor-sharp guitars and deranged joy. It’s a mission statement—loud, fast, and completely deranged.
Wave of Mutilation
A beach song for the apocalypse. Santiago’s guitar rides the waves while Francis croons about drowning in style. It’s strangely beautiful, like a hallucination you don’t want to end.
Here Comes Your Man
The poppiest thing the Pixies ever recorded, and it’s still unmistakably them. Jangly guitars, a melody straight out of a ‘60s dream, and a chorus that sounds like sunshine—if sunshine had a vaguely ominous undertone.
Monkey Gone to Heaven
A twisted, cryptic environmentalist anthem where God is number seven, the devil is number six, and Black Francis is shouting like it’s a revelation. The strings add a weird elegance, but the song still feels like it could explode at any moment.
Gouge Away
The closer, and what a closer. A slow burn that builds into an all-out assault, Black Francis wailing like a man possessed. It’s the perfect way to end an album that never really lets you breathe.
Doolittle isn’t just one of the greatest alternative rock albums ever—it’s a blueprint. Everyone from Nirvana to Radiohead to the Strokes studied it. But no matter how many bands tried to recapture this magic, Doolittle still sounds like nothing else. It’s loud, it’s strange, and it’s perfect in its own wonderfully messed-up way.