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Doolittle by the Pixies
Contrary to what folks were telling me, I was not a precocious teen. In truth I was severely limited in my thinking and ultra conservative in my actions and beliefs. I was sure that the God that created everything was judging my every move, so I was pretty careful about what I let in and that included music. Most of what I liked had gone through the filter of popular radio at some point in time. That included a song called “Here Comes Your Man” by Pixies, a plucky pop song that was such an earworm I bought the Doolittle cassette without hearing any other songs on it.
I was a delivery boy and it wasn’t unusual for me to listen to the same cassette over and over again for weeks at a time. That’s how I learned every nuance of Elvis Costello’s This Year’s Model or Animals by Pink Floyd, and that’s what I expected to do with Doolittle.
Only Doolittle sucked. Apart from “Here Comes Your Man,” there wasn’t one track I liked on first listen. Honestly, I thought I had the wrong band. “Here Comes Your Man” was a catchy pop confection. These other songs were a rusty aggressive mess of screams and scratches. I had buyer’s remorse immediately. I almost tossed the cassette out onto Amboy Road.
Only I didn’t.
I kept listening to it, like it was some sort of punishment or exercise, until I finally got it. Until “Here Comes Your Man” became my least favorite song on the record. Dootlittle forced me to change, and I was never the same after it clicked in me. Not even one of my friends felt the same way. I couldn’t get any of them into it. One day in college I slipped my headphones on a friend sitting in front of me and asked him to listen to the first track. I could see it in his eyes immediately.
“This is awful,” he said.
Produced by Gil Norton, Doolittle explodes onto the scene with the frantic “Debaser,” two minutes and fifty seconds of the most alternative rock my ears had heard up to that point. Sheltered as I was, somehow I already knew Un Chien Andalou, the surrealist movie by Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí referenced in the song, where a woman’s eyeball is sliced by a razor. How I saw that movie before the internet is a memory I’ll never recall. I spent a lot of time watching weird VHS compilations back then, so anything is possible. Anyhoo, that this song captures that derangement is a testament to the band and its producer.
Pixies had already released the EP Come on Pilgrim (’87) and their first studio record Surfa Rosa (’88) by the time Doolittle was recorded. They’d only have another two studio records in them before the band would break up for 12 years (and not make a new record for 20). Doolittle is the band in their prime. A well oiled machine built on seemingly rudimentary bass-lines, choppy guitars, surf melodies, mythological terror, and an abundance of marijuana. Hey, most of the Beatles records would be blank if it weren’t for marijuana, and Dylan’s, too.
“Tame” was the track that really pushed me over the edge. I remember the moment I was listening to it in the shower when it all made sense. How could I ever go back to Billy Joel again? And what does it say about me that my college yearbook quote is “Cookie, I think you’re tame!!!”
Things simmer down a bit with “Wave of Mutilation,” a surf epic packed into two minutes of chugging guitars. Pixies fans know to expect the esoteric from Black Francis and “Wave of Mutilation” delivers. It’s the story of a Japanese businessman driving the family car off a pier into the ocean as part of a murder/suicide. A Top 40 hit this was not. Black Francis had a penchant for writing deeply cryptic songs whose meanings you’d only know if he felt like revealing them in interviews.
“I Bleed” hits Pixies fans in the sweet spot. Haunting background vocals by bassist Kim Deal, and a surfy melodic groove that explodes into a rusty cacophony of wailing guitars and shouts. The perfect setup for “Here Comes Your Man,” the big single from the record, and one that buttressed their cult status. Truthfully, they got more famous during their breakup than they ever were while together, but don’t blame “Here Comes Your Man.”
Fan favorite “Dead” is an oxidized melange of wailing guitars and references to Bathseba with lyrics like “I’m tired of living, Shebe, so gimme dead,” which extends Black’s fascination mixing sex and death. The next track, “Monkey Gone to Heaven,” was the second single and an alt radio staple. It’s one of their most accessible songs, even if the lyrics are batshit crazy in the best possible way.
“If man is five, then the devil is six, and if the devil is six, then God is seven. This monkey’s gone to heaven.”
Pixies get even more weird on “Mr. Grieves” and the frenetic “Crackity Jones.” I especially hated these songs upon first listen, and now they are among my favs. Crunchy, offensive, esoteric, and played with animal-like ferocity. These tracks are the antithesis sonically and lyrically of “LA LA Love You,” a tongue in cheek surf track that sounds like the legitimate child of Elvis Presley and Dick Dale. That one is sung by drummer David Lovering.
“No. 13 Baby” is another song that checks off all the boxes for Pixies fans. If you don’t dig the Pixies, you won’t like this song (or probably most of their catalog. Also, you’re not reading this). The production is so clean and the track embraces that quietLOUDquiet aesthetic bands like Nirvana would ride into the kind of stardom that eluded the Pixies. I always felt like the last two minutes of this song epitomized the Pixies sound and it segues perfectly into the crackling classic “There Goes My Gun.”
W
hat can be said of “Hey” that hasn’t been already. Talk about magic in a bottle. Originally titled “Chained,” it has that plodding bass, those weeping guitars, insane lyrics, and something of an R&B lilt. Not exactly “Beat It” by Michael Jackson.
“Silver” is a slow spaghetti western of a track attributed to both Black Francis and Kim Deal that sets you up for the coup de grâce of “Gouge Away.” This last track on Doolittle is pure Pixies, an esoteric retelling of the biblical Samson story in all its gorey detail using that soft/hard dynamic that propels you like a log flume into Vesuvius.
In the near 30 years since Doolittle was released it has inspired countless bands, none of which could hold a candle to the real thing. Not even Nirvana, if you ask me. And you didn’t.
Almost every year for the past 6 years and on the same day, I’ve posted the same pic of me in the hospital during my temporary and untimely demise in 2015. A few weeks after I was back to “normal”, I asked Eric “Why’d you take the pics?” And he said, “I knew you would want to write about it if you lived.” Eric was right. Eric was often right and Eric always had my best interest at heart. I am going to miss my friend.
You ever meet someone and become friends immediately?! Well this was not the case with Eric. Before he was my manager at Morgan Stanley, I would often see this 6’4″, giant white guy walk up to the only black woman at work, say something then walk away without any hint of human emotion. Naturally I thought he was a jerk until I asked her “Yo, is that dude bothering you?” She laughed and proceeded to tell me he was a great person, which I ultimately got to experience first hand. Little did I know this Italian from Staten Island was more Brooklyn than most Brooklynites.
Eric was not with the shits!! If there were ever someone who lived their life in direct, honest and no uncertain terms, that would be Eric. He would ask me questions at work like “Why are the other consultants making more money than you?” I knew the answer to that question and so did he. Eric then proceeded to increase my salary by 15K. After arguing with all our managers that “You need to hire Alfred!”, they eventually did 1 year prior to the 2015 incident. In the hospital, one of my friends asked me, “What if you didn’t have health insurance when this happened?” I would be in debt for the rest of my life is the obvious answer. I still am in debt for the rest of my life but at least, it is to those who made sure I had a more enjoyable life and for that, I will gladly repay.
My mom loved to tell me the story of how she met Eric. After they told her I was going to be in the ICU for some time, she told the doctor “Well I’m not going anywhere.” She then hears a voice from that back of the room that says “Well I’m not going anywhere either!” That was Eric and in true form, he was at that hospital every single day until I was discharged.
Eric passed away in December 2021 of stage 4 cancer. After feeling faint on his way to my bbq, he went to get checked out and was diagnosed. During the past 5 years, Eric lost his mom, twin brother and dad. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have felt like but I’m glad that pain he was feeling is no more.
From being my manager to my business partner, writer, book editor, artistic director, and most importantly, my friend, I am going to miss you MC Krispy E a.k.a “Enrique Pollazo!” And although you told me Enrique means Henry in Spanish and not Eric, it was too late!
Sidebar. The day I was discharged, while everyone was deciding what was best for me, no one had remembered that I would need clothes in order to leave the hospital. Eric shows up (unasked) with all the clothes I had on the day I coded, laundered and ready to go. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve friends like this but i need to keep doing it! Sidebar complete.
Rest in Peace Eric. “Be Good.”
I had the distinct pleasure of participating in a panel discussion on writing your first book, presented by the Harlem chapter of Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity Inc. Alongside Jim St. Germain, Author – A Stone of Hope: A Memoir and Dr. Keneshia Nicole Grant, Author – The Great Migration and the Democratic Party: Black Voters and the Realignment of American Politics in the 20th Century. We opined on pain points, benefits and strategies regarding our inaugural voyages into authorship. Feel free to watch for your self and I hope this provides some insight to all those looking to make the same voyage. Enjoy!
