Joe’s Pub on Lafayette Street in the East Village is far from a pub. With a prohibition-style theater with a curved, second-level balcony; a 30-foot long wooden bar worn from the weight of forearms; a coffered ceiling and numerous pillars etched with vintage patterns; and black and white photographs of top-hatted, tuxedo-clad, moustache-sporting men lining the wall next to the stage, Joe’s is something cozier with more history, attracting some of the most influential musicians of our time, such as Black Francis this past Friday September 3, the frontman of the Pixies—the proverbial king of indie-rock. Although scheduled to play a solo-acoustic, he fumbled onto stage with two other musicians, and as one of the men pumped the organ to start and purple lights fluttered against the stage’s rough-skinned corrugated backdrop, Francis laid his disclaimer, producing a distinct contrast to that of his history-rich, small-theatre surroundings: “I haven’t been on stage yet, so don’t mind if I’m bumping into things up here.” 

And then he picked up his guitar and started signing: “In the midst of the war, he offered us peace. And he came like a lover from out of the east. With a face of an angel and a heart of a beast. He intentions were six sixty six.” 

Playing solo and in his other band, Frank Black and the Catholics, Francis has compiled over a dozen albums since the Pixies dis-banded in the early 90s. Five years ago, however, the band came together for a reunion tour, which was met with huge success. They have built a strong cult following amongst the younger crowd since the late 90s. A true innovator of the genre, Francis’ demeanor now, on stage, seemed more comfortable than past performances, like he had found a guitar in someone’s bedroom at a party and just started playing. After their first song, he introduced whom he was playing with, and himself, saying, “And on lead guitar we have Jack Shit. So, if you’re taking notes, well, you probably don’t have to.” 

They played mostly songs from Francis’ solo albums, but threw in two renditions of Pixies songs in there, as well, including a twisted, slowed-down, wholeheartedly sinister version of Nimrod’s Son and a repetitive, slow, bass-drum-driven version of Planet of Sound, where Francis repeated lines of each verse over and over again, including, “this ain’t no fucking around,” where, towards the eighth or nine time saying it, he told the crowd with a chuckle, “well, it kind of is, actually.” After the song he said the version was by a band called the Pale Boys, and since he liked it so much, they decided to take it to the stage, for fun. 

Aside from his playful rapport with the crowd, Francis still yelped and hooted like the late 80s, filling the room with sounds that would never have been heard in the venue's hay-day, and as their succinct hour-and-twenty-minute set came to an end, Francis gave the crowd a slight wave and a farewell amidst the lady-bug patterned lights: “Too-doo-loo!”