Royal Albert Hall, Pixies and the Most Expensive Coke in London

Some gigs are planned months in advance. Tickets bought the second they go on sale. Hotels booked. Train times checked. A carefully organised operation.

This wasn’t one of those.

At around lunchtime on Thursday I received a message from my old school mate Jaime, asking if I’d like a spare ticket to see Pixies at the Royal Albert Hall on Friday.

My knowledge of Pixies was embarrassingly limited. I knew they were important, knew they had influenced half the alternative bands of the last forty years and could probably have identified Where Is My Mind? if given enough clues, but that was about it.

Naturally I said yes.

A quick rearrangement of the following day secured me a half day off and by 2:30pm Jaime was outside the house ready for the drive to Colchester and the train into London.

A couple of hours later we emerged from the tube in Kensington and immediately began the important cultural side of the evening.

The pub.

Training and work commitments meant this wasn’t going to be one of those all-day drinking expeditions that used to seem like a sensible idea. Two pints was the limit. Just enough to wet the whistle and remind myself that pubs still exist.

From there we wandered off in search of food and we decided on a tiny Thai restaurant that looked like the sort of place locals hope tourists never discover. The food was absolutely superb and, in a moment of misplaced confidence, I attempted to order in Thai.

I have absolutely no idea whether my pronunciation was anywhere near correct but the waitress appeared impressed. Or amused. Potentially both. She certainly spent longer talking to me afterwards than was strictly necessary, which obviously means she was completely charmed and not at all laughing internally at the English bloke butchering her language.

That’s the version of events I’m sticking with.

With the food demolished we popped to another pub where my allocated pint allowance was exhausted, we then made our way towards the Royal Albert Hall.

Now I’ve been fortunate enough to visit some excellent venues over the years but this place is right up there with the best. The building itself is stunning, but what really struck me was the sound. Everything was crystal clear from the moment the first band walked on stage. Every vocal, every guitar, every drum beat. It might genuinely be the best sounding venue I’ve ever experienced.

Before any music had even started there was another surprise.

Three rows in front of us sat Hammy.

Tickets purchased independently, months apart, through entirely separate routes and somehow we’d all ended up practically sitting together.

Either the world isn’t nearly as big as it thinks it is or we spend entirely too much time at gigs.

GANS

The support act were GANS, who according to everything I’ve subsequently read are a duo. This came as something of a surprise because there were definitely three people on stage. I counted several times.

Whatever their numerical status, they were excellent.

Coming from the Black Country, they delivered a gloriously noisy blend of alternative rock, industrial sounds, electronic influences and what can only really be described as controlled musical chaos. I’d never heard a note of their music before they walked on stage and by the time they finished I was already making mental notes to investigate them properly. That’s about the highest compliment I can pay a support act.

They had the sort of energy that instantly grabs your attention. No standing around staring at their shoes. No going through the motions while waiting for the headline act. They attacked the set as though they were playing to a room full of people who had specifically bought tickets to see them.

What I certainly wasn’t expecting was a saxophone.

Or a flute.

At various points during their wonderfully unhinged, punk-inspired dance-rock thrash, both made an appearance. On paper it sounds utterly ridiculous. In reality it somehow made perfect sense. One minute there were pounding drums and crashing guitars, the next a saxophone was cutting through the noise before somebody reached for a flute and sent proceedings off in an entirely different direction.

It should have been a mess.

Instead it was brilliant.

The whole set felt unpredictable in the best possible way. Just when you thought you’d worked out what they were about, they’d throw something else into the mix. It was loud, energetic, occasionally bonkers and thoroughly entertaining from start to finish.

By the time they left the stage I wasn’t thinking about Pixies.

I was wondering when GANS would be playing somewhere nearby again.

Pixies

Then it was time for Pixies.

One thing that immediately became apparent was that this wasn’t going to be a greatest hits package padded out with stories about the old days. There was very little chat and absolutely no messing about. The band simply walked on stage and launched into song after song with the confidence of people who have been doing this for four decades.

Even as somebody with only a passing familiarity with their catalogue I found myself completely absorbed by it. There was something fascinating about watching musicians who know exactly who they are and exactly what they’re good at.

The setlist stretched to thirty songs and somehow managed to feel both relentless and effortless. Tracks such as Here Comes Your Man, Monkey Gone To Heaven, Debaser and the inevitable Where Is My Mind? received huge reactions, but what impressed me most was how little it seemed to matter whether I knew a song or not. The energy never dipped. The audience never lost interest. The band simply kept delivering one brilliant performance after another.

A lot of bands spend years trying to sound effortlessly cool.

Pixies don’t seem to be trying at all.

Which is probably why they succeed.

The Royal Albert Hall certainly played its part. Every note sounded immense. The guitars somehow managed to be both melodic and completely chaotic at the same time, while the rhythm section kept everything moving forward with absolute precision. Even without knowing every song, it was impossible not to get swept along by it.

There was only one slight moment of drama all evening.

During the Pixies I decided a bottle of Coke might be sensible. A quick trip to the bar resulted in a request for two bottles.

“That’ll be nine pounds.”

Nine pounds.

For two 500ml bottles of Coke.

Neither of which was even cold.

I briefly considered taking out a small loan before paying. To be fair to the member of staff serving me, after witnessing the look of horror on my face she disappeared into the depths of the Royal Albert Hall and eventually returned triumphantly carrying two cold bottles.

For nine pounds I would have expected them to have been harvested from a glacier in the Arctic, but the effort was appreciated.

Eventually the evening came to an end and the journey home began. Tube back across London. Train to Colchester. Drive back to Felixstowe.

I finally climbed into bed at 1:07am.

At 5:30am my alarm went off.

I’ve made better decisions in my life.

I’ve also made considerably worse ones.

Because despite the lack of sleep, despite the eye-watering price of soft drinks and despite going into the evening barely knowing a Pixies song, I wouldn’t change a thing.

A random message from an old school friend had turned into a brilliant night out, an excellent support band, a return to one of the best venues I’ve ever visited and another reminder that sometimes the best gigs are the ones you never planned to attend in the first place.