The Pixies - Live at Fine Line Music Cafe in Minneapolis

"This is so weird," said Pixies' bassist Kim Deal midway through the band's first show since breaking up, via fax, 11 years ago. But maybe she meant spooky. Or perfectly ironic. Years after the music they invented allegedly went bust, the first alternative rock band has returned for a mega-loot tour. Weirder still: Their first night out wasn't all that weird. Basically, reunion shows are about past revelations rendered as consumable cliché, so here's the cliché to take away: It was as if the Pixies had never left. Sure, they've collectively bumped up a weight class, and guitarist Joey Santiago's hairline is no longer an issue. But those distractions, as well as any lingering awkwardness from their legendarily acrimonious split, were washed away on a wave of mutilation (and ironic dry ice). Some have complained that the band must be in it for the money, but there wasn't a hint of cynicism in their performance--unless, of course, totally ruling is cynical, in which case, death to the Pixies!

It would be an exaggeration to say that a show in a medium-sized club by a band that never sold many records could transform a city, but Minneapolis seemed to be overflowing with civic pride. Having the Pixies reunion debut in your town is the alt-rock equivalent of winning a bid to host the Second Coming. Fans outside the 769-capacity Fine Line Music Café spun the yarn about a scalper who made enough money to purchase farmland. Which, when you think about it, is the perfect Pixies metaphor--with fringe hits like "Here Comes Your Man" and "Monkey Gone to Heaven," these former 120 Minutes sweethearts sowed the seeds of college rock's cultural come-up. They were the first band to gather the tribes: art-school design majors and high school goths, sci-fi geeks and skate rats, kids on the soccer team and the girl who rented Heathers 400 times. They broke ground for Dave Grohl's swimming pool, then imploded before they got the chance to swim.

But this show wasn't about self-congratulation. Aside from a few flubbed notes on the opener, "Bone Machine," and the occasional sluggish tempo, the band's 80-minute set was a note-for-note recapitulation of slept-on glories. Black Francis/Frank Black nailed every cackle, yowl, and shriek. Santiago peeled the proverbial paint with unsmiling precision. David Lovering played with limp-wrist thunder, both avalanche-heavy and elliptically funky. And Deal seemed more than happy to remind us once again that if not for her proto-grunge plod, we might have spent the '90s getting slapped around by Fishbone acolytes.

Focusing on songs from Surfer Rosa and Doolittle, the band acknowledged the second half of their career only briefly, with the college-rock satire "U-Mass" and the encore-capping "Velouria." Instead, they focused on giddy bruisers from the old days--"Broken Face," "I Bleed," "Into the White"--that balanced Black's ruined-teen bleat and Deal's barbed cuteness. (The instant live CD of the show, available immediately following the gig, plays like a greatest-hits disc for people who despise greatest-hits discs.) There were a few theatrical changes of note. Deal stole smokes between numbers, rather than puffing midsong. And she wasn't wearing shorts. More importantly, though, while the Pixies had always been a pretty TCB live act--blowing through their tunes, barely acknowledging the fans or each other--they now seem almost friendly. An attempted post-show group bow didn't go so hot, but there were enough sidelong glances and reassuring grins to suggest that the band was almost as shocked as we were by how transcendent the night turned out to be. Shy but triumphant, the Pixies may not be back forever, but they're back for good.