I Went to Nashville to See the Pixies and Puked Through Their Entire Set

The Pixies' seminal album Doolittle, slightly altered. Illustration by Jordan Rein.

The plan came into fruition in October, before our winter coats had even come out of under-bed storage. My best friend, the one who lives in Nashville, the one I have known since we started passing notes to each another via a Hello Kitty notebook back in 7th grade to ease our boredom in “chorus”—she was an alto, I a soprano, though distinctions like those could not separate our mind-meld—emailed me. It was a forwarded message from Ticketmaster, and in the subject line were three words: “Don’t miss Pixies.” She added to the email her own brief missive, writing, “Groundhog Day! You in? :)”

Was I in? Back in high school, which we attended in Alabama, the Pixies had been our band. Which is not to say they hadn’t been plenty of other people’s band, too. The point was, although by all appearances we were neatly clad straight-A students, ladies with solid upbringings and fine potential and glossy, fresh-brushed hair, we had secret and irreverent souls. On the inside, we were rebels, girls who considered going off-campus for lunch and coming back 15 minutes after we were supposed to. We’d drink Mountain Dew at a party, sure, but we’d also PUT A DASH OF VODKA IN IT. OK, OK, we weren’t very hardcore. But that’s exactly why the Pixies’ brand of unwashed synergy and melodic rage appealed so fully. They spoke to us. They were angry, sometimes. They yelled. While most of the times we kept our furies and closet rebellions on the inside, the Pixies let out their emotions, whatever those emotions might be. “Hey! Been trying to meet you…” “And the way I feel tonight, I could die and I wouldn’t mind…” “Want to grow … up to be … be a debaser…”

Of course, they were also that wondrous ‘90s word, alternative, more whimsical than Pearl Jam or STP, more serious and solid than any corny boy-bands or pop-star girls we might have listened to in years prior. They seemed to lead a magical life, free of rules and the constraints of elders, touring and rocking in clubs and each others’ basements, a universe governed by them and them alone, at least in our imaginations. Sure, a lot of bands might have seemed to lead that kind of life, but to us, their music embodied it too: as harmonious, lyrical, and frequently beautiful as it was ear-splitting, cacophonous, and challenging. My drive to the sprawling red brick building where we attended classes each day, a land of conservative teachers and students who I frequently felt got me even less than they got anything alternative, was soundtracked by the Pixies, particularly the albums Doolittle and Trompe Le Monde, with occasional assists from Surfer Rosa and Bossanova. I listened to them, as we all did, on cassette tapes, some dubbed from cassette tapes owned by friends. When the email came from my friend, those cassettes and anything upon which a cassette might be played had long since been eradicated from my life, but I was still listening to the Pixies. I had never really stopped listening to the Pixies.

They were playing at Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium on Groundhog Day. Was I in? WAS I IN.

Given our advancing adulthood, we'd planned our big night perfectly. My friend’s husband was babysitter for the night. (We were not listening to cassette tapes anymore.) Two other friends joined us. We called a cab to allow for the partying that would soon commence, booked a table at a fancy sushi restaurant, and dressed up in our finest jeans.

Once at the Ryman, my friend walked us through her favorite concert venue, showing us the historic memorabilia ensconced in frames and glass cabinets, musical programs and costumes from Minnie Pearl and Hank Williams and Patsy Cline. We got in line to buy Pixies merchandise and then in line for drinks. And then it happened: As I was handed a clear plastic cup filled to the brim with pale gold liquid, my stomach churned. “I just don’t think I can drink it,” I said, surprising even myself. Everyone looked at me quizzically, and I passed the wine to another friend. We found our seats, on the opposite side of the auditorium’s entrance, long wooden pews with excellent views of the stage. The opening band was playing. We sat. My stomach churned again, and I gritted my teeth. Something was not right. I decided I should get a little fresh air. As I walked, passing historical artifacts of musical performances long past, something very present began, slowly but surely, to come up.

I walked faster, praying to a higher power. I had a clear shot to the bathroom until two slow-moving fans blocked me. I recalculated, maneuvering around them, and aimed for the ladies’s room on the left—there were two, one on each side of a bench—but I’d chosen wrong, there was a woman in line. Stumbling, I veered back out and right, into the other bathroom, but it was too late. The vomit came, involuntarily and projectile, landing everywhere. As I tried to push the door open—I could feel another wave about to hit—a poor, unsuspecting woman emerged. “I’m sorry,” I said/cried, tears streaming down my face. “I just … vomited.” She said nothing. Inside a stall, I puked again. I heard two women laughing. “We’re being 16 tonight!” they said. “Ha, ha, we’re 16!” In between heaves I thought, what bitches, are they making fun of me? And then I thought that if I were in their position, I’d assume I was drunk and totally make fun of me. I puked again.

Then I heard them: The Pixies were on stage, playing! Suddenly, I felt a whole lot better. I gathered my things and skip-ran back to the auditorium. (As a former A-type-student, I looked for someone official to report my mess to, but failing to do so, rushed back to my friends.) “You’re back! I was so worried!” my friend shrieked, hugging me. We began immediately to dance. It was perfection, all through “Wave of Mutilation”—even if they did seem to be phoning it in a bit at first—and then “U Mass” and “Head On.” They were playing all of our favorites! I jumped up and down and maybe that wasn’t the best idea, and suddenly, I knew it was about to happen again.

This time, the bathroom was empty, or very nearly empty. This time, I did not puke on the door, though it was clear that my first round had been noticed. A mop sat propped in the corner, a bucket nearby. I retched, then retched again. A woman came in and asked, “Is anyone in here sick?” and I, guilty as charged, unlocked my stall and walked out, my arm for some reason in the air. “Me,” I said. “I’m sorry.” The door puker had been caught, puke-handed.

“Are you O.K.?” she asked. “Do you need me to call the paramedics?” Another woman came out of another stall. “Do you want mints? Mints can settle your stomach.” “I’m not even drunk!” I said, pleading in my tone. It seemed very important that they believe me. "I only had a little bit of white wine!" “Do you want some water?” asked the kind cleaning woman. “Yes please,” I said. "I'm so sorry you had to clean the door."

After that, I was afraid to leave the bathroom, and so, sipping gingerly from a bottle of Dasani, propped myself up near the mirror and looked at the pale face in front of me, the sweaty hair, the vomit-stained T-shirt. God, I was gross. I flashed back to another time I’d puked. That had been back in high school, with this very friend, and I had been drunk, out of my head from sipping a mixed-up, horrifying booze concoction stolen from my parents’ liquor cabinet and poured into an Evian bottle I’d toted around with me all night long. I puked all over my parents’ driveway, and my friend brought me upstairs and got me into bed. I’d been grounded for a long time after that, after my parents came home and found me shitfaced. They had called the paramedics, and in a very un Pixies-like twist, I’d ended up having to see a psychologist about my potential drinking problem. (For the record, she pronounced me a normal teenager.)

I can’t remember what we’d been listening to that night, but I would bet my mutual fund it was something from our favorite band.

“There’s something about this song,” came in through the bathroom speakers. My friend texted me. “Yak ity Jones,” she wrote. “I guess not funny. Say the word and I’m there for whatever. Miss u and soooooo sorry.” “I can hear the music in the bathroom!” I wrote. “Awww this song whatever. I just want to be with u,” she replied. “Come to the bathroom to the right,” I wrote. She met me as “Monkey Gone to Heaven” began, and our other friends joined us, and we all got a cab back to her house. “We can just party together at home,” she said, hopefully, but we were tired, and I still had hours of puking left.

Life in your 30s is a bit different than it is when you’re 16, but some things stay the same. Our favorite band might not have a lot of music about friendship, exactly, but that was still the secret message in every single one of those songs we used to listen to together. Of course, I’d rather have seen the whole show sans stomach virus, but that night as I lay on the floor of her incredibly clean, beautiful bathroom, I thought about how happy I was to be there, in the house of my dearest old friend, puking in the most non-rock-star way possible.

Jen Doll has since gotten off the bathroom floor. Her first book, Save the Date: The Occasional Mortifications of a Serial Wedding Guest, is out May 1. Pre-order it here. She's on Twitter — @thisisjendoll