Normally when I die only 10 minutes into a game, it’s not something I tell others about — it hurts my pride. But with Geist, your death is intended. Sort of.

As John Raimi, a biological and chemical threats special operative, you’re sent into France to investigate the Volks Corporation’s shady research into cellular properties. Inevitably, your covert operation goes horribly awry and, after capture, you’re subjected to an experiment that, more or less, kills you and steals your soul. Such a pleasant backstory.

Developed by N-Square for the Nintendo GameCube, Geist is a first-person shooter with a twist. Because the shooter genre has become a tad hackneyed, N-Square took some liberties with the genre’s ethos. Their ingenious tinkering with conventional gameplay created one of the most innovative concepts ever to hit the FPS market: possession.

The idea is simple: You are an ethereal spirit, a soul ripped from your physical form with the ability to possess other people, objects and animals in order to fulfill Raimi’s mission objective. Living entities (like animals or other humans) need to be “scared” before you can possess them, so it’s necessary to manipulate the objects in a room to do so. For example, at one point you must –- no joke — possess dog food in order to scare a dog. But fear not — most of the scare tactics aren’t as droll.

That said, N-Square doesn’t fully realize the grandiose evolution that they had hoped for.

First, the stage progression is too linear. I had hoped to have total freedom in what I possessed and how I completed objectives. Instead, I was forced into puzzles, where one action led to another until Raimi’s mission was fulfilled. However, these puzzles aren’t so much puzzles as they are a tired exercise in “fly around the room and see what you can possess, use its ability and repeat the process until someone/something is scared.” This isn’t exactly a labor in intelligence.

Oftentimes, you’ll find yourself possessing a human (usually with a gun), hence the FPS aspect. Unfortunately, this is where Geist suffers most. The game engine is antiquated and drags the gameplay experience down with it. Aiming is especially a burden; it feels ‘heavy’, making precise aiming nigh impossible. Ammo is unlimited, despite the need to reload, so, coupled with the abundance of health power-ups, any strategy other than “run in guns blazing” is an exercise in futility.

The only high point of the FPS, or non-possession, gameplay is the forced integration of possession and combat, which seems limited to boss battles and has little effect.

It’s hard to dislike Geist –- the radical approach taken by N-Square is a fresh take on the tropes of the FPS genre. Yet I find myself looking back on it in ambivalence. Geist’s iconoclastic aesthetic is merely offset by the anachronous game engine.

All in all, it’s a strong rental — an attention-worthy concept that’s short enough for a weekend.

“Sunday is the day of rest.” We’ve all heard it, and we all wish it could be. But we U.Va. students know that, unfortunately, it’s far from the truth. Sunday in Charlottesville is nowhere near relaxing; instead, it’s that dreaded 24 hours wedged uncomfortably between Saturday’s debauchery and Monday’s classes when everyone scrambles frantically to catch up on the piles of work they haven’t looked at since Wednesday afternoon. Sundays are hell. To add to the seventh day mental overload, ABC and Fox have mercilessly scheduled two equally fabulous shows, Desperate Housewives and Family Guy, at the same prime-time 9 p.m. spot. Thank you, network television.

Now, I’m not here to tell you which show to watch, because believe me, I’m torn as well. But everybody knows that Eva Longoria and Jesse Metcalfe are way hotter than Meg Griffin and Baby Stewie, so we’ll focus here on Desperate Housewives simply for the sake of sex appeal.

The amazing first-season success of ABC’s suburban sensation is evident not only in its already passionate fan base but also in its flood of rave reviews and its mid-September Emmy Award honors. The soundtrack for the series was also just released Sept. 20, boasting such big-name artists as the Indigo Girls, LeAnn Rimes, SheDaisy and Gloria Estefan. So with all the recent hype, this season’s premiere of Desperate Housewives had a lot to live up to. And, as devoted fans tuned in last Sunday, the ladies of Wisteria Lane delivered.

In case you haven’t been watching, here’s a brief synopsis of what’s going on. The fiery redhead is Bree (Marcia Cross). Taking OCD to a whole new level, she’s your basic Martha Stewart-esque nightmare. Her husband, Rex, has just died from a heart attack (surprise surprise), her son thinks he might be gay and her adolescent daughter has just announced that she’s sexually active. The busty blonde is Edie (Nicolette Sheridan), who basically just tries to sleep with everyone’s boyfriend, and the Latin hottie is Gabrielle (Eva Longoria). Her husband, Carlos, is in jail for beating up the man he thought she was cheating with. Unfortunately, it turns out Carlos had the wrong guy, leaving Gabrielle and her real lover, John the lawn boy (Jesse Metcalfe), free to continue with their escapades. She’s also pregnant and doesn’t know who the father is, because honestly — what good is any TV show without a good paternity test?

The stressed-out blonde is Lynette (Emmy winner Felicity Huffman), a mother of four who is going back to work and leaving her husband at home to take care of the kids. And the cute brunette is Susan (Teri Hatcher), who was thisclose to moving in with her adorably scruffy boyfriend, Mike, but had a slight change of plans after Mike’s son held her at gunpoint for six hours. Oh, and then we’ve got new neighbors Betty Applewhite and her son, Matthew, who have just moved onto Wisteria Lane, and they appear to have a few intriguing secrets of their own locked away behind closed doors — literally.

So if that’s not enough to whet your appetite, go ahead and stick with Family Guy. I don’t blame you; it’s a good laugh. But just in case you’re longing for one last taste of scandal to finish off your weekend, Desperate Housewives is the best place to find it, as the second season of ABC’s devious delight promises to be more outrageous than ever.

I must admit, when I first popped the new David Gray CD into my computer, I had to fight the urge to immediately point, click and drag the entire album into my naptime playlist before I even heard the first track. But I’m glad I resisted. Life in Slow Motion is unexpectedly eclectic, and listeners will be pleasantly surprised that Gray ventures beyond his typical sorrowful simplicity.

Life, Gray’s seventh album, marks an important transition in the seasoned artist’s career as his first release under Dave Matthews’ ATO label. With the switch from RCA and the help of producer Marius De Vries, this album emerges as a clean, polished masterpiece.

“Alibi” starts things off in familiar Gray style with heartbreaking melodies floating over simple piano accompaniment. The mood is quickly lightened with the lively “The One I Love,” and variety continues with “From Here You Can Almost See the Sea,” a definite album highlight with soaring vocals reminiscent of Coldplay’s Chris Martin.

Natalie Mendoza’s backing vocals are truly haunting on the soothing “Ain’t No Love,” followed by “Hospital Food,” a quirky tune that spices up the album with its 80s-esque synth accompaniment and upbeat tempo. Thus Life in Slow Motion proves itself as a diverse exploration of instruments, vocals and themes.

Of personal importance to me is a song’s ability to lyrically stand on its own, and here again Life in Slow Motion doesn’t disappoint. What started as a simple flip-through of the album’s cover booklet resulted in my reading the whole thing start to finish. And yes, I realize I’m a bit of a lyrics freak, but this stuff is poetry.

The lyrics are scenic, descriptive, spiritual and poignant — and that’s just the words. Put to music, these songs take on a life of their own, emerging as proof of David Gray’s irrefutable skill as a singer, songwriter and musician.

Life in Slow Motion conveniently drops less than a month before Gray’s nationwide tour kicks off October 3 in D.C., giving fans an incentive to give Ticketmaster a call. While still an artist whose music creates a dimmed-lights-and-glass-of-wine atmosphere, David Gray’s exploration of repertoire on Life will undoubtedly result in a much more exciting live show. Concert-goers are likely to enjoy broad instrumentation and a wide variety of songs, some of which might even induce a little foot tapping. Shocking, I know.

With new management and an invigorating new style, David Gray evolves as an artist while maintaining that calming ambiance that made him a success from the start. Life in Slow Motion proves that his work is finally becoming more than just music to fall asleep to. So wake up and tune in — change is a very good thing.

Although she conceals it with makeup, Jean’s cheek, stained with a violet bruise, is as battered as her heart. Although ointment numbs his crude wounds from a bear attack, no dose of morphine can lift Mitch’s melancholy. Although his son has been dead for 11 years, the aftertaste of mourning still lingers, flavoring Einar’s harsh words.

Set against the immense verdure and brazen skies of Ishatoa, Wyo., these three lives are linked by the death of Griffin — Jean’s husband, Mitch’s friend and Einar’s son, whose tombstone reads “An Unfinished Life.”

Reminiscent of director Lasse Hallström’s other films such as What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?, An Unfinished Life is the small-town story of the dynamics of a family — its crescendos into fury, its descents into anguish, its riffs of tenderness. Echoing The Cider House Rules, it portrays a saga of harsh healing, an austere landscape of the heart and the peculiar varieties of love that emerge between humans.

Kings of the screen, Robert Redford’s Einar and Morgan Freeman’s Mitch preside as a mesmerizing duo of old cowboys. Their cantankerous banter displays the lilting rhythm of their friendship, a relationship fermented by both time and pain. Moments of humor are complemented by scenes of sublime intimacy, such as when Einar gingerly applies the healing ointment on his friend’s mauled back or when Mitch wonders aloud whether Einar will ever stop hating the world that took away his son.

Jennifer Lopez deserves commendation, though no lavish praise, for her role as Jean, who, fleeing from her latest bad boyfriend, seeks refuge at her estranged former father-in-law’s ranch. Sometimes, Lopez scintillates with rage at Einar or glimmers with affection for her 11-year-old daughter, Griff. In other scenes, she retreats into a lackluster and distant performance.If someone had spent her whole life under a rock, she might be able to wholeheartedly buy the diva’s act as a guilt-ridden widow, a mother who is “trying her best.” But at times when she’s taking orders for meatloaf and mashed potatoes at the local diner, it’s hard not to stare down the low-cut collar and think, “J. Lo.”

The characters in the film are revealed by a device that’s both mystifyingly complex and strangely simple: the bear. The agent of Mitch’s disfigurement, the grizzly continues to roam the country until he is caught by the local authorities. As a foil character, he illuminates the state of souls: Einar wants to shoot the beast; Mitch wants to feed him and eventually free him. The bear bequeaths a symbolism and mystery to the film.

The heart and soul of An Unfinished Life resides in its undercurrent of remorse and the ripples of resentment surrounding Griffin’s death. But it is also a journey towards repentance. Through the broken lives of his characters, Hallström illuminates the bittersweet remedy of forgiveness. As Mitch tells Einar, “I believe the dead forgive us of our sins.”

Hi, reader! How was your day? Mine was good. A funny thing happened. I was walking with a guy I have a crush on (you know who you are… Larry J. Sabato) and a bird shat on his shoulder. (Just kidding, I dig TAs, not professors.)

Due to a lack of inspiration for this column, today I decided to be funny by squeezing in as many references to Larry J. Sabato as I can. So, if Larry J. Sabato listened to music, what local band would he prefer? The Stabones!

Comprised of vocalist Bartley McGowan, guitarist Tom O’Halloran, bassist Erik Larson and a drummer named Dirge, The Stabones’ style is a self-described brand of “drunk punk.”

Drunk punk includes all the necessary features of regular punk, like a quick drum beat, choppy, chunky guitar work and smart-ass lyrics. The Stabones’ only unique contribution to the genreis in jiggers and liters.

To the layperson, punk is usually associated with the pop-punk of Blink-182 and Simple Plan or the heavy-handed political rock of Anti-Flag. The Stabones — and their drunk punk — fall somewhere in between.

“We play loud, fun, nonsensical music. It’s not angry or bitter or anything,” Dirge said.

The band’s Web site says “The Stabones are a bunch of dorks that play punk rock because they love the music. They’re not trying to overthrow the government or change the world and they don’t give a sh*t if you think they are cool.”

In like manner, the lyrics to one of my (and Larry J. Sabato’s) favorite tunes, “Bite Out of Crime,” say, “I’ve been to jail/It wasn’t fun/Cops get a kick out of wearing a gun/’They’re not all bad, just doing their job’/F**k that, they can suck my knob/Got locked up for pissing on my van/No way to treat an honest man/If society is so f***king free/Why arrest a drunk man who’s gotta pee?”

“There are enough people talking about [politics and current events] without us doing it,” McGowan said. “This isn’t 1969. Besides, who wants to get their opinions from a rock band?”

The Stabones have played every local venue that’s known for music, according to McGowan. They’ve had five shows at Starr Hill since their formation in 2004, but O’Halloran’s fondest memories are of Outback Lodge.

“It’s a dirty local dive,” he said. “It’s the kind of place where you’re gonna get heckled no matter who you are. We love it there.”

The band toured from Charlottesville to New Or-leans a few months ago and came out $50 in the hole.

“It was a huge success!” McGowan said.

After I laughed at his enthusiasm, I realized that a band breaking even after touring where they don’t have a fan base is quite an accomplishment. I mean, think of the gas prices! That sh*t is crazy.

But I digress. As did the interview… at one memorable moment two members of the band who shall remain nameless (Larry J. Sabato! No, just kidding. He’s not in the band) burst into an argument about the difference between removing grape skins via squishing or peeling. Later, conversation veered towards the possibility of an environmentally-friendly tour van.

“That’s right. We talk about wine-making and bio-diesel. We’re punk as hell,” laughed O’Halloran.

Perhaps that’s the most important aspect of The Stabones -– they don’t care much about much.

The Stabones acknowledge they’re older than the average punk band (three members graduated from U.Va., the most recent in 2004) and that they “kind of like to drink.”

Still, McGowan said, “In ten years, our goal is to be the next big band out of Charlottesville. We’ll do whatever it takes.” So far, that’s included a gig at the Hong Kong Buffet in Culpeper (“It was awesome!” Larson said) and 53 shows in a little over a year.

“Although we use the term ‘show’ loosely,” McGowan said. “Some of them were only for barmen and door guys.”

Ultimately, if you’re on a search for an action-packed live show, a band named after a character on “Growing Pains” and a good time, look no further than Larry J. Sabato.

I mean, The Stabones.

Keller Williams is a Renaissance man for the digital age. Sunday he brings his controlled chaos to the Charlottesville Pavilion.

Keller’s stage generally has seven or so guitars and other assorted instruments, as if the band forgot about the gig. But Keller is the band. He usually starts the show with his bread and butter: the acoustic guitar, a sweet melodic tone and some beatboxing. His performances get crazy when he uses loopers to record what he has just played, repeats it, jumps to another instrument and builds his jam session. It sounds simple, but Keller’s hyper sound has fans and critics calling him a mad scientist of music.

The alchemy of Keller Williams doesn’t stop there. He can play a menagerie of instruments including the bass and electric guitar, the banjo, the jaw harp, the hi-hat, the theremin (an instrument whose tone and pitch are controlled by proximity to a pair of electromagnetic field-producing poles), and the vibraphone. With his mouth, Keller makes convincing percussion and brass noises.

That said, Keller isn’t the kind of performer to hide behind his instruments or digital manipulators. His lyrics are upbeat and clever and he nimbly improvises to transform an album’s song in live performance. He sings about falling in love in a porta-potty line, dreaming about “The Price is Right,” why he doesn’t want to lose his love handles and another woman’s car taking priority at the auto mechanic because she had a kidney in a cooler. Keller’s songs keep listeners on their toes — his tangential live act features small chunks of cover songs from classic Grateful Dead to Dee-Lite’s “Groove is in the Heart” to Huey Lewis’ “I Want a New Drug.”

A native of Fredericksburg, Va., Keller left Virginia Wesleyan College in 1991. With a tip jar in hand, he began to performing as a typical singer-songwriter in restaurants and coffee shops. While touring with the String Cheese Incident in the mid-1990s, Keller learned to play the bass. He experimented with digital loopers but didn’t realize their full potential until he saw Bela Fleck’s brilliant bassist Victor Wooten. Alongside his wife and dog, Keller has toured relentlessly for the last decade or so, releasing studio albums, DVDs and a weekly radio show, “Keller’s Cellar.”

So if midterms, papers and the newly shortened reading weekend get you down, this Sunday’s show will be a welcome departure. You never know what the mad scientist has brewing.

Life is too often a reflection on emptiness. We pass our time contemplating the things that are no longer here; the way we were, the places we knew and, most importantly, the things we’ve lost — all remind us that change is everywhere, and it is futile to deny its company.

This is what the Japanese called mono no aware, or the Portuguese saudade. But here in America, it’s just a part of death and taxes.

In Flightplan, the struggle is not against change but how we know that change happened precisely the way we believe it did.

The movie begins with Kyle Pratt, a jet propulsion engineer, identifying her husband’s body in a Berlin morgue. She’s taking anxiety pills but it doesn’t stop her from seeing him on the subway and on park benches. Kyle is taking her daughter with her to the United States in order to bury her husband near the place he was born.

They’re flying home on a plane Kyle helped design when, after a nap, Kyle awakes to find her daughter missing. Ostensibly, it shouldn’t be difficult to find a child lost in an airplane. It is, as one passenger observes, just a long tube — there aren’t many ways for someone to abscond with a kidnapped child.

However, Kyle’s panic escalates as she looks for her daughter. She even forces the captain to conduct searches of the plane and exhausts the flight personnel to help her search. Yet no one on the plane remembers Kyle’s daughter. Moreover, only Kyle is listed on the passenger log. When the Berlin morgue is contacted, they inform the crew that Kyle is bringing home two bodies, not one.

The remaining plot trajectory is predictable, but the movie is redeemed by its sensitive, intelligent treatment of the material it contends with.

Flightplan is about a woman who’s dawdling along the edge of instability, tethered to reality only because she still has her daughter and has not lost her ability to reason. When it severs one of her supports, the film becomes a study of how intellect is conscripted to the service of what can only be pure belief.

The suspense at play is well done, as Kyle’s resourcefulness rises in proportion to her chances of getting pepper-sprayed by the air marshal. Even as the film flirts with absurdity, it never surrenders Kyle’s ability to intuit two steps before the audience and one step before the plot.

Much of the movie’s tension hinges upon the ability of Jodie Foster, playing Kyle, to cover the full spectrum of psychological malfunction, which she does quite well. It’s a performance enhanced by her character’s claustrophobic environment. The film captures that sense of isolation found in an airplane, the lonely feeling of flying 37,000 feet in the air, seeing civilization as nothing more than colonies of glowing ants.

Though not without some turbulence, Flightplan is a success. Even if it is made from the genre recipes passed down from one generation of commercial filmmaking to another, Flightplan flavors its ingredients with some shakes of creativity and a kiss of style. Despite its limitations, it’s one of the better arrivals of the season.

Do you enjoy reviews that begin with bold and pretentious declarative statements? Great! Here goes: Corpse Bride is the most aesthetically stunning film of the year. (Suck on that, Episode III.) Tim Burton’s latest stop-motion animated film took 10 years to complete, and it is worth every painstaking second.

Burton-staple Johnny Depp voices the protagonist, Victor, who is arranged to marry the lovely Victoria, voiced by Emily Watson. While practicing his vows for the impending nuptials, Victor places his wedding ring on a twig sticking out of the ground. When said twig turns out to be the ring finger of a deceased bride-to-be, the buried bride takes her new husband to the Land of the Dead. Victor is faced with a choice: Should he escape the underworld or stay with his new wife?

Burton plays it safe with Bride, sticking to the dark, surreal worlds he successfully mastered in films like Edward Scissorhands, Beetlejuice and Bride’s predecessor-of-sorts, The Nightmare Before Christmas. But while Bride’s subject matter seems macabre, there’s an undercurrent of humor and heartfelt moments that balance out the sinister spots. And, when the title character is constantly losing an eye, self-deprecation is a must.

Burton’s creative genius crafts a world of visual splendor rich in jaw-dropping detail that keeps the audience glued to the screen. With exaggerated features and distinctive movements, the character designs alone are worth the price of admission. And the mesmerizing Land of the Dead is filled with memorable sights and unique characters that contrast the dreary, drab world of the living to the vivacious afterlife. “Why go up there when people are dying to get down here?” the skeletal bandleader Mr. Bonejangles says.

Composer Danny Elfman has worked with Tim Burton on almost all of his films, and it’s hard to imagine a more successful marriage of music and celluloid. Aside from the bland and unremarkable “According to Plan,” Elfman comes through with every composition. The most toe-tapping tune, the jazz/blues-infused “Remains of the Day,” will stay stuck in your head for days.

At 76 all-too-short minutes, Bride moves at a breakneck pace, and as a result, some of the characters feel underdeveloped. Victor is a one-note character, a bashful, bumbling fish-out-of-water, and he only gets one scene with Victoria before the morbid mayhem begins, which makes it hard to root for their relationship.

While not as stupendous as The Nightmare Before Christmas, Burton’s decade-long pet project is a great film and a welcome change from the generic computer-animated trash flooding theaters (see Madagascar… actually, don’t.)

With no Pixar movie scheduled for 2005, the meticulous, beautiful Corpse Bride is a top contender for best animated film of the year.

I must admit, this was my first exposure to Echo and the Bunnymen. A quick query through Google yielded some basic background info: Echo and the Bunnymen is a British post-punk rock band that formed in 1978 and had a string of hits in the 80s. You might have heard their song “Killing Moon” in the film Donnie Darko.

Siberia is the Bunnymen’s ninth and most recent studio album, filled with upbeat, catchy guitar-based tunes that explore love, life, loneliness and hope. Some standout tracks include “Parthenon Drive,” which reflects on the sequential stages in life, as well as “All Because Of You Days” and “Make Us Blind,” which celebrate love.

Their sound is based on the usual guitar/keyboards/drums foundation and is quite radio-friendly. “Stormy Weather” starts the album with a light, jangling guitar line that accompanies Ian McCulloch’s lead vocals. Throughout the album, the band’s sound ranges from catchy mid-tempo rock to an angrier, more aggressive style.

“Everything Kills You” and “Siberia” are the depressing pair of the album. McCulloch’s voice loses the growling roughness of earlier tracks and adopts a more fragile tone, which successfully contributes to the gloomy atmosphere. In “Siberia,” McCulloch expresses melancholy emptiness, singing “Where am I/Still trying to find the light/That burns the northern sky/A rarer borealis.”

The main nitpick I have with the Bunnymen is with their lyrics, which are sometimes noticeably weak. Occasionally the words don’t make sense (arguably, they’re ambiguous enough for listener interpretation), other times they’re just plain cringe-worthy. “Scissors in the Sand” is puzzling and vague: “Ethereally mine/Magic trees/They really used to shine/My silver leaves/Bet you’re wondering how (x4).”

Bet you’re wondering how… what?

The choruses in “Everything Kills You” are variations on “Everything takes you/Everything aches you/Everything breaks you/Everything spills you/Everything ills you/Everything kills you.” Too much repetition and bad rhyming equals poor writing in my book.

“What if We Are?” ends the album effectively sound-wise with a gentle piano introduction, but the lyrics are lacking again, asking a series of questions that probe romantic relationships and answering with a chorus of “Then It’s Love/Yes It’s Love/Like It Should Be (repeat).” It’s a sweet song, but there’s plenty of room for improvement.

If you don’t actively search for deep, original lyrics in your music, Siberia’s writing probably won’t bother you too much. Otherwise, Echo and the Bunnymen have produced an aesthetically pleasing modern rock album composed of catchy songs that may just get stuck in your head. I know they’ll be stuck in mine.

Imagine, if you will, a world without The Pixies — a world where the collective evolution of popular rock music has been stagnant since the late 1980s. Forget the grunge movement or flannel — they were never cool. The local radio station, MTV and your iPod are still playing suburban hair bands, à la Bon Jovi, all hours of the day. Sound exciting?

Fortunately, the music world is a better place, thanks to a University of Massachusetts dropout and his friends.

Many of us hadn’t taken our first steps when Black Francis formed The Pixies in 1986. Now, 20 years later, their sound influences just about every guitar-based band from Death Cab for Cutie to Radiohead.

During their brief recording career, The Pixies released an EP and four landmark full-length albums before breaking up in 1993. Most fans consider Surfer Rosa and Doolittle the strongest releases, and the band found minor hits with “Here Comes Your Man” and “Wave of Mutilation.”

In retrospect, The Pixies are credited as the first band to bring indie-rock to the mainstream, though they never saw the commercial success of their immediate followers like Nirvana. The Pixies occupy an awkward niche in the music world, often name-checked more than listened to.

Unlike other influential bands, The Pixies have aged well in the shadow of their influence. The opening drum beat to “Bone Machine” still sounds like it might break your stereo, Black Francis’ gut-wrenching yelps on “Debaser” still send chills down the spine and the fat guitar riff on “U-Mass” still rocks harder than Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” ever did.

With their music so ingrained in the fabric of the current indie-rock scene, the prospect of a Pixies reunion seemed just right. Last year, The Pixies made the dreams of longtime fans come true when they reconvened for an indefinite tour under the banner, “The Pixies Sellout.” But what originally appeared to be a series of one-off performances slowly formed into a full-fledged reunion.

Glowing reviews and unanimous critical praise have only spurred the band onto bigger things. October sees the release of a DVD showcasing their initial reunion tour dates, and substantial rumors put The Pixies in the studio recording another album. The focus, however, still remains their phenomenal, charged live show. The band has taken great care to breathe new life into its back catalogue and please old fans while winning new converts nightly.

Nearly 12 years since their breakup, the legend that is The Pixies continues to grow. It’s not often that bands get a second shot at success, but this college dropout and his friends, with a newly rejuvenated audience, are ready to take that chance.

The Pixies play the Charlottesville Pavilion tonight at 7:30 p.m. (gates at 6.) Lake Trout and Army of Me open. Tickets run $37.