PERSONALLY For those about to rock BY IAN DONNIS

It was one of those things. Even though I called Boston home during the late ’80s heyday of the Pixies, the band inexplicably wasn’t on my radar until it was too late to see them. All I could do was burn down Massachusetts highways, blasting Doolittle and Bossanova, soaking up the fading sonic bombast of the storied latter-day counterpart of the Velvet Underground. There was no way of knowing, of course, that the Pixies would reassemble for a tour some 12 years after their breakup — and that after having the foresight to glean a pair of ducats ("Pixiestix") for the December 1 show at the Tsongas Arena in Lowell, Massachusetts, I’d catch cold and almost feel too crappy to go. Almost.

Coming on the eve of a 40-something birthday, the potential squander struck me as a cosmic Rubicon: skip the show and my descent into middle age, sterility, senility, and a lifetime spent watching television from the couch would follow in quick order. On the other hand, I could make the journey to Lowell, mystical birthplace of Jack Kerouac, bathe in the singular experience of battered eardrums, rock with my pasty fellow denizens of alt-rock nation, and thereby extend some self-idealized notion of credibility into the present. It wasn’t really much of a choice.

My pal Ted, a mere lad of 28, was my cohort for the journey, and he plied his pickup through the night with grace, his caveat about being a bad driver notwithstanding. Arriving at the Tsongas, we were scanned for such contemporary contraband as cigarettes and penknives, passing our computer-printer tickets — a trip in themselves for longtime concertgoers — to a waiting security type. Adopting the role of sage elder statesman, I needled Ted with the names of the bands — the Clash, Gang of Four, the Jam, and so on — that I’d seen when he was still an amoeba or not even that.

After a tight, concise set by openers Mission of Burma, the Pixies walked onstage to a thunderous reception, backed by a smoke machine and a few strategically placed tree branches. Black Francis, Frank Black, or whatever he’s calling himself these days, was bigger than a house. The show was nonetheless everything that any of us could have wanted, a blistering 90 minutes or so of all the big tunes — "Bone Machine," "Gigantic," "Wave of Mutilation" — with little stage patter to detract from it. For anyone who had been to scores of rock shows, there was an exuberant, yet familiar, quality to it. The Pixies acted as if they had never missed a beat. Truth to be told, even if my attendance at rock shows has slipped in favor of the gym and other pursuits, I tucked in close to 3 a.m. with few doubts about my ability to still rock.