The first of several concerts originally intended as Great Escape sideshows take place in Brisbane tonight, and although the early crowd is sparse as Violent Soho warm up, the audience multiplies into the hundreds by set’s end. As is their custom, the four Mansfield rockers thrash about the stage, hair flailing, and tear through tracks from their impressive debut album, We Don’t Belong Here. For a band who are heavily influenced by the back catalogue of tonight’s headliner, they don’t seem all that excited in their support slot. They’re also dealt a pretty shitty hand by the venue’s sound technicians, who do little to assist The Arena’s reputation for consistently delivering a poor sound output. Luke Boerdam’s vocals and Michael Richards’ drums are at the front of the mix, while Boerdam and James Tidswell’s guitars aren’t nearly loud enough. Frustratingly, these concerns aren’t addressed throughout their half-hour set. While tonight’s performance will only attract more converts to their no-frills brand of punk-rock, the band’s impact is significantly diminished without those jet-engine power chords during the chorus of – well, every single Violent Soho song.

Having read FasterLouder coverage of Black Francis’ Fremantle and Adelaide shows earlier in the week, this reviewer – and perhaps a significant portion of the audience – held reasonable expectations that the man would indulge in a solo acoustic set of Pixies songs, before being joined by his two bandmates. These expectations are soon shattered as Francis – otherwise known as Frank Black – emerges with bassist Dan Schmidt and drummer Jason “Skippy” Carter, and launches into Bluefinger opener Captain Pasty. Thus begins a set that comprises most of that album and the 2008 EP Svn Fngrs: expectations be damned.

This is why we love rock music, though, right? It’s unpredictable, exciting, and real. The crowd swells to around 500 as the band lock into a fearsome groove three songs in, after the Bluefinger title track and When They Come To Murder Me. Carter is an unremarkable but highly competent skinsman; while barely extending himself at any stage within Black’s none-too-complex rock arrangements, Carter shares backup vocal duties with Schmidt throughout. Black demands little of sound or guitar technicians, and only stabs at his collection of pedals – which are hidden between audience-facing foldback speakers – a handful of times. Few are more well-versed at the quiet-loud pickup-switching technique than Black, who opts to spend much of his time onstage feeling his way around the fretboard with eyes closed.

There’s no setlist in sight; instead, Black and his bandmates operate on a system of signals, gestures and a well-rehearsed string of songs which transition smoothly – that is, until the man himself botches the opening of Seven Fingers. The three musicians’ accusing fingers point squarely at Black, who takes the mistake in his stride and appears all the more personable for doing so. His aloof stage persona has always been one of his most appealing qualities, and tonight’s performance is no exception. For a man with such a distinctive, powerful voice, he speaks surprisingly little to his fans, and between-song crowd appreciation comprises the extent of his stage banter. The occasional Pixies song requests fall on deaf ears; tonight, Black has no interest in revisiting the distant past, and instead prefers to concentrate on recent releases.

But there’s little room for lamentation amid a set that’s jam-packed with solid rock songs; perhaps it’s Mr Black’s way of wordlessly cautioning us on the pitfalls of assumptions and expectations. Bluefinger contains several good songs, and a few great. Almost all of them are aired tonight: highlights include Test Pilot Blues, Your Mouth Into Mine and Tight Black Rubber. The jagged, trebley riff of the latter is characteristic of Black’s preferred guitar tone, which he retains throughout the show.

Get Away Oil finds Black engaging in bouts of schizophrenic vocal theatrics, as is his wont, but it’s a four-song closing bracket that solidifies tonight’s show in the memory of those in attendance. A blistering version of Threshold Apprehension is followed by harmonica-heavy Lolita; the mostly-spoken word Frank Black And The Catholics song Six-Sixty-Six is a curious rarity, before the band’s cover of little-known Gary Green song That Burnt Out Rock & Roll concludes the set.

The three men onstage emerge from behind instruments, smile at the crowd and graciously exhibit their appreciation for an extended moment, before exiting the stage. The lighting technician keeps us in the dark for several minutes after the band’s departure; anticipation for an encore grows, before the house lights are switched on and all hopes are dashed. After discarding any lingering hopes of Black delving into his deep back catalogue – and judging by the quantity of Pixies attire on display, these hopes are many – tonight’s performance is wholly enjoyable. That several hundred fans nominated to spend their Wednesday night in company with an aging, but still engaging alternative rock luminary is testament to the strength of his songwriting. As Black sang during the set’s last moments: “A rock and roll singer will never die / As long as the words to his songs are remembered / Without the burnt out tear that filled his eye”.