And now they’re back. Perhaps the plaudits about the soft bit/LOUD BIT so common in much alterna-rock originating with them hit home, maybe they want to prove Steve Albini wrong or maybe they really are in it for the money. But regardless, they’re back on the road – though not, as of this writing, planning on hitting Australia. And so, there’s a new best-of to pull in unwary ears. And for the uninitiated, it’s bloody good.

First things first. The title of this selection is perhaps the most perfect that’s been applied to a career overview. If there’s one thing that marks out Pixies tunes, it’s a general undercurrent of violence. Musically, too, the songs arrive like something coastal – either in lapping waves or in storms you wouldn’t want to take your boat out in.

So what of the song selection? It’s almost faultless. Well, for a newbie, at least – more experienced hands will undoubtedly carp at some selections and knowingly nod at others (the Neil Young cover Winterlong, say). But for someone who’s not particularly knowledgeable about the group’s work, it’s a brilliant thing; a door cracked open into an extremely perverse – though literate – world. College rock? You betcha – and this is back when that appellation actually meant something.

There’s a lot of leaning towards Doolittle and Surfer Rosa in the tune selection, but this is understandable, given that they’re easily the most consistent (and hook-laden) discs of their oeuvre. Later albums get short shrift (Bossanova and Tromp Le Monde have three cuts each on this platter) while the Come On Pilgrim EP gets three look-ins. Some would argue that the filler-free Doolittle is all you need in terms of Pixies tunes, and this corralling of songs seems to underscore it – and perhaps encourage a new generation of fans to go out and snap that sucker up.

Still, most of the canonical Pixies tunes are all here, and what’s astounding is that – no matter how often you’ve heard the songs – there’s something more you can dig out of them. Black Francis’s (or Frank Black’s, or Charles Thompson’s, if you prefer – they’re all the same big bloke in a flanno) highly literate predilections – sex, death, faith, incest, self-examination, surrealist flicks, numerology, humanism and other philosophical (or biblical) peregrinations create a rich tapestry of reference that can be dug into at your leisure. Certainly, trying to understand what the hell he’s going on about – even when he’s not wailing on about attempted molestations in parking facilities (Bone Machine)or being the son of a motherfucker (Nimrod’s Son) – is something that generally requires more time than the tunes take. But that’s the appeal of the group; they championed intelligence over musical ability and content over popularity.

Musically, there’s always more going on than you’d think, but one thing’s certain: it never feels here like anything is done exclusively for the sake of the big riff, really. All despite the fact that the band came together with the aim of puncturing self-important posturing with the goal of creating “something great that says nothing”. Also notable is the frequency with which what’s heard communicates a frightening energy. Even in rearranged form – freed from the settings of their original albums – these songs have the ability to make the hair on the back of your neck rise up. There’s a sublime combination of fragility and strength to most of the tunes; there’s always the idea of something more going on; of a sadness versus joy tug-of-war, of violence trying to best rationality. Apathy versus action? Maybe.

Monkey Gone To Heaven’s meditation on planet-wrecking and evolution, for example, begins with a narcotic, woozy dump of guitar, before near-silence jack-knifes into screamed explorations of the workings of the universe while strings play in the background. It’s maybe the best-known example of the contending streams in the Pixies’ work – primal scream versus chinstroking.

The band’s straddling of rock, post-punk and pop is plainly obvious on this collection, and it’s curious how well they flow together. Full-scale head-kickers like Gouge Away or the motoring Holiday Song sit alongside perfect pop gems like the Kim Deal classic Gigantic. The happily faux-suicidal (Wave Of Mutilation, a surfy car-wreck ode!) nuzzle up to the amp-kickingly harsh (Vamos). Drug-hazed angel choirs support investigations into the nature of the self while snorkelling (Where Is My Mind?) while elsewhere, the band attempts to get into your pants again (Hey). Debaser, years on, is still one of the most exhilarating rallying calls recorded. Hollered vocals beckon listeners to embrace the strange and explore the different, debased, unexpected ways life can be lived. As a hymn for affirmative action for the blank generation, it’s unsurpassed.

And then, of course, there’s Here Comes Your Man, a tune that, for all its summery nature, has the ability to make grown men weep unrestrainedly. Seemingly an homage – though knowing its progenitors’ mercurial temperament, probably not – to fabulously-constructed girl pop of the ‘50s and ‘60s, it features the most fabulously soul-piercing harmony wail that you’re likely to hear. A dusty Kim Deal and a ragged Black Francis combine their vocal powers – and this is before the wordless vocalise that sits between chorus repetitions – and bring them to bear on a single word. It evokes the feel of scratched, washed-out home movies, of something lost, of something so beautiful it hurts. It’s something that could well be used to describe the songs here as a hole: cracked, fucked and beautifully, lovingly realised.

This is affecting stuff.

(It’s also worth noting that the record label has taken some care with this release – or at least, there’s a real Pixies fan helming the quality control: it’s been noticed that Hey is missing the big man’s initial holler, so they’ve offered a shout-inclusive version for free downloads to all you gypped punters (remasters will include said shout) on this webpage. Rockin’.)

Ultimately, though, if you’re already a Pixies fan, this isn’t the album for you. If you’ve listened to them for any length of time, chances are that you’ll already have most of the albums and another compile of their work won’t exactly be essential – as their recent Complete B-Sides selection was, say. It’s a much better-chosen best-of than the frequently-lambasted Death To The Pixies, though, perhaps because its flow allows the development – and increasing paucity of Kim Deal tunes! – of the band to be examined a bit more fulsomely than you’d expect. For hardcore fans, this disc will fulfil the role of a pretty nifty mix tape – albeit one with fancy packaging. You’ll probably use it to debate the running order (more or less chronological) and give you excuses to pull out your albums.

The people who’ll be best served by Wave Of Mutilation are those who’ve heard that Kurt Cobain quote about how Nirvana were only trying to appropriate Pixies tunes; those who heard Where Is My Mind? at the end of Fight Club and thought it sounded hazily cool; those who’ve had mates who’d chant the ”...and if man is five, if man is five…” bit from Monkey Gone To Heaven at when they were pissed, but never understood it. The uninitiated. This release – assuming it’s not solely released to accompany the DVD that’s also just been released – is best pitched at newcomers to the band. And as an introduction, it’s pretty much faultless. The range of the group – from spiky, arms-crossed fuck-off tunes to the most gloriously heartbroken pop to ever be laid down – is delineated over the length of the disc. And it’s as impressive now as ever.

This is the best way to get into Pixies if you don’t know their work too well. It’s a tearily joyous almost-70-minute reminder of what music sounds like when it’s fucked-up, ebullient, unashamed and new. Cherish it.

And if you do know their work well… what are you doing reading this? Go and fish out Surfer Rosa and Doolittle. And play ‘em loud.