#robert pollard

Bob's Beautiful Garbage, Part 1

The horror, shame and deep-seated guilt I experienced after learning that I'd skipped five full records, all of them from this very decade, in Bob Pollard's preposterous discography quickly gave way to anticipation: what the hell is on those records?

I figured that Cub Scout Bowling League, which Bob christened in 2021 so as to issue an album and an EP before dropping the entire thing, seemingly for good, is entirely bongo-centered tracks. Pollard seems like a Joe Freakin' Lala Fan Club kinda guy and once or twice a month, after rough days spent shoveling slop at his local hippo sanctuary, Bob probably combs his 5 day old mustache and then settles into his bongo den so as to make high art.

Rip Van Winkle, I hoped, is entirely made up of authentic Mariachi music with Bob singing in gringo Spanish. Problematic? Yes. But also awesome.

And Cash Rivers and The Sinners, I pray, is Bob's Outlaw Country get up: all white male singer-songwriters eventually make a Country album, from Jonathan Richman to Elvis Costello, to Dylan and Young and Tweedy; even Richard Thompson tried his hand at writing country ballads for a hot second or two in 1971. And, of course, Ringo's country record is pure genius. Bob, when in his Cash Rivers guise, surely dons a ten gallon hat and sings Jerry Jeff Walker's Sangria Wine as a full tilt cowboy boogie.

Those were the hopes; now here are the facts:

Rip Van Winkle's Blasphemy and The Grand Rapids EP

Bob, I'm sorry to report, like me, struggles to throw away his garbage.

I'm working on this issue! Tomorrow morning I'll be out on my curb eagerly thumbs upping the garbage man as he foists three full bins up, up, away and outta my life. The truth is that I got so angry with developments at my work last week that I swung my gnarliest hammer at our family's decrepit backyard bunny hutch (fear not, no bunny was harmed), plus a broken down work table and a hand-me-down recliner set from the 1970s. Each was reduced quickly to tinder, as I am far better at destroying things with a hammer than wielding it as intended.

It felt good! That junk belongs in the bin, not in my yard.

The same could be said for everything Bob's issued as Rip Van Winkle. Both releases are the musical equivalent of aging left-overs from one of Bob's average Thanksgivings. Happily, he's a pretty good cook, and even his four day old jello salad is worth a sniff.

Here's a perfectly solid taste from last year's long player. (The Rip Van Winkle EP has not even been uploaded to YouTube. So I'll just tell you that it, too, is perfectly good garbage.)

Not bad! But not amazing. And yes, I agree, bongos would not have helped.

Cub Scout Bowling Pins' Clang Clang Ho

Now these are meals worth eating!

A better band name for Bob's early Covid project would have been Kinky Moby Awaits the Love Zombies: the whole thing finds Pollard fronting a Moby Grape / Kinks / Love / Zombies divebar cover band (which is probably just GBV's guitar goons chained up and on shrooms) while doing his best Tom Waits impression, with every track featuring an entirely different vocal style.

Here's the whole thing:

GBV's arena-sized amps are Willy Wonkaed down to Mike TV-sized throughout the record and Bob, helpfully, takes the time to remind us that everyone loves a baboon.

So, go: take a ride in Bob's Magic Taxi as soon as you can; it's delightfully bonkers, so good in fact, that I'm saving Heaven Beats Iowa, the band's EP, for tomorrow.

I'm also saving Cash Rivers and the Sinners for another day and another post. Qobuz denies all knowledge of the group, which is annoying, but also feeds my interest.

Self-Castigation on Titus

We have a serious problem, people, and it's all my fault.

No, Tumblr has not cut me off due to my mounting obscurity; and, no, my famous brother hasn't ordered my immediate silence in response for my mockery of his idols; and, no, my wife has not announced that Bob Pollard is no longer welcome in our stately home; and, finally, no, Shakey himself has not sent his new robot to procure my head so as to mount it upon the spike that rears up from the mountaintop Colorado fortress wherein he cavorts with his Roadeyes and produces Chrome Farts flavored froyo.

The truth is far worse: Robert Pollard is mad at me. I mean just gaze upon his contempt...

Yikes!

Here's the problem:

It turns out that the man's preposterous discography includes 5 (!) records from this decade that I skipped altogether. That's right, he's got two projects under the "Rip Van Winkle" moniker, plus another two filed under "Cub Scout Bowling Pins", and a final title stashed away in the "Cash Rivers and The Sinners" section of the Bin. I forgot all about the "Cash Rivers and The Sinners" section of the Bin!

It's terrible to admit, but it's true: I only got you to 2019 in our reverse quest this quickly through sheer, but unintended, villainy.

And now I must pay for my crimes and listen to them all, if that is even possible. After all, none of the records in question even have Wikipedia pages. And Qobuz - my wonderful source for every one of Pollard's records so far during our preposterous quest - will probably get confused, shrug, and then crash the moment I try to dial Cash, Rip or the Bowling Pins alike.

But there comes a time when a man must pay for his crimes, and since I expect our country to eventually do the right thing and place every single member of the Trump administration into Disney's wobbly boats for a neverending tour of It's A Small World After All, thereby removing them forever from power as well as our sight, and because hypocrisy has no place in my own Shakey fortress, I am signing off from the Bin at this very moment and will not report back until my ears have taken in all of that which we missed. Hopefully each of the records in question turns out to be a 12 minute EP of Bob swearing in French.

Anyway, listen to this song on repeat while I'm away: it's my family's favorite road trip song. We all sing along stone faced as we stare out our separate windows.

Sweating the Plague

Let me say right off that Guided By Voices' final 2019 effort does not contain, beyond its title anyway, any prophetic worth a la Wilco’s written-before-9/11 tall building shake / voices escape / singing sad sad songs.

A whirlpool of illness and sweaty suffering was indeed just around the corner when Sweating the Plague emerged, but our hero dedicated the record to out of control street parties, the end of his wrestling career and unique crickets - that's right, unique crickets - not COVID.

Even the record's final, somewhat thrilling, track, Son of the Beard, fails in the portent game. Don't listen to this if you want to know what will go down in Ted Lasso's Season 4. But get into the song if you, like Bob, wonder who is gonna throw their trousers down when Pollard can't hide.

You've got a pretty good sample here of the entire record. It's totally good, certainly on par with whatever yesterday's record was called and way better than the one before that. Pollard even lets one of his guitar goons sing the unique cricket tune in question; perhaps he simply forgot to record any vocals before high-stepping it back to the hippo sanctuary he surely runs in Dayton, Ohio.

Acoustic guitars factor into a lot of the songs, the lead guitar tones are muscular and delightfully all over the map and the whole thing rocked my morning run from angst into joy. What the hell else could one ask for?

Here's another tasty track; I guarantee it will not give you the plague.

Surrender Your Poppy Field

When my kids were little they loved visits from their "Uncle" Ryan.

He'd show up in a clattering truck, a six pack already in-process. There was always a tobacco strewn guitar in his free hand and the kids would giggle at the joyful swear words he'd burble forth as they angled for a spot in his warm lap. He definitely wasn't their actual uncle, but no one cared about that. Come nightfall he'd go sleep out in our yard under a tree.

I sure hope it's the same deal for the children of Travis Harrison, Bob Pollard's surely beleaguered and long time producer. You need to go back over a full decade - and like 25 albums - to find a GBV record that was not produced by Harrison in his bunker-style Dumbo, NY studio.

Harrison styles himself a family man, walking to work. And so I imagine him calling home two to four times a year to give everyone fair warning that Uncle Bob had turned up unexpectedly once again to make yet another record and was therefore coming to dinner. And I picture Bob beside him during such calls, requesting lasagna.

Some of Uncle Ryan's visits were more impactful than others. One night, which centered around a handle of vodka and a whole lot of rice milk, pretty much resulted in my family's first home remodel: come morning my wife declared that no one was willing to ever live within 700 square feet of Ryan and me ever again.

Surrender Your Poppy Field, the first record Uncle Bob made with the help of Harrison and his standard guitar goons in 2020, sounds like it came to be during an equally drunk and fruitful visit; it's one of the group's very best efforts. Just check Bob out as he advises his foxy physician to position their love light in his direction:

I recommend the whole thing to you. Parts sound like the mic was thoughtfully positioned deep within the studio's pummeled urinal; one track details Bob getting shanghaied by the coppers.

I'm guessing that Uncle Bob slept well during the recording process, knowing he was making a good one. Picture him with a few of Harrison's swag-worthy and "sh#tty" studio pillows piled up on the Harrison's couch, the family cat settled in beside him as he snores like a titan. Picture Harrison's wife suggesting that he, please God, take the pillows out back and set up camp under the Harrison's solo, citified tree.

Mirrored Aztec

I was all set to give up, apologize to you all and announce that we've reached the point in my preposterous summer quest where all GBV songs and albums are suddenly indistinguishable and/or annoying to my exhausted ear, when, lo and behold (lo and behold, looking for my...) Pollard and his goons moved on from the weirdly intolerable...

... to the perfectly lovely.

You can't blame me for harboring some doubts. After all, note how both songs begin almost identically: we get little pink picnic guitar riffs with identical amp settings that await clattering drums, power chords and Bob singing about who knows who/what.

But Thank You Jane, which, one assumes, is dedicated to earnestly praising Jane Fonda (note the Atlanta Braves baseball and home workout references) pulled me back from the negative brink.

And so I'm here to dutifully report that 2000’s Mirrored Aztec ignores all topical COVID references like the plague, opens with some sweet polish (check out the second track, Bunko Men, especially), gets annoying in the middle and then ends in very strong fashion.

And so I encourage you to spin the whole thing once and mark the last three songs for your ongoing enjoyment.

Styles We Paid For

Like you, I'm spending a fair amount of time lately relishing the merits of a great film that follows the adventures of a hero who's lost his way; I felt so moved watching him recall his identity while longing for a community that misses him so desperately.

No, you dullard, I'm not talking about The Odyssey. After all, the lying, enslaving and selfish sex addict at the center of that story remembers exactly who he is throughout his quest, regardless of the hamfisted ideas and fourth grade play dialog that litter Christopher Nolan's anemic (or maybe it's brilliant and I should shut up) rewrite of the story.

I'm talking, or course, about The Muppets Take Manhattan, which recounts Kermit's harrowing journey through amnesia and back to his beloved friends and self awareness.

You and I are luckier than Kermit, of course, and far better looking than Matt Damon, but I suspect I'm not alone when I say that the year 2020 is about as close to collective amnesia as we've ever come. COVID, George Floyd, zoom classrooms, Trump suggesting we should all go ahead and inject bleach: it was a terrible and terrifying time, and I, for one, had to work hard to remember who we actually were and what we needed to return to.

Not Bob Pollard, though. While the rest of the world either got sucked into the swirling Charybdis of 10am pantless vodka or Scylla's six headed doom of egg and toilet paper scarcity, Bob somehow skirted both threats and pumped out his standard three Guided By Voice records during that first terrible year. He rejected Damon's lotus flowers and Kermit's mistaken Italian identity alike!

And, since I swore I would do so, it's time for me to listen to all three of the Bobster's 2020 records in reverse order.

But wait! Good grief, I missed a record! It looks like Pollard had, in addition to the mediocre Toddlers and Drifters All Stink and the triumphant Crystal Nuns Cathedral, a 2022 solo record because... of course he did.

So whoop-de-do, people: 2020 will just have to wait. Let's gobble up some more of Charlize's tantalizing lotus ("But I love it!" quoth Matt, somehow with a straight face while ignoring the Atomic One beside him like a total dope) and listen to Our Gaze today instead. It's already an easy 90 degrees outside and I'll dial the record up for my run. What could go wrong?

....

Everything could go wrong, it turns out. Our Gaze, I instantly discovered, is not a new solo record! It's a compilation of Bob's earlier solo records.

I'm already doing the preposterous this summer twice over: yesterday I willingly sat through a 7 hour film version of The Odyssey in which Odysseus never beds single a goddess or tells Polyphemus his name, making Poseidon's rage - and the entire epic! - unfounded and nonsensical. What's more, I'm also listening to every one of Pollard's records in reverse order all summer long.

Well, we've all got to draw a line somewhere, and I know exactly where to draw mine: One Shall Not Listen to Bob Pollard's Compilation Records. There it is folks: That is the true law of Zeus. Amen.

....

And so, let me wrap this up by reporting that my run was sweaty and that Styles We Paid For is perfectly good; it's yet another GBV record with the requisite silly titles (Endless Seafood takes the cake on this record), lots of pounding drums, power chords aplenty, and Pollard, our captain and king, at least for this summer, slaying a few beasts and winning a few cups.

Here's the best song:

Earth Man Blues, Part 2

I have no idea why Pollard's 2021 GBV record claims to be a production of this guy, an old Lutheran colonizer who refused to shave for the last 72 years of his life, earning him the no doubt problematic nickname "The Lion of Punjab."

Unless... oh, I get it: Pollard probably attended the guy's namesake, no longer in existence, elementary school in Dayton, Ohio. Is Earth Man Blues Part 1 of Pollard's musical biography? If so, I sure hope the second half is better than the first because the first half was great except when it sucked.

For those of you anxiously tracking things at home, we're restarting this thing at the 20:49 minute mark above with Sunshine Girl Hello. The song, which follows a spinning AM radio dial approach, sounds pretty good. Yes, the whole thing makes me a bit seasick, but Pollard's story (which might be about a middle school crush?) reemploys Alex Chilton's guitar tone and makes me feel just fine, thank you.

Wave Starter is even better. It's definitely the best song on the record so far with its acoustic rush, smooth layering and classic tambourine. Tell 'em about yourself Pollard. Keep it up!

But Ant Repellent opens in, well, repellent fashion and, despite some tasty guitar and bass moves, the whole thing is kinda annoying. Get the ants outta your pants without telling us about it next time Bob.

Margaret Middle School suggests that this whole thing is indeed dedicated to Bob's youth. I can't really follow the thread: older guys grease their hair and Bob doesn't seem to have forged a winning approach with the ladies by age 13. Sweet song! I can't believe the whole thing is just 70 seconds long.

I Bet Hippy reminds us that he would have started high school in 1971 or so, which, because he's therefore an old a white guitar player, means that he really should have appeared on my famous brother's All One Song, Season 2, you know, the season in which Old White Male Guitarists Discussed An Older White Male Guitarist. Pollard would have either chosen to discuss Cinnamon Girl, because he's a bit of a Captain Obvious, or Stupid Girl, because he could really care less what you think, or Saddle Up The Palomino because it's silly.

Anyway, I Bet Hippy is a pretty good song; there's a sweet understated groove going on. I hereby place my bets on the hippy as well. Even so, I’d rather be listening to All One Song.

Test Pilot rocks. It makes for a great 70 seconds of my life. 1/2 of this album is great; the other half sucks my progressive rock Dictaphone.

I don't know How Can a Plumb Be Perfected, but the ones I ate with my breakfast this morning were great and I'm gonna chop some up into my gin and tonic the moment this is over and this song is equally good.

Child's Play ends the record. I'm writing about it before I even get to it - Pollard is still warbling about how his stone fruit can conceivably be improved upon - because I want to get to that G&T ASAP. And now that the song has started I'm not that into it. I guess I don't really like children, especially when they are playing. But the guitar solo is fun, devolving into ninja moves and buzzing insects. I feel like this summer of Guided by Voices is guiding me to madness. Good times.

Earth Man Blues

After a quarter century spent not keeping up with Robert Pollard's preposterous discography followed by a month of nonstop engagement with the silly man I've missed him during these past 5, GBV-free, days.

So, let's take in 2021's Earth Man Blues in real time together: I'll listen and respond while you praise, curse or snooze: whatever floats yer boat. Hopefully Bob will offer us something ridiculous in return.

Here we go:

Made Man sounds identical to 4,568 other GBV songs until Bob gets weird 45 seconds in, assuming the form of Fat Elvis piloting the Magical Mystery Tour's ramshackle tour bus into Queen Victoria's Spring Garden Collection. Fun!

The Disconnected Citizen finds Bob undecided on this record's direction: should he make high art or fart jokes? Accurately tuned Big Star guitars, swirling strings and cotton candy shivers enswirl him, but he's clearly drunk. Pick a mood Pollard!

The Batman Sees the Ball has got Tom Petty's early 90's pacing, so that's good. This album clearly involved time spent in a real studio and a lot of planning, which isn't necessarily a good thing when it comes to GBV records. But the song sounds just fine to me. Pollard may be recalling his own apocryphal high school no hitter or the Reds 6-2 loss to the Marlins the night before. No idea. Next song!

Dirty Kid School sounds promising. But 35 seconds in we've already weathered three sections. 45 seconds in we finally understand what's happening: this song is good! But at 65 seconds that good song is abandoned and we're hurled through seventeen different moods in rapid succession, all of them slightly annoying. And at 1:45 we're stuck inside Bob's pitch for a proposed high school musical staring himself as a 65 year old sophomore - it'll tour Ohio regional theaters for 3.25 months and cause general upset. The thing involves finger snaps and jazz hands. Pollard tells us that you can't hear the bell in his theatrical high school "because no one gives a sh$t". That's how I feel about this song.

Trust Them Now seeks to regain ours. I'm willing; the song charges in an understandable direction, Pollard displaying 3 of the 5 chords he’s mastered so far. There are some cool backing vocals in the second half and the drums roll downhill all the way to the bottom, like 7 year old bravado on a pock-marked sand dune. Nothing surprising happens. Thank god.

Lights Out in Memphis threatens to be an instrumental. Is it? Bob subtitles the piece in an effort to clarify that his song describes the state of affairs in Memphis, Eygpt, not in the home of the blues. Thanks for that clarification Bob; I was anxious to understand this song-without-word's setting.

Anyway, nevermind, it's not an instrumental after all: a full minute in - which is like 15 years in GBV time - Bob puts his enormous late stage Jim Morrison pants on and mutters a bit, then guides us into some art school prog rock nonsense. "Caricatures," Bob intones decisively midway through, "are common." I agree! So stop employing them already, Bob.

The song is over 5 minutes long and devolves into some Wilco Summer Teeth pretensions. Unacceptable!

Free Agents swings us back into familiar GBV pop rock territory. The lyrics kinda suck though, with Bob spouting dull truisms instead of Pilsner powered platitudes: life is like a slot machine apparently, and Bob's never been to heaven but he's heard good things. Earth Man Blues is kinda bumming me out.