#GUIDED BY VOICES

[introspect-la]

OCTOBER 1994 TROCADERO SCHEDULE

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Guided By Voices - Canal Street Tavern, Dayton, Ohio, Sept. 2, 1994

Sometime about 30 years ago, I started reading things about Guided By Voices — primarily in Spin Magazine, I think. That's where a 15-year-old had to go for these things back then, kids! Nothing too huge, just a staff mention here, a single review there. Charles Aaron reported: "GBV singer-songwriter Robert Pollard writes jittery, surging, sideways tributes to John/Paul, Syd Barrett, Lou Reed, Ray Davies, et al, like a teenager in full flush." Sounded enticing!

Then there was Jim Greer, in his A Year In The Life of Rock 'n' Roll column, closing out a long musing on the recently departed Kurt Cobain with this: "I listen a lot these days to 'Exit Flagger' by Guided By Voices, an amazing song written by 37-year-old schoolteacher Robert Pollard in the middle of nowhere, where I live too, like most people, without a whole lot to go on. I quoted part of the lyrics at the beginning of this piece because however Pollard intended the song, it's come to mean a lot more to me since Cobain's death. The song's lyrics end on a tag line after the chorus, which I have never been able to decipher properly. Just before the guitars begin their quick, cathartic crescendo to the fadeout, Pollard can be heard singing either 'Promise to lead you,' or 'Promise to leave you.' Or maybe both. So far it's the closest thing I've come across to a clue in all this mess."

Oddly, Greer would've been able to ask Pollard what those lyrics were very soon; the writer joined GBV as bassist sometime in the summer of '94. He was also engaged to Kim Deal! Jim was leading some kind of indie rock charmed life, it seemed (of course, him and Kim never got married and he didn't last all that long with Pollard and co., but hey).

And what about me?! Well, after reading all of this and more, I finally came across a copy of Bee Thousand that fall at Go-Boy Records in Redondo Beach and took a chance — I don't think I'd heard a note of Guided By Voices yet. And though I was confused at first when I dropped the needle on that bright-red vinyl, by the end I was more or less head over heels. It's hard to re-create in my mind the weird, mysterious beauty of hearing that LP for the first few times, trying to figure out what was going on, but I know it unlocked something. Parallel lines on a slow decline, the story of our lives.

Anyway, here we are 30 years later, and I'm listening to GBV play a typically rowdy hometown show that's packed with Bee Thousand tunes, plus plenty of Alien Lanes tunes (then called Scalping The Guru, as Bob notes), alongside a host of classic numbers that still sound like they've been beamed in from some other, better universe. "Guided By Voices are fucking pussies!" Pollard exclaims bewilderingly in between songs. Hell yeah they are.

[rocknrollflames]

'Someday' Music Video

The Strokes

Featuring Slash, Duff McKagan, and Matt Sorum

Thank you @jakelinestradlin for reminding me of this. ☺️

@jakelinestradlin @greeneyezblackheart @beebemarie @valupuyhol @elscaptive @prettypersuasion @snakepitgunner @nenynra@slashlover420 @shout-at-the-nightrain @duffsmckagan @duffslut @guns-n-jovi@guns-n-roses-gal @gnr-slvt @hungercityhellhound @he-goes-down @deathyriver @takemetothetopp @dessypanayotova @izzystradlindoesitforme @izzystradliniscute @midnight-alibi @moonage-babe @mycollectionmylife @juliannas-wild-oats @thedeviousdevilxx @lonelyfuckingcat @cel3brity-skin @popcorn-adler @stvnszlr @ride-the-hammett

How many people can I tag? I just wanted to see how many mutuals I can remember. I won't do it again. Swear! It took wayyy too long! If I forgot you then I'm sorry, or I thought you'd hate it, or you're welcome!

[otakukitten69]

who up guiding their voices? who up sparkling their horse? who up building their spill? who up nicking their drake?

[crewneck]

[mdemn]

“so what happened to the dog?” “the don tried to drown her. i broke his nose.”

mafia: definitive edition (dev. hangar 13) / you don't know me (i'm your dog) - guided by voices / i bet on losing dogs - mitski / hermit the frog - marina and the diamonds

[stolenchapstick]

i've waited too long... ♪

[dustedmagazine]

Guided By Voices — Strut of Kings (GBV Inc.)

Photo by Ellen Qbertplaya

In an interview following the announcement of the new Guided By Voices record, Strut of Kings, Robert Pollard explained why it would, uncharacteristically, be the group’s only release this year: “I just wanted to give this one a little more time to sink in with the fans. Give them some breathing space.” Take Pollard at his word: Strut of Kings is worth the focus and, speaking of space, it’ll take up as much as your speakers allow.

Back in 2018, I wrote that Space Gun (also that year’s only GBV album) was “a protein-rich re-entry point from which to backtrack through the post-millennium catalog…with triumphant blends of sweeping rhythm guitar, ascending lead riffs and rolling rhythm sections.” Six years and 13 albums later, I’ll say the same of Strut of Kings, only more so. As on Space Gun, Pollard is backed by Bobby Bare Jr., Doug Gillard, Mark Shue, and Kevin March, but here they play with a stormier ambition that adds an extra potency to the songs. This isn’t angry music, exactly, but it is noticeably heavier and sounds off with a harder-rocking urgency.

On the edgier end of things come ornery, ear-ringing slugfests like “Olympus Cock In Radiana” and “Cavemen Running Naked.” The first of which heaves around thick, fuzzy guitar arpeggios over a dogged stomp with the bare menace of early Black Sabbath. The second evokes both Queens of the Stone Age with its brute force drumming and taut, meaty riffs and Thin Lizzy with its buzzy, glamorous bursts of guitar. Sequenced between those two and yet darker is “Leaving Umbrella.” The track, slow, sheer and draped with cymbal crashes and sliding walls of distortion, finds Pollard wallowing in a psychedelic, fantastical fog, like a long lost David Bowie album for Southern Lord.

Ill-tempered bangers aside, Strut of Kings is, like so much of Pollard’s vast catalog, at its best in rich, punchy, power pop mode. One of Pollard’s great strengths as a vocalist is delivering even his hardest-to-parse lines with the conviction of confessional poetry. As the sparkling strum and thrust of “Fictional Environment Dream” is lifted by sustained electronic keys, “trying to sell me/on such same primitive tools/programming fever dreams/with the fools/let them expel me” might as well be Matthew Sweet lamenting “I’m sick of myself when I look at you.” It’s one of several moments when the musical ambition and vigor of this album crosses into more radiant, but no less powerful territory. Take, for instance, the long, elegiac build of “Bit Of A Crunch,” from clean, picked guitar to a robust, sunbreak-after-rain stadium balladry close to Oasis’ ragged, golden “Don’t Go Away.” Perhaps the record’s most potent blend of beauty and brawn, however, is “Serene King.” At the bridge, while Pollard raps towards his jet plane takeoff on the final refrain, a rapid series of single guitar notes shoot up from the bullying rumble of bass, drums and blasting, third-rail rhythm chords, taking the song from fist-pumping to something like transcendent.

Chalk it up to the explosive instrumentals, but the lyrics, often the most beguiling aspect of a Guided By Voices record, aren’t the most memorable part of Strut of Kings. One verse, though, from the album closer “Bicycle Garden,” stands out: “Though all the roses are dying/the old nest climbing with ivy/is lively.” What better way to describe Pollard’s indefatigable musical career than in terms of voracious regeneration. With this latest liveliness, Pollard and company continue that relentless growth. And remember, they’re leaving the breathing space for you: no one said they needed it.

Alex Johnson

[polaroidblog]

[life-adjourned]

☆ some white album covers ☆

[xohzero]

as we go up, we go down by guided by voices

chromesthesia collage. watercolor, hand typed lyrics, collaged elements.

[bandcampsnoop]

6/20/24.

I Was A King (Egersund, Norway) has been a staple for me for over 15 years. I remember finding their s/t LP in the markdown bin at Rasputin in Berkeley. They have consistently put out great pop influenced by the likes of Teenage Fanclub, The Apples in Stereo, and Guided By Voices for nearly 20 years.

They have influenced bands like Tony Molina and The Lost Ones. And members have joined other amazing projects like The No Ones and Colored Light.

"Isle of Yours" is an album I've always wanted. I contacted Frode Strømstad a while back asking if there were any extra copies he'd be willing to sell and the answer came back, sold out. Copies on Discogs are there, but expensive.

So, for now, let's just be content to hear one of their finest works in digital form. And if you haven't really gotten into the band yet, let this be the gateway to further exploration to one of Norway's greatest exports.

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin # 13:

The Mountain Goats' Sweden

Here's a (Mostly) True story:

In the fall of 1995, John Darnielle, the founder, songwriter, frontman (and, occasionally, the sole member) of The Mountain Goats taught me how to cook.

As a second year student at Pomona College I took the one on-campus job no one else wanted: fast food line cook. No one wanted the job because it required actual labor; every other on-campus job involved sitting at a desk in a library, museum, gym or office while doing your homework. But I was ready to heat oil, and labor. I was ready to eat as much free ice cream as I could in-between orders.

The job was an odd choice for a vegetarian like me at the time: I spent the first hour of every shift slicing enough partially thawed, homogenized meat for the full day of orders ahead; once both of my hands were entirely numb from the meat's cold it was time to drink a giant vat of free Sprite and then move on to other prep tasks. Slice the tomatoes. Fire up the grill. Then, once the place opened, I'd spend the rest of my shift burning all that sliced meat to a crisp for altered and/or indifferent fellow college students.

John Darnielle trained me. He'd already released two records at that point, but I had no idea who the hell he was. My ignorance drove him nuts.

By the time he arrived each day my hands were already numb and my personally selected music was already on the stereo system. In the fall of 95 that meant a heavy rotation of Guided By Voices' Alien Lanes, Uncle Tupelo records and Yo La Tengo's Electr-O-Pura. I'd put on Tom Waits' The Black Rider at closing time so everyone would go the hell home; that always cleared the room.

But I never played The Mountain Goats; I'd never even heard of them. Throughout that fall I worked alongside a blossoming rock star. And I had no clue whatsoever.

John was the first and only friend I've ever had who wore a leather jacket. He was also ridiculously old for an undergraduate; we're talking mid-to-late-twenties. Every day he'd arrive, compliment my taste in music, trade his jacket for a weathered apron and then look at me earnestly. It was weird. I saw that he wanted me to say something, that he wanted me to know something. Desperately. But I had no idea what the hell it was.

After a bit he'd sigh and begin the day's training. Here's how to flip 'em kid; here's how to fire up that grill.

Then, at some point, he just broke down and told me: he knew James McNew; he had a record deal; he was just back from a tour of Germany, where people were crazy for any kind of American music; he was starting to make some real money (hence the leather jacket). He thought I'd like his music.

At that point I'm afraid I made the situation much, much worse. I laughed at John Darnielle and accused him of lying.

"Yeah right, dude. You're a rock star. And I'm the queen of England."

He listened. He paused. Then he shut down the register and said we needed to go outside. And so we went. College kids stood about, confused. Who was gonna get them their curly fries if the kid in The Dead t-shirt and the weird old guy took a break?

I remember, like yesterday, standing next to him in the sun. He'd taken off his apron and put his leather jacket back on. The vibe was very weird.

"Look, I'm not joking," he said. "My band used to play shows here on campus, but we're just too big for that now. Go to Rhino records; you're a vinyl guy, right? They've got my latest album on vinyl for like 7 bucks."

(Remember: this was the secret golden age of vinyl: CDs cost $12-15 and records of the same thing cost $7-12. And we all thought we needed to spend more for the CDs! If I had a time machine, I would not go back and see who killed JFK; rather, I'd spend a sweet summer with Jane Austen and then propose marriage to her, then I'd travel to 1969 to see Neil and Crazy Horse live, THEN I'd go back to 95 and buy everything I could grab on vinyl CHEAP.)

Okay, back to John Darnielle in 95: "Look: my new record is called Sweden," he said. "Only it has absolutely nothing to do with Sweden. That's the joke. Listen to it; you'll know it's me right away. I sing like I talk. People think we have like 25 members in the band, but it's really just me and this girl who plays bass. I lie in my songs, all the time. But I'm not lying to you."

And then he just walked off. In the middle of his shift! I was left to man the counter on my own. Fries were ordered; burgers were burned to a fabulous crisp. And The Black Rider came on way early. I had something I needed to do.

As soon as the quitting bell rang I hopped on my bike and road straight to the record store. As usual, the counter was manned by the angriest guy in the whole world. His name was probably Haemon, and he always sneered at whatever I was buying. This was years before High Fidelity, but he was already auditioning for Jack Black's part. The dude just hated me. I remember buying a Sonic Youth Tee in there one time. He ripped me apart while ringing me up. Is it any wonder that a few years later we all decided to shop on Amazon?

Anyway, by the time I got to the store, I'd pretty much decided John Darnielle was for real. And quite quickly I found his record, walked it to the counter, handed it over guiltily (Rhino Records had their workers stand behind a counter that was a full two feet higher than the sales floor so as to allow Jack Black Sr. behind the counter, who was tall to begin with, maximum superiority over his pathetic customers), and then, for the first and only time, the guy did not give me a hard time.

"Well, well, well," he said. "You're finally buying something of value. Poser."

(Remember when we all called each other "poser"? Now we all call each other unprintable things. Ah, the 90's...)

Well, you can see where this is going. The Mountain Goats were indeed that guy John from my day job. His singing was ridiculous, like Lou Reed if he was a passionate player of Magic, The Gathering. His melodies were infectious, like Bob Pollard if he was earnest, not drunk. His lyrics were cute and bizarre, like Dylan if he actually attended college, then managed to double major in Classics and English. The recording process was infantile, like me in the kitchen. Or rather, like me in life.

It was all precious. It was all awesome.

I returned to work a day or six later, eager to see my new friend John and tell him all about it. He was a genius! He was Robyn Hitchcock meets Johnathan Richman; he was Thomas Pynchon with a guitar; he was my new hero.

And then, I never saw him again. That moment in the sun turned out to be the last moment we ever spent together. I guess he went and got a life.

Hello out there, John! It's 28 years later and your recent publicity pics make you look, in the words of one of this blogs' 40+ (wow!) readers, like an alternative high school teacher: he sees you; he respects your pronouns. Guess what, John? That's a better description of me than you these days. You're playing the Belly Up this fall. I'm not even playing Magic, The Gathering.

So go, take a listen to Sweden! It's great. Check out the hilarious T.S. Eliot intro to I Wonder Where Our Love Has Gone. Enjoy the alternative Swedish titles for every song. Be reminded of how Hercules died: consumed by an article of his own clothing. Flip to the B Side and enjoy a nice coconut cream pie.

And while you are listening, picture an earnest and very talented guy in a leather jacket in 1995, patiently teaching a very young and hopeful kid how to flip burgers and fry up the grill. See him. See me. We're both dreaming of incredible futures: incredible futures that came true.

Happy Friday everyone! And John, while I've got you here: thanks for being patient and nice to me way back then. I'm sorry I needed you to introduce me to your music. Please tell Stephen Stills he sucks.

[headcoatees]

a selection of blinkies ive made

[power-chords]

I need the world to know that Paddy Considine has a Guided By Voices tattoo.

[teenlobotomie]