Who among us is the info-glutton spacy enough to have forgotten June 24, 2002, when Pitchfork's Matt LeMay wrote, in a review of Universal Truths and Cycles: "So, Robert Pollard has grown up. The question now is whether his newfound maturity will be able to replace the ambition and vivacity that came with his perpetual youth. Whatever hopes he might have had of bringing his sweet rock and roll to the masses have been crushed, trampled, and stomped into the ground." That line struck America's rock-conscious multitudes as a redundancy constructed under the influence of hero-skewering giddiness (aww, did he have to say "crushed," "trampled" and "stomped"?), but upon rumination, the quip revealed itself as a brilliant-if-tasteless reference to the eleven casualties of Pollard's own heroes The Who (crushed, trampled, and stomped in Cincinnati, 1979-- you may remember the Very Special episode of WKRP).
Dearly beloved, let us filibust: Earthquake Glue may boast a few hits, but it's still clackity art-rock, suggesting a more militaristic Pere Ubu, and for my money, it wilts beside its immediate predecessor, which I see as the best GBV release of the Doug Gillard era. Like many a minion, I have stood readier to champion The Bob than a fratboy is to defend freedom by donning a "Fuque France" wifebeater. "Hey, there, friends," I would say to whichever Blandinistas tried to diss Pollard's (torrential) post-Sprout output, "he named his catch-all releases the 'The Fading Captain Series,' which kind of protects him from the harsh critique, much like that one show's being named Jackass kind of protects" etc.
My dear LeMay missed Universal Truths and Cycles' most novel implement: Christianity. Eleven of its nineteen tracks overtly summon the religion's crucial narratives or Proper Nouns, with at least two more obliquely appropriating its mythology/ideology. Did the drunken onetime Spin-pet (conspicuously when writer Jim Greer was a quasi-member) find him some 'Hovah, or was he only dabbling in order to generate songs, a la Dylan's flirtation with Messiah McThorncrown?
And except for some pausey, over-plucked cants, UT&CM boasted what we want from Pollard: tunes. (Okay, Gillard is too rigid a chopsman to produce tunes, so let's say "anthems.") Except for "Game of Pricks", GBV lyrics, which we knew were yanked from Ohio's butt, were never the collecting point. Which brings us to the part about how Pollard has meandered beyond must-ownership with the faux team-ups (Soft Rock Renegades), faux soundtracks (Tropic of Nipples, Motel of Fools), phone-ins (Go Back Snowball, Airport 5), cash-ins (the eighty-six dollar Suitcase box), and several sleep-ins and confuse-ins (including Nightwalker, Circus Devils, Hazzard Hotrods, Howling Wolf Orchestra, Acid Ranch, Lexo & The Leapers, Kuda LaBranche, New Creatures, etc). Maybe I'm still mad about Selective Service only having one new song on it, but no one could deny that Pollard creates as many orphans as the International Monetary Fund. And here, half-dressed and filth-kneed, stand two more of his soul children, eating their fingers like they're just another meal.
The real, Pollard-less Phantom Tollbooth was a too-talented, wanky fusion-psych thing in the 1980s; some of its members later did notable string-bending with Kramer and several of his Shimmy-Disc imps. Like a Dennis Quaid movie gone nutty, this disc features Pollard phoning his vocals back into the past, replacing the originals like a soap opera castmember-swap gone nutty. The result is a strained epic, with a wounded-nerd Daltrey recounting dystopian proceedings over some punk-Satriani proficientscapes. This is hyperactivity distilled. Imagine Pollard competing with a clean Gillard solo that goes on forever. Then yank Gillard, and thus Gillard's restraint, and crank the noodle-factor to the pulsating roof. What can I say about this largely uninteresting labor of love? That the sci-fi "Janus Pan" sports an excellently hemorraghing bassline? Does Pollard really prefer this troupe's flublessness to his old gang's punchy Beatle-detritus?
The Lifeguards project, meanwhile, is the second release (but the first under this name) by Robert Pollard and Doug Gillard as a duo, and this set of songs shifts pretty wistfully from arena-prog (but with a pinch of Journey/Foreigner) to Buzzcocks flurry (but with a pinch of Guided by Voices). One of the instrumentals is a Marty McFly amp-test, and even the unstodgy "Society Dome" falls from its fresh lyrical beginnings to words worthy of screamo advice-core: "I'm going home/ Focus on a dream/ Try to find a way out/ Try to find a way out." The classic complaints could all be lodged: one song will be repetitive and overlong, so you know the next will be inspired and ruefully breif. "Then We Agree", though, is sweet space-pop, and the bouncy piano of the eight-minute "Red Whips and Miracles" nominates it to be the first Pollard song to close an episode of Seventh Heaven (stay tuned for the last-minute axe-work worthy of An Officer and a Gentleman, which is, while we're at it, is a good way to view the pairing of Pollard and Gillard).
During two back-to-back live nights in Atlanta last year, these guys still had the magic. (Plus comedy, when Bob bonked a kid with his mid-twirl mic, then explained over the P.A. how the kid should sue Matador Records.) And at the Magnet 10th Anniversary show this year, they still had the magic. (Plus comedy, when Bob invited some middle-aged untrendy associates on stage to dance and admit that they didn't like him.) So I'll stop way short of claiming that the emperor has no discretion. He's still challenging himself, rather than hanging with a bunch of crass yes-men. Who among us is the info-glutton spacy enough to have forgotten July 1st, 2003, when I compared Eef Barzelay to Bob Seger? Then-Senior Editor Chris Ott pulled me into his office by my Ice-T medallion, closed the blinds, and asked me where the fuck was Eef Barzelay's "Night Moves"? Robert Pollard's night moves would stretch from here to the liquor store, and back, and back in the afternoon, and then what's a sundown without booze, and...
