When you hit play on The Universe and Me, “Future Boy Today/Man of Tomorrow” begins as if the “record” button had been pressed just a hair too late. This creates the sensation that the listener is stumbling in on the music and reinforces the idea that it exists in a kind of perpetual flow independent of its recorded form. Of course, anyone who is already familiar with Tobin Sprout’s m.o. won’t be surprised. For decades now, Sprout and his longtime on/off collaborator, Guided By Voices leader Robert Pollard, have generated massive piles of songs that they’ve presented as works in progress, parlaying shoeboxes of rough homemade cassette demos into remarkably durable careers.
Most known for his work as Guided By Voices’ guitarist for two crucial runs during that band’s long and storied history, Sprout has pretty much been the only additional songwriter GBV has ever had, and the closest to a Lennon-McCartney style foil for Pollard. The duo’s shared sense that production values basically don't matter positions Sprout as one of the key pioneers of the early-’90s lo-fi aesthetic alongside Sebadoh’s Lou Barlow and Pavement founders Stephen Malkmus and Scott “Spiral Stairs” Kannberg.
Almost 30 years later, though, Sprout’s dogged insistence on sticking to his original strategy casts him as the AC/DC of lo-fi rock. If you’re still attached to the scratchiest Guided By Voices efforts that most bear Sprout's creative stamp—1993’s Vampire on Titus, ’94’s Bee Thousand, and ’95’s Alien Lanes—then The Universe and Me will likely hit you as both a bold reassertion by an artist saying “this is who I am” and a sly step towards progress. If not, it will probably sound like more of the same.
Sprout’s crude recording of piano, for example, drapes a cozy familiarity over the title track. The song’s warm, pleasant ambience also prevents lines like “I’ll take along my wings/So all my dreams can fly” from tipping over into maudlin confessional. On “A Walk Across the Human Bridge,” Sprout wears Bowie’s “Suffragette City” on his sleeve as he offers a way for humankind to avert a future that’s “carnaged all to waste.” The ever-economical Sprout devotes but two lines to the verse before introducing the main hook that repeats over and over. You can’t listen without hearing Bowie’s iconic line “wham-bam, thank you ma’am” in your head, but you also can’t help but notice that Sprout’s head is in a totally different—and strikingly current—place.
At his best, he still proves that simplicity doesn’t equate to half-assery. Still, despite his voluminous output, Sprout’s solo work doesn’t always distinguish his style from Pollard’s. If you’re partial to Sprout’s second tour of duty in GBV—six relatively more developed albums spanning from 2010 to ’14—it might be hard to shake the feeling of been-there-done-that as The Universe and Me unfolds in typically haphazard fashion. Some of Sprout's choices just come off as downright careless. “Honor Guard,” for example, begins with absentminded strums that start out of alignment with the rest of the song, snap into place, and then fall out of sync again—over a drumbeat that’s so unsteady it could have been played by a toddler. Such moves blunt the impact of Sprout’s lyrics, which pop with personality and wisdom.
When an artist spends an entire career riding the line between resolve and stagnation, maybe it’s unfair to take them to task on not changing their tune. By this point, Sprout has made it perfectly clear what he’s going to give us each time. The thing is, The Universe and Me also gives us plenty of indication that Sprout is capable of more. Some minor touch-ups would have gone a long way. Had Sprout tightened a few loose screws here and there, it would have told us more about who he is now.
