GBV librarians can be meticulously taxonomical about Robert Pollard's work so far, splitting his legendary band's run into distinct eras of basement hobby, indie stardom, and mainstream whiffs, but never was there so distinct a demarcation point as 2004's New Year's Eve burial of the Guided by Voices banner. Surely Pollard's decision to retire the name was more than mere paperwork; after all, for at least the past decade, Pollard and GBV were practically synonymous. What message, then, was Bob trying to send with this continuity reset: a signal of impending stylistic change, a shift away from hand-me-down rock theatrics towards intimate introspection? Or perhaps just fatigue with having his new work constantly measured against the GBV yardstick?
Whatever the reason, the retired Pollard is barely distinguishable from the pathologically prolific mic-swinging frontman we know and love-- at least in terms of work ethic. Having spent 2005 in what must have been an extremely painful "hiatus" (in Pollard terms, defined as only two EPs and a couple of side projects), the first month of 2006 brings the official release of his long-since-finished double-disc opus From a Compound Eye, declaring the club officially re-opened. While the album is hardly Pollard's first Christian-name release-- Fading Captain subscribers know of at least nine others-- most of his previous solo projects seemed to be little more than songbook dumps for completists.
Packed with 26 stylistically and lyrically sprawling songs, it's difficult to excavate any simple proclamations from FaCE's considerable girth. The record's fidelity falls into the mid-fi range of early and late GBV: clean and balanced one minute, needle-in-the-red the next. Some tracks retain the hit-and-run unfinished snippet form of the band's peak; others stretch out past the rarely-reached five-minute barrier. Thematically, From a Compound Eye is an even more frustrating tangle, spirituality rubbing shoulders with boozy hedonism, ruminations on middle-age interrupted by youthful boasting, and self-examination pitted against extra-terrestrial fantasies.
Perhaps it's always been this way; like many of his mid-90s indie hall-of-fame peers, Pollard has often obfuscated his inner thoughts with non-sequiturs and abstract language. Casting off his bandname and fast approaching his 50th birthday hasn't changed Pollard's approach on this point, though the tone of FaCE exudes a general sense of melancholy he's previously kept mostly hidden, such as when he diluted the divorce laments of Isolation Drills in arena-rock trappings. Even the moments of perfect pop one comes to expect from a Pollard album contain unavoidable tinges of sadness: Armchair-psychoanalyze the age difference inherent in "Dancing Girls and Dancing Men", or the creepy old man sex-boast "I'm a Widow". (Chorus: "I'm a widow and I'm hot to do you.")
All this soul-searching-- buried, accidental, or otherwise-- is a welcome respite from the increasingly cartoonish persona Pollard had come to inhabit; I welcomed the end of GBV's run not only for the sake of Bob's liver, but for the sake of his psyche, forced to deal with living up to his super-lush image at every performance. So while any musical evolution is nil, save maybe a marginally increased keyboard presence, FaCE still remains the most fascinating Bob-project in years, his approach thankfully free of desires for the radio acceptance and/or underground re-acceptance that have marred recent work. Cumbersome as it may be, From a Compound Eye launches a new journey for indie-rock's pre-eminent song-dispenser, an early indication that Pollard has directed his prolific flow inward.
