The neon sign blinked on: THE CLUB IS OPEN
And with that, a visceral bellow of approbation went up from the the well-lubricated crowd packing the sold-out Paradise on Friday night, Nov. 5. At long last, the boys were back in town.
Guided by Voices front man Robert Pollard – tall and rangy, white-haired, but looking fit for man with a noted thirst who'd just turned 53 on Halloween – ambled onstage clutching a bottle of Jose Cuervo and a half-smoked cigarette.
He was followed by guitarist and co-songwriter Tobin Sprout, soft-spoken and undemonstrative; and drummer Kevin Fennell (kicked out of the band in 1996) who climbed behind the kit.
Then there were Greg Demos and Mitch Mitchell, on bass and guitar, respectively – short of stature, but soon proving themselves to be long on kinetic energy. Demos was a sartorially-snappy sparkplug, leaping about in his ruffled shirt, tailored vest, and striped pants, holding his instrument at jaunty angles. Mitchell, tattooed and with hard-bitten face, slashed at his guitar with gusto. (And, once, late in the evening fell over with his mike stand.)
It was a reunion of the "so-called classic lineup" – as Pollard, the one constant in the GBV's 21-year career – is wont to say. A victory lap for the five guys responsible for the most canonical albums of the band's discography: Propeller (1992), Bee Thousand (1994), Alien Lanes (1995), and Under the Bushes Under the Stars (1996) – the albums that transformed the group from a rag-tag group of Dayton, Ohio drinking buddies to a massively beloved cult band and made an indelible mark on rock and roll in the '90s.
"Guided by Voices in my mind has always been like a guild or a club, more so than a band," Pollard has said. "You might go, but you're never really gone."
And as great as most of the dozens of solo albums the prolific pop purveyor has put out since disbanding GBV in 2004, the crowd, who'd snatched up every ticket in less than 45 minutes this summer, were beyond thrilled to be back in the club – to bear witness to these "old motherfuckers rocking in front of your young asses," as Pollard boasted on stage later.
I have a friend who, despite my attempts to proselytize, doesn't much care for the songs from Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes. He thinks they're catchy, sure – only a hopeless misanthrope or a space alien wouldn't – but he doesn't like the feel of those lo-fi songs: recored on four-track and cut up and reassembled, swathed in abrasive sound.
I've tried to tell him that in concert, those transistor-radio mini anthems, drawing on Pollard's "four P's" (pop, punk, prog, and psych), are utterly transformed into pure, pummeling, lung-busting ROCK. They are writ large and loud with beer-fueled bombast.
And so it was: 840 people pumped fists and held lighters aloft, shouting along in unison to the Beatle-esque "Echos Myron," the leering "Hot Freaks," the light-speed "Shocker in Gloomtown," the snotty call-and-response of "Lethargy," the euphoric "Gold Star for Robot Boy."
The ritualistic accoutrements of a GBV show were all there, of course: the bucket of Miller Lites, tipped back and cast aside almost as soon as they were open; the cigarettes, lit by roadies and delivered directly to mouths.
And though he appeared a bit tired at first, Pollard soon seemed to be in fine fettle: busting out the Roger Daltrey microphone twirls and Daniel-san leg kicks we've all come to know and love.
There were mellower moments, too, like an interlude of Tobin Sprout songs: the sweet-sad "Awful Bliss" and "14 Cheerleader Coldfront," with Pollard providing harmonies as he took a breather on the drum riser.
But mostly it was fist pumping, and (no joke) fans putting their heads to stageside speakers, the better to get their fragile ear drums vibrating. Fan favorites came fast and loud: thirty of 'em, followed by nine more songs stretched across three encores.
They were happy to be where they were.
"Boston," slurred Mitchell, before using some decidedly un-PC language to complement the pulchritude of the local womenfolk, "rocks the fuckin' world."
(Even so, Pollard couldn't resist dishing out one of his patented disses to the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. "THEY SUCK!" he yelled with relish, adding, "I got a band from Boston called the Boston Spaceships, motherfucker!")
A bit later, after mocking another '90s curiosity – shoegaze – Pollard laid it on the line: "We brought back rock and roll."
And, indeed, a needle-pushing charge through "Quality of Armor" – "oh yeah, going to drive my car/oh yeah, going to go real far" – and "Motor Away" to close out the first encore proved the point with aplomb.
So pass the word the guys are back. Long live Rockathon. And thank Pop Zeus for these "old motherfuckers," reminding us once more of the euphoric and transformative power of camaraderie, loud music, and beer.
"We got the gang back together," said Pollard. "It took as long as it took to get the Blues Brothers back together."
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