HEARING VOICES
REJECTED MAY 2004

The continuing story of Bob Pollard's life begs for frequent, and sometimes lengthy, parenthetical asides. (As a pitcher for the Wright State University baseball team, he once threw a no-hitter, despite walking the bases loaded in the first inning. Later, while working as an elementary school teacher, he formed a British Invasion-influenced garage band, Guided By Voices, which has since been heartily embraced by a dedicated throng of fans, critics and rock stars like The Strokes. Enthusiasm for the group is displayed in ways that are familiar to those perched on the middle shelf of rock stardom: a spot-on cover band exists, called Giant Bug Village, and an exhaustive fan database can be found at gbvdb.com).

For the past 21 of his 46 years, Pollard has served as Guided By Voices' amazingly prolific songwriter, lead singer, front man and master beer drinker. (He estimates he's written 3, 000 songs over the last 15 years and recorded and released some 800 of them. On tour, the band, known commonly as GBV, plays 3-hour shows, throughout which Pollard is rarely without a fresh lager, poised for guzzling. Saying beer has been important in fermenting his image is a bit like saying spinach sure strengthened Popeye's profile).

Recently, however, Pollard decided to break up the band. The first public announcement of GBV's demise, which sent tremors through the indie rock community, came on the last Saturday night in April at a show at Manhattan's Bowery Ballroom.

At a little after five in the afternoon, Pollard stood in the nearly empty Ballroom, preparing for a soundcheck and contemplating his future.

"We're going to tour up until New Year's Eve --that's going to be our last show-- and I think I'm going to get pretty sad then," he said with a soft, Midwestern pluck. "I've threatened to end the band almost since "Propeller," but it's been really difficult for me to do it." (The record "Propeller" was released in 1993 and established GBV's songwriting MO: quick blasts of churning guitar rock surrounded Pollard's surprisingly sweet tenor on tracks with unlikely titles like "14 Cheerleader Coldfront," and "Unleashed! The Large-Hearted Boy," and "Ergo Space Pig.").

Pollard's lanky, jock's physique and boyish mop of brown hair are still intact. If anything, the rough-edged rock lifestyle has kept him young. But on this night, he was anxious about giving the bad news to a sold-out crowd.

"I don't know how I'm going to handle that. It's not going to be a big Joe DiMaggio thing, I'm just going to say, 'Hey, one more time, let's give 'em hell!' I think I'll write on the set list: "OK, announce the breakup," or something like that. I'm going to wait until I get drunk enough, I know that."

Around midnight Pollard was, apparently, drunk enough. An hour into yet another raucous, perfectly sloppy performance, he'd enchanted the packed room. Skinny young men wearing white belts and complicated facial hair mingled with skinny young women wearing white belts and complicated eyeglass frames.

"I don't know what Pollard smokes to come up with his lyrics and song titles," a young guy in a Supergrass T-shirt said idly to a friend. "But I want some of that."

Suddenly, the party atmosphere subsided.

"New York City, we've always loved you," Pollard bellowed into the microphone. "New York City was where we were first established." (Though the band is from Dayton, Ohio, an early '90s performance at CBGBs set the merry standard for the band's boozy, marathon sets).

He paced the small stage in plaid trousers and a black buttoned-down dress shirt, trying to find the right words. His two guitarists, bassist and drummer eyed him expectantly.

"So I'm going to have to break it to you -- this is my big speech and shit. We have a new record coming out in August called, 'Half Smiles of the Decomposed.' It will be our last record, kids. That's it. Sorry, kids. See you when I see you. Gotta go."

The crowd quieted slightly, not knowing if this was another empty threat.

"You can't be the Rolling Stones," Pollard continued. "You've got to get out when you're still relatively handsome and we are way past the relatively handsome stage." He began to wrap up his announcement, summoning all the put-on bravado he could. "We're going out in a blaze of fire!"

Unsure how to respond, the fans did what they have done for two decades: they began to chant G-B-V! G-B-V! in throaty unison. (Pollard has noted that the chant-ability of the group's name helps give their live shows legs).

Seizing the moment, the band launched into "Christian Animation Torch Carriers," a thumping anthem from its 2002 LP, "Universal Truths and Cycles."

The front man whipped the mic chord in a mad arc during the song's buildup, caught it just in time, and raised his right fist in a rock 'n roll salute. Then he sang:

"So such is life that it writes itself/ Trying to right itself/

But there's nothing wrong with it/ There's nothing wrong."

–MACCABEE MONTANDON