Kicker of Elves

I've always imagined this song as the result of a challenge issued by one of Robert Pollard's Monument Club buddies. Pollard boasts one day that he can write a song about anything, and one of his mates challenges him to do so. "Say something," Pollard says. "Anything, and I'll write a song about it right now. If these guys decide it's a real song, you owe me a case of Bud."

His friend, who drunkenly stumbled into a yard gnome on his way over to Pollard's, hits upon a gem. "OK, champ, how about kicker of elves?"

Pollard thinks for a second, takes a swig of beer, and begins a quick strum on the acoustic guitar already in his lap. "Dee dee dee dee dee dee dee kicker of elves," he sings. His buddy smirks. That's no song, he thinks. But he looks around and sees the rest of the guys listening and nodding. No one is even taking a sip from their ubiquitous cans of beer.

Out of nowhere, Pollard starts to sing something that, were he willing to admit, has been kicking around his head the past few days. "On high seas in search of the sickly sweet milk of selfish love
and knife these for warm fresh blood." He'd thought of it as a pirate song, but he could never find the right melody for it. Here, it just seemed to work. He went back to the beginning, then continued, "In studded crown the thief of souls, the parasites - the bugs of gold. This fertile land now spoiled and sold."

He finished to rousing applause from the guys, all of whom had stuck their beer cans between their legs so they could clap. All save for the challenger, that his, who tossed his empty into the garbage can by the door and muttered as he headed toward the door.

"What was that?" Pollard says.

"I said I'm going out to get your case."

Hardcore UFOs

The first time most people heard Guided by Voices was with the Bee Thousand album, and thus, the first track was the band's introduction to much of the world. As a how-do-you-do, it's not a bad one, neatly summing up what GBV was all about. You have the picture of some guys doing something they probably ought not -- what responsible working guy spends time sitting out on the roof of a house? -- conveyed in what would become Robert Pollard's familiar twisted fashion. Who to this day knows what a "hardcore UFO" is? Add to that the fact that there are guitars involved, "playing solos 'til 10," and you have a pretty complete picture of arrested development channeled into some awfully catchy lo-fi rock.

You also get an idea of Pollard's unorthodox songwriting style. There is no real verse-chorus-verse-bridge form here, as the verses ooze into a bridge of sorts that, you realize after the fact, is really the chorus. Maybe. In actuality, there is no chorus.

Turn and run the angel's calling
you say when and I say I'm falling.
Up and down from broken down buildings
Back and forth but please don't bother at all

As that final line comes to an end, the drum beat picks up, the guitars swell and what had been an odd, churning narrative becomes a full on rocker.

The song maintains that pace though, thanks to the lo-fi recording techniques, there are surprises. During the second run through the bridge/chorus, the guitars simply drop out for a line, only to return with a fumble-fingered gurgle before picking up where they left off. Did the guitar slip from Tobin Sprouts hand? Did someone set a beer down on the four-track and accidentally erase a few seconds of music? Strangely, it works within the context of the song, one of those happy accidents that becomes the status quo.

In the end, this song of idle leisure is turned back on itself. The last line of the bridge/chorus shifts subtly from "Back and forth but please don't bother at all," to "...but you know why I left you for so long." But who left? Was it Pollard, or perhaps a lover sick of his lethargy? Or, more fitting with the title and opening image, an otherworldly being who had visited and left only to return again?

Gold Star for Robot Boy

"Gold Star for Robot Boy" is one of Robert Pollard's most straight-forward songs, and because it's meaning has been well-documented elsewhere, I'll not go into great detail here. Suffice to say it's one of many songs in his catalog that address the feeling of being tied down in his job as a school teacher. Appropriating the terminology of his profession, he awards the meaningless recognition of a gold star to Robot Boy, a thinly veiled reference to Pollard himself. Beyond the Robot/Robert similarities, it's fitting for someone who feels like he is on automatic, following the rules and/or lesson plan drawn up by others. He's frustrated with the lack of guidance,from above, waiting for them to "signify the moves that (he) should make," "show (him) the actions (he) should take" and the "lessons in true confessions."

Musically, it's a powerful burst of sound that is not unlike a needle dropped a couple of second into a song, as Pollard's vocals and s guitar strum are coincident with the track's start, followed by some manic drumming that personifies the adage of a drum kit being thrown down a set of stairs. And while the song is short, it follows some conventions that Pollard often is accused of ignoring. It does adhere to a fairly standard song structure -- though the verses and chorus are essentially mashed together as one -- that includes verses and choruses and a bridge of sorts. Still, he accomplishes all of that in just over a minute and a half, dropping another tightly wound pop gem into the middle of one of the handful of his best albums.

Her Psychology Today

I went on record last year to say that From a Compound Eye was Robert Pollard's best LP, his first true masterpiece after several near misses. I'm not sure anyone actually bothered to read through to the second page of the Popmatters feature where I made this bold proclamation, and more than a year later I'll admit I'm not quite as enamored of FaCE as I was at the time. I will, however, stand behind the piece, particularly this: "Bee Thousand, the band's acknowledged high point is, charitably, two-thirds of a classic album -- skeptics should try listening only to the second side for a bit and then re-evaluate."

"Her Psychology Today" was among the tracks to which I referred; I love Bee Thousand and consider it among my two or three favorite GBV albums, but it isn't the top-to-bottom masterpiece that some fans proclaim. Among the pop gems that dominate the disc are a few songs that probably should have seen the cutting room floor, this one chief among them ("A Big Fan of the Pigpen" and, on some days "Mincer Ray" and "Kicker of Elves" would join it).

It's the kind of song that Pollard sticks on nearly all of his LPs, one with a couple of passable ideas, some head-scratching and little to latch onto to keep your interest. It has at least three parts, and while none are awful, none do much for me either, and I find myself skipping the track every time I listen to the album. I defy anyone to argue that side two of Bee Thousand wouldn't be improved immeasurably if it went directly from "Queen of Cans and Jars" to "Esther's Day." I'll leave Pollard the last word, this from the song's lyrics: "Could be better, gotta be better, you know..."

Yours to Keep

On a disc with 20 songs, many of them among the band's very best, it would be easy for a quiet little 1:15 song to go unnoticed. But "Yours to Keep" holds its own among the killer tracks on Bee Thousand, a feat that is further testament to Robert Pollard's talents as a writer of strong melodies. It's a lo-fi gem, just Pollard accompanying himself on acoustic guitar singing two short verses that conclude with one of his most arresting images, the "necklace of 50 eyes."

According to the six tracklists reported by Scat Records' Robert Griffin in the supporting material for the "Director's Cut" version of Bee Thousand he released in 2004, "Yours to Keep" was not considered for the album until the final version. That's no surprise, as Pollard often messes with tracklistings and, as Griffin notes, not one song made it onto every incarnation of the album. Whether "Yours to Keep" was a late creation or simply something that Pollard didn't feel fit the album until the 11th hour, it was a great choice. It is paired with the sprightly pop of "Echos Myron" on Bee Thousand, offering a quiet comedown from that saccharine burst, and even on its own it is among Pollard's most delicate creations.