The Mag Earwhig MEGA Review

Guided by Voices’s album ‘Mag Earwhig’ was released some twenty-one years ago. It was a “lineup change” album that some fans saw as “the end of an era”. Whereas others, like me, saw it as the beginning of something great. This article is an in-depth song-by-song analysis of the sprawling 21-track LP. As I will be making some obscure references to Guided by Voices (GBV) lore throughout, I thought I should start with an overview.

Note – If you are GBV Level 10 and are Sebadoh and Sentridoh Thetan Free (SSTF) you can proceed past the introduction and skip directly to the song reviews.


Part 1) Who is Guided by Voices?

If you’re reading this, you probably know something about Guided by Voices. For instance, that GBV is Dayton, Ohio musician Robert Pollard and any particular musicians he chooses to have around him at any given time. If you ask Pollard what type of music GBV plays, he often refers to what he’s coined as the “Four P’s of Rock”: Pop, Prog, Psych and Punk. And that’s a good start, but it misses classic-rock and a fifth “P”… for Pete. Pete Townshend, that is. The 60s and early 70s Who are clearly one of Pollard’s most fundamental early influences (that and the Beatles). And no current band has been able to carry on, and elaborate on, that primal/essential Who-rock-energy-spark the way Robert Pollard has with GBV.

It is worthy to note that Pollard is an extremely prolific composer who has, over the course of his career, written and published well over 2,000 songs and released over 100 LPs as GBV, Robert Pollard or various side projects…and that doesn’t even count the EPs and singles! He is also a successful visual artist who works exclusively in collage.

Pollard is known for keeping his compositions short and lean, writing creative chord patterns and guitar riffs that are both surprising and accessible, over which he sings catchy melodies that he appears to have no shortage of. He has an innate instinct for finding unforgettable hooks and clever lines that will burrow their way into your brain.

Because Pollard grew up on Prog, he doesn’t necessarily follow standard pop song structural conventions, which in the 90s was a blast of fresh air. The 90s were a time when every major label rock band (in a transparent attempt to try to make a “Radio-freindly” hit and pad out the length of their “10 song” LPs) was slavishly following traditional pop structure (intro/verse/verse/bridge/chorus/verse/bridge/chorus/middle-eight/solo/verse /bridge/chorus/chorus/fade) which would extend out every song to four-and-a-half minutes…when the tunes themselves often wore out their welcome after two. This structural orthodoxy, song-after-song on an LP, could also add to the entire 10 song program feeling redundant and stale.

Pollard, on the other hand, wasn’t afraid to cut out the fat, giving us, for example, an unconventionally stuctured one-and-a-half minute song  (verse/chorus/middle-eight/chorus/chorus/fade) that left you wanting more. And because Pollard has so many strong songs at his disposal, he could pack an LP with twenty cuts, easy…and put out ten more new songs on an EP a month later. By mixing varied song structures and recording approaches GBV records could hardly be described as “tired” (unless, that is, you were looking to dismiss his process as a “trope”…haters).

That said, Pollard also has a penchant for quick inspiration, experimentation and direct-to-tape improvisation. I would be remiss if I did not warn newcomers that if they buy a GBV record they will be sitting through “weird stuff” from time to time…as well as recordings where, as my six year old son told me yesterday, it sounds like “they don’t know how to play their guitars”. Yup, that’s Pollard alright…To be clear, he does know how to play guitar. He just likes to mix it up and, ever the collage artist, insists on juxtaposing the sublime with the bizarre.

Part 2) A Brief History

Going way back to its inception and beginnings, GBV was never intended to be a successful endeavor. Instead, it was a personal, lifelong passion-project. Pollard has been compelled, since childhood, to make music and album artwork. He did these things out of love, in his spare time, to please himself. He was an avid and obsessive record collector and became a walking encyclopedia of rock history.

He was a successful school athlete. He graduated college, became an elementary school teacher and started a family. In his early 20’s he played in bands in the local bar scene. He got very little support from his community and family, but he continued to follow his passion. He became disenchanted with the local bar band scene and stopped playing live. He chose instead to record his music with a small rotating group of like-minded musicians and began regularly self-publishing vinyl albums at great personal expense. Showing undeniable talent, in his thirties he was “discovered” by the mainstream music press (based solely on word of mouth), and earned a recording contract.

With that record contract came a return to live performance, which, with label promotion backing him, Pollard was glad to get back to. Out of necessity, Pollard assembled a permanent backing band from some of his most loyal longtime collaborators. These included bassist Mitch Mitchell (who was now “promoted” to rhythm guitar), drummer Kevin Fennell, and lead guitarist Tobin Sprout. This band (with a rotating bassist slot) was the public face of GBV as it rose to a modest level of national attention from 1993-1996. GBV’s 1994 album ‘Bee Thousand’ was given four of five stars in Rolling Stone Magazine, who stated that the album “not only celebrates the power of rock music, it also embodies it.” B1000 became a, if not “thee”, seminal 90s indie-rock album. Robert Pollard had really come a long way. It was around this time that he took an enormous personal risk and quit his teaching position to focus solely on his music career. He was all in.

In 1996, during the tour supporting the record ‘Under the Bushes/Under the Stars’ (UTB/UTS), Pollard’s band started to fall apart. Guitarist Tobin Sprout and his wife had their first child and so he told Pollard he was going to retire from the road when the tour ended. Then later, during the European leg of the tour, drummer Kevin Fennell was fired for exhibiting erratic behavior. And with that, Pollard found himself in need of a new backing band. For the purposes of this article, I will refer to this early era of the band as “GBV Classic”.

Fortunately, Pollard quickly regrouped after the dissolution of GBV Classic and was able to immediately begin collaborating with Cobra Verde, a Cleveland, Ohio band he knew (and GBV had previously toured with). The members of Cobra Verde agreed to join, or become, the “new” Guided by Voices. Cobra Verde was a well establish band in the Cleveland music scene (and a crack group of musicians to boot). In good faith, Pollard did offer to let GBV Classic guitarist Mitch Mitchell stay in the band if he moved back to bass (as Cobra Verde already had two excellent guitarists), but Mitchell declined, seeing the reassignment as a demotion.

Pollard began recording “Mag Earwhig” in Cleveland with this totally new version of the band (which in this article I will refer to as “GBVerde”) and things went well. Soon, with more than enough material recorded to complete an album, Pollard went back to Dayton to work on making final song selections and sequencing his next release.

Pollard was more than satisfied with the recordings he made with this new band. But, ever the collage artist, inserted other songs into the sequence to break up the flow. To give the record a more varied and eclectic program (which was his wont). To achieve this effect he added several outtakes (or final sessions) recorded by GBV Classic prior to their dissolution. He then added solo songs he’d recorded with engineer John Shough at Cro-Magnon studios in Dayton. Last, he added songs home recorded in collaboration with previous guitarist, Tobin Sprout, who, though he had quit the road, still continued to work and record with Pollard. The tracklist was finalized and the record was released. Rolling Stone gave this new album four of five stars, too (You see? It’s equally as good as B1000. Case closed…I’m just trollin’ ya).

Ultimately, the GBVerde lineup was not long for this world. The band merger started to fray on the road and ultimately fell apart at the end of the tour. But it was not all a loss, GBVerde’s lead guitarist Doug Gillard decided to stay in GBV and remained in the band until 2004, when GBV took a seven year hiatus (At that time, Pollard, feeling trapped by the GBV moniker, endeavored on a solo career). Gillard’s muscular, precise, virtuosic guitar style, which perfectly blends classic rock and new-wave, became a signature, irreplaceable part of the GBV sound during his tenure. Pollard and Gillard’s collaboration pushed GBV to musical rock-God highpoints that could hardly have been imagined in the early Lo-Fi days of the band.

And in recent good news (we all need recent good news, right?), Gillard rejoined GBV in 2016. Earlier this year, GBV released the album ‘Space Gun’ which is a flat-out amazing future classic that can stand toe-to-toe with anything in their extensive catalog. This version of GBV is on tour right now and should not be missed.

Anyway, that gives you enough general information. Congratulations! You are now a GBV expert! Let’s get on with the review…

The Review

1. Can’t Hear the Revolution (1:36)

So, we heard about this hot-as-tits new backing band, Cobra Verde [mouth agape and eyebrows raised in an expression of anticipation]…Well, you’re not going to hear them on this opening cut (“WHAT?”). Instead you’re getting a short, somewhat tossed-off home recording Pollard made with “GBV Classic” sideman Tobin Sprout.

The dominant instrument in the mix sounds like a toy keyboard patched through a distortion pedal. Some “loose” guitar and bass lines come in for a bit. Vocals chant out the song title in an opening chorus that doesn’t reprise after the verse (There are some promising “rock” harmonies there). The single verse that follows is a short nursery rhyme/tongue-twister about God as an everyman dealing with “friction” all day long. It quickly fades out into a wash of half hearted drum fills then cross fades into some feedback.

This is not so much a song as it is a “snippet” or “song fragment”. GBV albums often include song fragments, just usually not to “kickoff” the album. Maybe this one is a statement about musical “revolution”s. This is 1997, and art-rock is not what it once was. The kids I knew in 1997 were “raving” to electronic loops and hip-hop. Here was Pollard soberly pinning his hopes of a “lifelong career in music” on a dying Alt-rock “industry” that was trying to drain the last quart of blood out of the Grunge bubble. Rock was on its heels. Pollard was no fool.

Even with that said, I just can’t say that this song makes the case for “rock” better than a really kick-ass rock song from the new lineup would have…which this definitely isn’t. Starting with Propeller, GBV albums always started with undeniably killer songs (to get you pumped up for what was to come), Mag Earwhig starts with filler…but I get it.

I just envision some people who bought this record, back in the day, on the suggestion of a friend to “check out GBV” (who weren’t specifically instructed to start with Bee Thousand or Propeller) might, at this point, be thinking they just threw out $15 and banging the eject button. And that’s a shame, because the album, in total, is a “hidden gem” classic.

2. Sad If I Lost It (3:10)

This is better. For starters, this is something all people, by consensus, would agree is a proper song. Good! This recording, however, is still not featuring the new backing band…Okay?

We see from the liner notes that this recording features Pollard on all instruments excepting newcomer Joe Buben on drums (someone trying out or helping out) and John Shough on bass. GBV fans know John Shough as the engineer/producer at Cro-Magnon Studio in Dayton, OH who recorded much of GBV’s UTB/UTS and most of Pollard’s solo and side project records from this time into the early aughts (when Pollard started recording almost exclusively with multi-instrumentalist and producer Todd Tobias).

So lineup-wise, this song exists in a middle kingdom somewhere between the end of “GBV Classic” and the start of “GBVerde”…and it sounds like it, and that’s not a bad thing. It’s a good song.

It is a slow building unconventional mid-tempo pop-rocker. The tempo feels a little dialed back from your typical GVB mid-tempo song, which adds some dramatic tension to the build up. It starts with a very sparse, atmospheric verse. A strummed (once every other measure) clean-ish guitar, some quiet cymbal sixteenths to keep the beat, a loop with some muted feedback sounds, and some declaratory yet obtuse vocals.

When we get to the chorus we quickly shift into some more familiar sounding Pollard chord changes and catchy vocal melody lines. The tempo is still slow-ish, but the strumming on the clean guitar has moved to chugging power chords that are always walking toward F# minor, adding a bittersweet melancholy to the tone as he sings of being “sad if I lost it”. Specifically what “it” is, is never really made clear, but we believe him anyway. The hook is strong and instantly memorable. The drum skins are still not being hit, just that ticking cymbal.

When we return to the verse, the drums start but just the bass drum with a boom…boom-boom at the start of every measure. See? We’re building up. So now, when we return to the chorus again, BAMM! We are instantly hit with the full rock band sound “on the one”.

The blinds are pulled open on the second chorus and we are fully bathed in the rocking light of creamy-GBV-love-land. The distortion pedal is hit on the guitar. The drummer is playing a rock beat on all of the drums (aping classic Fennell-esque snare fills). A bassist shows up. It sounds like every great GBV chorus you ever loved. But there is still restraint. The vocals are EQed to sound megaphone-ish, making them less personal. They are doubled, to thicken the sound, but they are in unison. There are no harmony vocals on this track. Pollard has an uncanny ear for easy close harmonies (that really sell his chorus hooks) and is not afraid to use them. But here he lets the fundamental melody stand on its own, and it does.

Getting back to the sequencing. I still don’t know if this song is the best “start” to the album even if you skip ‘Can’t Hear The Revolution’. It’s very slow building, leaning heavily on the good will/patience of the listener before truly launching.

The thing is, Pollard is an artist and not a pop-star. Starting the album with awkward and spacey songs was a conscious choice he made. He’s playing with his fans expectations a little here, telegraphing that this record will not be like the others. Maybe we’re watching a new alien species slough off its afterbirth and begin to stumble across the floor toward us (too much?). It’s just that when you get to the next track you have to wonder, “Why didn’t we just cut to the chase?”…but it’s no big sin.

3. I Am A Tree (4:40)

Okay. Here we go. We are meeting, for the first time (on this record anyway), the infamous GBVerde!

“Boo! Hiss! You killed our beloved ‘GBV Classic’! Prepare to DIE!”

I’m kidding, but it’s true that parts of the fan base were pissed about the lineup change. You’d think they would respect that this change was forced by circumstances and not a choice of whim. But fans are what they are, and sometimes they are assholes.

I read enough press around that time to know the truth and accept this change with an open mind, but for more casual fans, who didn’t care to understand or accept the deets, well, it is what it is. Fuck ’em.

So with ‘I Am A Tree’ there is another funny turn. It isn’t written by Pollard. It’s a song written by new GBV guitarist Doug Gillard. It’s a song he had recorded, but never released, with a previous band, GEM. So that’s balls.

Here we have Pollard “Mr. Prolific”, “greatest rock songwriter of our time”, and he’s letting some STRANGER, some INTERLOPER, submit a song. LIGHT THE TORCHES!!!

Whoa, slow down. It’s okay, because this song, it turns out, is seen by some as the best GBV song of all time. BOOM! Mind blown.

It’s not my favorite GBV song, but it is up there. It’s close. Top twenty, easy. And that’s saying a lot, because GBV has like a jazzillion songs. In fact, Pollard hand picked this song from demos and recordings he asked Gillard to give him. He knew Gillard was a crack songwriter and wanted to take advantage.

So this song is a pretty good icebreaker to sell the new band. It worked for me. In summation: the new band is clickin’, they’ve brought their own “A+” material, and they can play their asses off (they are session player level musicians). So where’s the rub? Well, some people (i.e., the earlier mentioned assholes) found a rub in there somewhere. God, they must have been looking really hard to look past this.

First, we have a level of “big rock sound” record production heretofore never heard on a GBV recording. This isn’t Ted Templeman or Glyn Johns but it’s pretty close to my deaf ears. The recordings of the GBVerde songs on this album were produced by the new band in their 609 Recording Studio in Cleveland, OH. They brought a pro-level sheen to the material they touched. I like it. Pollard liked it, too. He spent his life listing to the Who and Peter Gabriel era Genesis. He always wanted to make records that sounded like that, with professional studio sound dynamics, with musicians who could play like that, and now, for the first time in his life, he was. It’s actually kind of a sweet story. It didn’t last…but it kind of did…but that’s another story.

‘I Am A Tree’ is a tour de force rock song that mixes a lot of great things. It bridges classic rock and post-punk beautifully. In that way, it is very GBV, even if Pollard didn’t write it. There is a high-pitched one-note guitar phrase that plays through most of the arrangement, which is pretty post-punk. But so much else here evokes the heights of 70s classic rock. We have these tits drums played by Dave Swanson, with fills and rhythms that evoke Bun E. Carlos, Keith Moon, Jody Stephens and Neil Peart. We have a passionate, epic, soaring, virtuosic guitar solo with all these great pull-offs from Doug Gillard. It just screams, “We have a new guitar sheriff in town. Deal with it motherfucker!” The track is chock full o’ tasteful little guitar lead line accents. I mean they just killed it. Period.

The lyrics are fun. Nothing that’s going to change your life. If you’re a Rush fan like me, you will immediately begin to think of ‘Hemispheres’ (anthropomorphic trees). I always had a sneaking suspicion Gillard was making a wry reference here, but I’m probably wrong. Nonetheless, the metaphor reads like a wink to prog-rock whimsical flourish. Once again, very GVB…a perfect style mesh.

The song feels good. The song is good. It is a staple of their live set to this day (so long as Gillard is in the lineup, because nobody else in Pollard’s orbit can play that lead).

4. The Old Grunt (1:28)

Pollard’s always had a penchant to “mix it up” in sequencing, to keep an albums tone jumping so the flow doesn’t get to same-y. He also likes to put short snippet songs before longer songs that thematically jive and serve as unofficial intros. He might say differently, but I know what he’s doing. I see right through this shit. ‘The Old Grunt’ meets both those criteria.

Production wise, it dials everything way back from what we just experienced on the previous track. We’re back at Cro-Magnon Studio. We’ve got a primitive chord pattern being played on a dull sounding acoustic guitar with the scraping sound of the fingers being dragged over the string windings intentionally caught on mic. Typically, a recording engineer would try to minimize this sound, here it is accentuated and made an aesthetic.

The lyric is a character study of the titular old grunt. He’s old. He’s hurt. And, yet, after a louder yelling bit with some distorted electric guitar and feedback, things get a little sunnier. The acoustic guitar returns with a more upbeat primitive pattern. Turns out this old grunt is “Up and coming, but now he’s strumming.” With a reference to the “buzzing one-stringer”, Pollard’s nickname for an old guitar he often uses for composition, the portrait becomes complete. The Old Grunt is Pollard.

He feels old. He feels used up from all the years of bullshit he’s endured. But he made some noise and he broke through. He took something he loved and made it real, made it his life. He still has to look in the mirror though. And when he looks, especially under the harsh fluorescent lights found in dingy rock club bathrooms, he sees…

5. Bulldog Skin (2:59)

Moisturize, Moisturize, Moisturize. It’s the only cure for Bulldog Skin. That and plastic surgery…what they do is pin up the growls. I was looking into it…for a friend. You have to get the incisions behind the ears so they don’t show.

Fortunately for us all, even now, at the ripe old age of 60, Pollard has eschewed cosmetic surgery. We don’t want him looking like Kenny “Fuckin’” Rogers…taxidermied before his time. We like him leathery. We like him real. We like his big beautiful Bulldog Skin face. That said, it still doesn’t hurt to moisturize and regularly apply sunscreen if you are going outdoors.

Oh, the song? Um. It’s a kind of a derivative Stones-y rocker, just with some added un-Stones-y crunch. It’s fun. It’s an anthem to being older and wrinkly and just saying, “Look…fuck… I didn’t choose time, time chose me. But I still know how to rock out with my cock out, so have a beer. Any questions?”

It’s back to the GBVerde lineup. Here they’re playing in that loose Stones/Faces style, so they’re not necessarily showing the virtuosity witnessed on ‘I Am A Tree’. We do get a second hit of Gillard lead smoke. And it is strong. The guy’s a pro…with feel! The solo, note-wise, is simple, but he plays it with fire – just right in your face. It really saves the whole track from coming off a little slight. Also, the lyrics have some corny long-time-fan Easter eggs in them. That’s fun?

Hey, look, it’s no dig! We all need some dumb fun sometimes. Girls just wanna have fun. Maybe old, grizzled guys do, too. Speaking of dumb “fun”, in 1996, Sheryl Crow released ‘If It Makes You Happy’. This song was also a derivative Stones-y rocker, and it was a giant hit. So somehow, in my mind, I always thought this may have influenced why (consciously or unconsciously) ‘Bulldog Skin’ was picked as the lead single. I mean I was horny for Sheryl Crow back then (I probably still am) and I think I have made unconscious decisions based on that truth…just sayin’. Look in your heart, Robert. Tell me I’m wrong. It moved when I started talking about Sheryl Crow! Didn’t it? Didn’t it?!…Did I get weird again?…Moving on.

6. Are You Faster? (1:13)

Okay, GBVerde have left the building for now and we’re back home recording with Tobin Sprout, in the same recording setup that I appeared to have pissed all over in my analysis of ‘Can’t Hear The Revolution’. And I’m going to set something straight right here, right now. I don’t have a problem with that song. I like it. It just, to me, was not the best song, of this batch, to use as the album opener. To be clear, there are no songs that I actively “do not like” on this album… Clear? Good.

That said, ‘Are You Faster?’ is not great…See? I got you.

It’s just kind of a mess of a song sketch. The lyrics are poetic, but musically there just isn’t a lot to latch onto. The best thing I can say about it is that it doesn’t start the album. That, and it’s short?

Jokes, people, jokes. I actually have a soft spot for this tune fragment because the yell at the end reminds me of my old lost buddy Tony (who I wrote about in Part 3 of this piece). It’s very reminiscent of one of Tony’s “signature” screams.

7. I Am Produced (1:06)

We’re still at Tobin’s house. GBVerde are at the spa. This is actually a nice little acoustic “chugger” (in that the guitar goes chug-chug-chug-chug-chug). Its pointed lyrics go to a theme that Pollard often muses over that relates to his discomfort with the idea of “art as commodity”, or “artist as a commodity”, and art becoming depersonalized through mass production. Here, he sings from the perspective of a lump of polyvinyl chloride that is about to get a real painful mammogram.

The repeated refrain at the end “Pressed, printed, stomped, tripped, trapped, tricked, packaged, shipped” will get into your brain, a great hook…with meaning.

8. Knock ’Em Flyin’ (1:52)

Oh boy, this is my emotional jam. You had me at “plough”…

It is the first appearance of “GBV Classic” on this record. Remember, we’re saying goodbye to GBV Classic on this record through some outtakes. After this we are cut off (for 15 years anyway).  This is an older recording with Kevin Fennell on drums (Thus making it GBV Classic). The recording appears to be a holdover from the previous album’s (UTB/UTS) sessions at Refraze Studio.

The song, technically, is a minute long space-rock ballad snippet that then breaks into a seemingly unrelated minute long instrumental “improved” rock jam outro. But it’s so much more to me. I’m serious about this song. It went deep into my brain. The chunky chord changes in the ballad and the way the melody slides along them so effortlessly. I love this song like Springsteen fans love ‘Thunder Road’…and I know because I’m a Springsteen fan.

And I bring up Springsteen because Pollard for all his fanciful lyrical high jinks is really just a blue collar songwriter at heart, writing to inspire the common man. This is an unabashed ballad for the common man. Pollard is blue collar stock all the way…he is the common man. He comes from a factory town. You don’t get much more factory town than Dayton, fucking OH (or at least you didn’t before most of the factories moved away).  And this song, in a few quick seconds, gives me all those feels.

It says to me:

I’m gonna work hard. I’m gonna “connect” with my wife when I’m home. I’m gonna find the balance or I’m gonna lose it all. And I’m gonna do the same thing tomorrow and the next day and the next day until I die.

It’s the simple messages, simple truths, put to code, that really penetrate; that connect the art to observer. This song gives me chills…and it does it in a literal minute…and then the outro jam seals the deal. Moments like these, that hit deep, are one of the reasons why superfans, like me, won’t stop proselytizing for the guy.

9. Not Behind the Fighter Jet (2:13)

GBVerde have returned rested from their mani-pedi and are ready to rock.

This song, to me, (if it wasn’t going to be ‘I Am A Tree’) could have been the lead single off the record. It is more representative of the traditional GBV oeuvre than ‘Bulldog Skin’, fur sure. It would have been a good signal to the fans that “even though we’ve changed, we’re still gonna be singing about jet fighters, which we know you all love (even more than derivative Stones-y rockers about rhytids)”. Bottom line, flight imagery is a well worn staple of the GVB catalog.

The obtuse lyrics of this song conjure “fighter jets”, “militants”, “bunkers”, a “wounded mercenary”, a “sniper”, “paths of glory”…the metaphor adds up to a whole lot of nothing, but it sounds cool doing it. It sets a tone, a mood. The true statement of purpose comes in the chorus:

“I’m not behind the fighter jet
I’d much rather back a simple girl
I’ve seen your plan and it’s all wet
A noseload of prophecies coming to me”

The chorus, to fans, rings of an Easter Egg referring to the song, ‘Striped White Jets’, off of their album ‘Alien Lanes’, where an ominous Pollard proclaims “Send in striped white jets” and “Don’t let anyone find out, or expose your feelings…Cover your head instead”. With the chorus to this song, two albums later, he seems to be responding to the earlier version of himself. Sending the message that now he’d “rather back a simple girl”. I think I agree (though we still want to sing about jets from time to time, be they threatening or inspirational).

Musically, the song is structurally similar to other Pollard rockers. For example the verse, on the guitar, is built around patterns of arpeggio triplets played on the bottom three strings. Pollard has used this method as a compositional launching point for many of his songs over the years, usually walking a bass note through the pattern. This song is a little more complex though, building more chord changes into the patterns. This illustrates growth within his confines of his self taught musicianship and composition. Also, because the guitar part is being played by, and possibly refined by, Doug Gillard (a more adept guitarist) it really allows the common GBV arpeggio pattern to transmogrify into something greater than what it would have been if played by the previous lineup.

Drummer Swanson (or maybe the band around him) seems a little uneasy at the beginning of the take, finding the pocket on the first repetition of the verse pattern. But once he finds it he never leaves (makes we wish they would have taken another crack at it). He puts a lot of complexity into the rhythm of the song and finds interesting accent points and creative polyrhythmic shifts for fills that are different from the stylings of previous GBV drummers. He doesn’t over or underplay. It’s an interesting performance and take on a song that could have been played in many different ways, like just aping previous drummer Fennell’s strong but simplistic approach. Instead Swanson stretched, which I really appreciate. Swanson wasn’t long for this band, leaving after this record, but in his short tenure he added rhythm vocabulary to the GBV sound that future drummers would continue to evolve on.

I guess what I’m saying is that this new band was really showing a lot of care and professionalism crafting arrangements for Pollard’s material which in turn inspired Pollard to write material that would suit this new, much more musically adept, band. We call that synergy. That’s a lot of work for them…and all I had to do was sit back and enjoy…I’m a lucky bastard.

Oh, yeah, and here we finally have some more of those great GBV close harmonies on the chorus. Took a while to get there, but we made it. I love these, because, when you sing along, you can pick a vocal to follow…What fun!

10. Choking Tara (1:24)

GBVerde you’ve been working hard. Take a break. A short break.

‘Choking Tara’ is a sweet little love song with a misleadingly sinister name.

“LOVE SONG?!” you say. “GBV doesn’t do love songs! No fucking way!”

Well, they did this one.

We’re back at Cro-Magnon studio. This is a genteel chugger/strummer. Single verse, single chorus and we’re out. No band, just a clean-ish electric guitar with some nice creative chord changes floating around a simple but passionate vocal melody where the narrator is singing about his new love quickly going bad. The song features one of my favorite Pollard couplets:

“But I couldn’t catch her and break the falls
I couldn’t snatch her with beaks and claws”

Battered and broken, our Romeo, in the final words, determines not to give up,

“Shove it, ’cus I’ll just stay
Like an ugly unwanted stray
Don’t care what you say”

It’s downtrodden but upbeat. Bittersweet.

There was an outtake version of this song recorded and given the full band treatment by GBVerde. The arrangement leaned toward sunny 60s folk rock, and repeated the verse and chorus a second time to give the song a more traditional pop composition structure. That version was later released on a Matador records compilation ‘Everything Is Nice’. It’s “nice”, but there is something about the stripped down version used on the album that is so much more effective. It’s more vulnerable and intimate.

This illustrates how, as great as the GBVerde lineup was at composing more complex and professional sounding arraignments, they couldn’t necessarily do everything better (at least not in the session time allotted). There were essential colors in Pollard’s paint box they could not readily access. Something essential to the GBV experience would be lost if everything was chrome plated. Robert Pollard knew this and took pains to ensure the essential spark was protected.

11. Hollow Cheek (0:32)

Hollow Cheek falls under the category of “intro song”. This one being the most effective in that category on this record, to the point where I can’t imagine the following tune without this one setting the stage.

It also falls under the very rare category of GBV piano songs. Pollard sometimes likes to “tickle the ivories” as it were. But “tickle” is probably not the verb, “smash” would be more apt. He’s not exactly a concert pianist. But he can pick out a few chords and, if given a few moments to navigate between them, he can get a basic piano track down.

He’s still at Cro-Magnon, in solo mode here, and as stripped down as the piano arrangement is, it is effective at adding a new tonal color to the album, and in pair with the ominous vocal it gives this recording an eerie “hollow” feeling. Given the title, I think they nailed it.

With its lyrics about “We race each new morning” and “Long live the dream” (added to the fact that I often listened to it, back in the day, in my car driving to work) the notion became stuck in my head that this song was an obtuse metaphor about morning commutes. But that would be hard to justify against the rest of the verse. Do me a solid, ask Bob if I’m right and get back to me…

12. Portable Men’s Society (4:16)

This is the album’s “centerpiece” song. Pollard, as a fan of prog-rock and concept albums, always had an understanding that any album’s sequence and flow can benefit from a sort of epic grand gesture somewhere in the middle. He doesn’t do it every album. But he does do it. A centerpiece song is usually the longest song on the album and the musical tone and lyric tend toward the darker, more dramatic. I don’t think he writes any song specifically for this purpose, but if one comes out this way, he might make a mental note, “I know where this is going.”

Examples of centerpiece songs would include:

  • An Earful O’ Wax
  • Local Mix-Up / Murder Charge
  • The Enemy (my personal favorite GBV centerpiece song ever)
  • Storm Vibrations…

…and this one. These centerpiece songs add a sort of gravitas to the “album”, and make it feel more consequential. It acts as a thematic center to which you can connect the other songs as you wish.

I’m really big on this song, and I could probably write several pages on it alone, so I’m going to try and exhibit some restraint here. Pollard is back at 609 Recording with GBVerde. There are a few things to note about the arrangement of the verse. Starting with the synths. It starts with the howling high pitched drone of a synthesizer that slowly lowers and rises in pitch, simulating a slow siren. The siren drone plays, with some dropouts, throughout the entire song. This “siren in a song” deal (i.e., sustained high pitch synth drones), it’s been done before and since by other bands, and I usually HATE it…like it gives me a headache. Here they seem to have found the sweet spot for it in the mix so that it irritates (which is the desired effect) without becoming irritating. So, in this instance I FUCKING LOVE IT!

The drum pattern used on the verse is what I used to refer to (when trying to communicate drum patterns to drummers I was teaching a song to) as the “army boot in a dryer” pattern. Kind of a stumbling shuffle beat with a hard snare hit at the end of the measure. It gives a loosely militant feel.

Then distorted guitars come in across this beat in a scratchy staccato pattern, playing a repeating riff that never quite resolves. A riff that, dare I say, borders on slow-Sabbath-esque. This song is about as “metal” as this record gets.

But this verse, with its building dread tension and non-resolving riff, is really just a pressure cooker with a faulty regulator getting ready to BLOW. But just before total explosion, we get treated to a very nice melodic cool down bridge and then WHAM the “channel changes” and we launch into a smoking hard-rock chorus. Power chords are flying. The tempo picks up. And when Pollard, one of the great rock vocalists of ALL time, hits the word “RAW!” in a unabashed rock yell…well, you just got your money’s worth, bitches.

The song also features another really interesting and creative wiry guitar solo from Gillard. Who somehow splices metal and new-wave into something totally unique. As much as I loved his solo on ‘I Am A Tree’, this is the solo I gushed at him about when I had a chance to talk to him after a show years ago. He said, “Thanks.” as he was trying to get away from me.

The music, the performance, is great, but the lyrics, the conceptual theme, this is what makes the song really stick out in my mind. It paints a picture of a dystopian now. Of society, culture, technology outsized and out of control. A runaway train of a world, that we just have to live through. What happens to the communities in a factory town when all the factories close up and move away? Do “vandals come for rummage”? This is where I could go on for pages, because there is a lot of symbolism to interpret, for example:

“Mysterious engines run
To keep the dream from ending
The cloak obscures the gun
To keep what’s worth defending”

I know I have a healthy imagination and my analysis often falls into interpolation. In fact, I could probably write a series of self-published junior fiction novels about a dystopian world solely based on what this song does to my brain. Keep an eye out for it on AMAZON KINDLE!

What is the ‘Portable Men’s Society’? I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I like the not knowing.

This is one of my favorite GBV songs of all time, hands down.

13. Little Lines (2:02)

But wait, this is another one of my favorite GBV songs of all time…seems like there are a lot of these lying around. Hmm. Kind of makes me seem hyperbolic. Tough SHIT!

We’re still listening to GBVerde. This song is a great example of the kind of perfect pop-rock power cord nuggets, loaded with catchy melodic vocal hooks, that Pollard seems to casually toss onto every album he puts out. It is one of the funnest songs on the album to play on guitar and sing. Pollard also gives us some cool and creative harmonies at the end of the chorus on the “Change now”.

On this one song, lead guitar duties were handed over to GBVerde’s other guitarist John Petkovic who (less technical than Gillard) is more of what musicians refer to as a feel player (that translates to “he’s okay, but plays with passion!”). To be fair, John Petkovic was the front man for Cobra Verde, the backing band Pollard was “borrowing” for this record, so we have to weigh this into the “critique” equation. Petkovic does play with a lot of feel, he adds some welcome chaos to the song and sloppily stumbles into some interesting improvisations on his lead ascents and during his guitar solo. GBV has a long history of loose improvised feel solos (usually played by Pollard himself) so this feels right at home.  I used to think Petkovic was a tad loud in the mix here, but I’ve become used to it over the years and actually like it more now than ever.

Just a good clean rocker, notable for featuring this classic critic fuckoff,

“Philosophers and critics of the play
Listen hard to every word we say
Especially when it makes us laugh”

He’s not talking about guys like me, is he?…Fuck…

14. Learning To Hunt (2:24)

We’ll call this ‘Emotional Soul Jam #2’.

This is a song that somehow is inexplicably not used in the end credits of every indie movie where two people fail to fall in love. Somehow, the Hollywood assholes that find and license these types of songs missed this one. I don’t know how. Even better, I want them to put this song in an episode of “This is Us”, during the emotional montage at the end of the episode. I don’t watch the show, but I’d like to see my wife cry to a GVB song just once. Just ONCE!

This is solo acoustic Pollard at Cro-Magnon, capturing, quite possibly, the most tender, emotional and vulnerable performance of his recording career. There is actually another song and performance right on this level coming up later on the record, which is crazy because GBV records are not often known for delving into these levels of emotionality. So this is quite a treat.

Pollard is seen by many as a goof or a clown, because of his drunken onstage antics. He is a really funny guy. And you know a lot of funny guys have big hearts. He’s no exception. He has some deep feelings and some deep reflections and they’re artfully laid bare here. A killer track.

To me, the lyric is a reflection on parenthood. I’m “learning to hunt” so my child doesn’t starve to death. It’s that simple. And when I listen to this song…and I’m thinking about my son…and a little dust mote happens to float into the corner of my eye at just the right moment…I might cry. FUCK YOU! DON’T JUDGE ME! I’M IN TOUCH WITH MY EMOTIONS! CAN’T YOU TELL FROM THE ALL CAPS?!


Pollard in an interview, said the song was about him learning to hunt for himself…That lying sack of shit…He can’t fool me. He was probably pissed at his kids for skipping their chores when he said that.

15. The Finest Joke Is Upon Us (3:08)

This is the second of the three recordings on this record taken from UTB/UTS outtakes recorder by “GVB Classic” with Kevin Fennell on drums. In fact, this exact recording was previously released as a bonus cut on the Japanese CD version of UTB/UTS. Somehow, Pollard saw fit to use it again in the official sequence of this record, and I’m glad he did. It really is an exceptional song and recording, and one of the album’s key highlights.

Here we get a very clear view of what we lost when Kevin Fennell imploded and was fired. First, his irreplaceable caveman snare hit. Fennell’s approach to drumming was pretty barebones so far as technique, but he had a undeniable feel for Pollard’s compositions built over more than a decade of playing together and a sort of God-like sense of timing on just when to hit the snare and bass drum. Also, in Fennell’s bag of tricks and, really pivotal to the classic GBV drum sound, was his unique approach to the use of high-hat sizzle (riding on a partially open high-hat). Fennell liked to leave that sizzle very dirty and rattly and would often sustain it through most of or all of a song. It really created an unsettled air in the mix and he used it so much that I have a Pavlovian impression of it. I’m conditioned to the point where when I hear that high-hat sizzle, I thrust for beer…or some kind of smoke.

This is a spooky mid-tempo song. It’s not metal, but I could see early-Sabbath taking a crack at it, as a candidate for a “cool down” number. The lyrics start with Pollard talking (technically sing) directly to “Mother” (this, to my interpretation, carries on the familial theme started in the previous song). That approach, this idea of the song being a communication from son to mother, gives what follows additional weight. Particularly, as what he is talking about is not all great. A “cold”, “distorted” and “broken” world, obscured with “smoke” (confusion), from where he can see “paradise”, but just can’t get there because he “choked”.

I, as general rule, try not to bum my mother out with my darkest reflections…as comforting as that download may be for me (she’s a sweet lady who’s been through enough), but, honestly, sometimes even I can’t help myself and lay my shit on my mother. Sorry, Mom. But you can see how all these connections create a very effective emotional space for the song, if you’re in the right head for it.

At the end of the chorus (and song) he is resigned to the fact that,

“One of these days when I see through the smoke
That’ll be the day I get the joke”

I think we all know the moment he is talking about. It’s the moment right before death. That moment when you can finally relax and say to yourself in all honesty, “Oh, okay. We’re done here. It’s alright. It’s good.” At that moment, so long as it isn’t taken from you, you can feel that sentiment in a way you never could before, when deep down you knew that tomorrow was always around the corner. Deep shit. Deep song.

This tune also features one of Pollard’s all time best melodist/vocalist moments when he tunefully bellows “Words of smoke” (which I, for years, heard as “Worlds of smoke”…I like my version better). When he sings that part…it’s goosebumps every time, baby.

16.  Mag Earwhig! (0:39)

This is another very short Cro-Magnon solo acoustic snippet. I’m not sure why it goes here. It’s a bit tuneless. Is it intended as an aperitif? It goes by so quick. It’s like you’re tuning past in on the radio. Jokes aside, it’s comes across like the reading of a poem fragment. As poetry, it does have a bit that always stuck in my mind.

“But the bastard of an ex-warhorse kicks
And I smiled like an electric child”

That image of the “electric child”. That smile. That goofy, full-hearted, high-watt smile only children have. The smile lost after so many years of plodding through this murky, smoky reality we call life. It literally carries into the next tune…So I guess this “song” does earn it’s place. Oh, Pollard, you’re so clever.

17. Now to War (2:44)

This is another song based around familial communication. Here it’s a husband talking to his wife. The return to this theme makes the last so-many songs a sort of loose suite. And although you have to kind of think about it to get there, even if you don’t, I think the emotional impact is going to catch up to you. You are going to see a full portrait of the modern American family life from the perspective of a common middle-aged man leaving his thirties…which Pollard definitely was.

We know Pollard was married young to his highschool girlfriend. At the time of this recording they were still married raising two kids in their teens. It seems clear now that the changes in Pollard’s life, regarding his full time pursuit of musical ambitions (which started in his mid-thirties), caused challenges and stress in his home. In a few years, this would eventually lead to a painful divorce…a broken family. But I know, just from the music, there was a lot of love and life between them…and hopefully forgiveness and redemption as they both moved forward.

The song is another acoustic ballad. This one very much in the style of ‘Automatic for the People’ era R.E.M.. I can really see Michael Stipe making a meal out of this (it could be a track on that solo covers album he always teased).

Here, for the first time on this record, an acoustic ballad is recorded by the GBVerde lineup in their studio, giving it an R.E.M. level polish. They show their non-rock side, and create a very tender track with some subtle, almost subliminal, percussion and a beautiful acoustic guitar solo by Gillard.

The song opens with the chilling line that calls back to the “electric smile”s of youth. He mourns, “There is no boy in me now.” I, as a middle-aged man, who shaves everyday in the mirror (making serious eye contact with his dead eyes), know exactly what he is talking about. It’s a fact of life. That boy is gone. You can remember him. You can commune with him, say like when you hold a childhood toy, or item that floods you with nostalgia…but the boy is gone. When he left, we don’t know. But we mourn for him, and we just want the world and our wife to understand…So, yeah, we’re only one line in and I’m already falling apart. But wait! There’s more!

So the “war” in the title is the fights we have with our spouses. And he gets downright honest and direct on this cut, in a way we rarely see in his song catalog. In the chorus Pollard writes easily some of the best lyrics of his career,

“But this is you and this is war
It makes me drink even more
And I’ll have fun then I’ll make a mark on you
I’ll tell you all that I am
A simple feat, we’ll walk for free
Until you injure me again”

We’re talking about getting drunk at home, arguing with your wife, leaving her with a bruise, making up and knowing it’s a cycle. This is a portrait of my childhood. This is serious stuff, and he paints it in a very serious, honest, respectful light. A master painter. A masterpiece.

18. Jane of the Waking Universe (2:25)

Okay…Are you bummed out yet?…Me to. Fortunately, we are now getting on the train out of Sadtown, or maybe we’re getting on a space rocket. See? Things aren’t so bad, when you have MAGIC! …Pollard lets his thoughts get fanciful.

This is the third and final “GBV Classic” UTB/UTS left over and it is a revelation. A beautiful sunny 60s psychedelic pop song (as channeled through some super-inspired middle-aged blue collar drunkards from Ohio). It really is a beautiful send off to the previous version of the band that allows then lead guitarist, Tobin Sprout, to lay down one of the greatest slide wah-wah solos Syd Barrett never recorded. The creative harmonies on the chorus are ear candy, as they repeat over and over “Jane of the Waking Universe”. Jane, of course, being a close friend and neighbor of Lucy…You know, that Lucy, right?…The one with the sky, and the diamonds.

Coming right after the emotional desolation of the previous cut this song is like a rebirth. It’s just fun. It’s big as the sky. It’s epic. There’s a universe being born right here and you feel it. It’s the kind of song the Flaming Lips wish they could carry off (BOOM! LIPS DISS!).

I’ve heard it said the album should have ended after ‘Jane of the Waking Universe’. There’s a GBV podcast by a writer Jeff Gomez who makes this point pretty convincingly. But even Gomez accepts and is resigned to the fact the Pollard gets to make the call as to when to stroke the final brush.

I think Pollard’s decision to keep going was influenced by a desire to ensure that the album wasn’t ending on a farewell to the last version of the band. A self-conscious decision to be sure (even if it’s unconscious), but I think a healthy choice. He’s got to keep moving forward…or maybe crawling forward.

19. The Colossus Crawls West (2:13)

This is another somewhat psychedelic song, but closer to a post-Floyd Syd Barrett rambler. It’s in a genre I coined “psychedelic campfire songs”. This is solo Pollard at Cro-Magnon accompanied by a single strumming electric guitar. Compared to the high points of the record it is a bit of a throw away, but has some really nice moments and the lyrics are creative. My favorite bit is the punchline,

“And when the colossus crawls west
Jazz bastards will fall and confess
We all love you so and
Your rock is paradise plastic
It’s cheap and fantastic!”

It’s the bit about “jazz bastards” prostrating themselves before “rock” that cracks me up. A sort of passing of the torch of popular affinity…I guess us rockers will now have to bow before EDM DJs. I’ll die first! That SHIT isn’t music.

20. Mute Superstar (1:24)

When I hear this song, I always have one thought… Billy Corgan. And I don’t like to think about Billy Corgan unless I absolutely have to. He’s okay, but I was never a Pumpkinhead (as I assume that is what their fans are called). This is a GBVerde rocker. The repeating 90s alt-hard-rock riff, the drums and the sound effects that start the song just really put me in the mind that I’m listening to a Smashing Pumpkins song, period.

However, when the vocals start the illusion is shattered. I mean, this singer isn’t nearly screetchy enough to be Corgan, right? Yet the opening lyrics could be Pumpkins…

“I see them in the dark
Fairy wings are green”

But after this…things get more GBV-ish. It goes on. Lyrics are obscure, something about the truth not being for sale…I can respect that.  It has a clever short little middle eight bit…it gets back to the riff…no guitar solo…no big outro, then it just stops flat, early-Wire-style. And we’re done.

It’s a short fun listen but I’d be hard pressed to say much about it…

Maybe “Wire Pumpkins”?

I’ll get back to you on that.

21. Bomb in the Bee-Hive (2:02)

Here we are. The final song. We’ve come a long way, baby.

This is GBVerde. We’re closing on GBVerde. This makes sense, since this is the band you would have seen if you had gone out to see GBV on tour supporting this record. And GBVerde did tour. You definitely weren’t going to see GBV Classic…at least not for another 15 years, when they reunited, but that’s another story.

I did see this band tour back in ’97 and I remembered liking it. Sure, I missed the old band…and I cringed every time John Petkovic “hit a clam” singing backup vocals. But, on the whole, the band was tight. The band rocked and the band was good.

I mention this also because ‘Bomb in the Bee-Hive’ is, in many ways, in the general category of an infamous and oft maligned category… the “road song”. This is where musicians break the fourth wall and tell their hard luck story about “life on the road”, with all its hardships. They make themselves out to be antiheros…you know…all that bullshit…“Turn the Page” (but we like that one, sometimes, when we’re feeling moody). In their gritty tales of road life, its all mythology, they never get to the truth. They never put in the part about jerking off in the motel room bathroom just after the bassist took a dump…now that’s pathos.

That said, finding himself in the midst of a road song, Pollard, being the master songwriter he is, manages to stay away from the tropes and gets through this exercise unscathed. He just makes some allusions to a rock show, a rock performance, the pressure, “Get on the floor at nine o’clock”.

It’s a rocker. It’s a stomper. It has some nice Keith Moon drum fills like any good GBV song should. It’s got some pretty cool guitar licks and riffs, no big guitar solo histrionics, just a straight ahead hard rock boogie. I genuinely like this song. It’s a good farewell for the album and leaves you on an up note.

The room lights go up. The ushers come in to start folding up the chairs. They sweep up the confetti and balloons and plastic beer cups.

I stumble out to the street to orient myself. I take a good hard pull on the crisp city air. I reach into my pocket and feel my keys. Where did I park again? Should I call a cab?


Postscript – note from the author

In my previous post (Part3), I mentioned I would be reviewing b-sides and outtakes along with the album tracks in this review. However, due to the length of this review, I have decided to move the b-side reviews to a separate article, entitled ‘Mag Earwhig: Apocrypha’,  to be published at a later date. That will put this baby to bed. Thank you for reading.

Mag Earwhig, Two Stories: Part 3

I have two more posts regarding Guided by Voices and their 1997 album Mag Earwhig. This one and the next, which will be a full track-by-track album review. But before I get to the review, I’ll continue to set the table with another bit of excessive background…

My Buddy

So, in 1997 I was still hanging out with Tony, who I mentioned in the prolog. I think everyone, if they’re lucky, should have a Tony in their backstory. People that add colour. He ticked a lot of boxes. He was creative, smart, funny, charismatic, kind-hearted, charming, solar…a force of nature. He’s the only man I ever kissed on the lips, and I initiated the kiss (to be clear, it was a closed mouth “peck”, but it did happen), but that’s another sorry. To sum up, in my memory, he was like a private rock star that I had all to myself.

Tony introduced himself to me in high school, probably around 1990. He must have heard I was a guitarist that liked R.E.M. and wanted to see if we could jam. We got on pretty well and in no time we were jamming, hanging out and partying. Just bein’ “buddies”. In that time, he was the frontman, for sure. In our short lived band(s), I was the sideman guitarist. And that is how it should have been. That was the correct order of things…then.

Tony needed to connect with people, wanted to connect, could connect with anyone.

I, on the other hand, was guarded and skeptical; cynical and prickly. Really, my act was just me shooting myself in the foot over and over trying to get past a lot of stress, damaged self-esteem, repression, anger and resentment built up living through my childhood. Living through shit I didn’t have the tools or the modeling to get past. So I just sat in those feelings and hoped one day a pill would be invented to wash them all away (That never happened…they did find a cure for restless leg syndrome though. So there’s that).

My childhood, when measured against other people’s stories, hardly rates as tragic, but it left me with the cemented impression that I was a worthless mistake that had no real place of value in the world. I won’t even pin it all on my parents; society did its share, too. I got better…eventually…somewhat. But back then I was what I now refer to as “a tough nut to crack”.

Anyway, Tony just blasted right through my defenses, God bless him. He looked right past all my bullshit and held his hand out to the kid sitting in the middle of all that barbwire and said, “Come out of there. Let’s have some fun.” He wasn’t worried about getting pricked. He was lion hearted. And we did have fun. Epic fun. And we were brothers of a sort. I will always think back and know that Tony helped me out of a bad spot there, and I am forever grateful. We all need that, from time to time.

And Tony did get cut on my defenses. And in many of the stories of life and love with Tony, I was the villain. I did things to Tony that I’ll never forgive myself for…but he forgave me every time. Like I said, brothers of a sort.

What I didn’t know back then, or didn’t respect, was that Tony had demons of his is own, always hot on his heels, and when they caught up they got him real good. And there was no way for me to return the favor and reach in and pull him out. The end of the 1990s came and Tony was out of my life forever. A book closed.

But this is 1997, and that final breakdown was a few years off. As far as we knew, the party would never end! And I have two underwhelming recollections about Mag Earwhig around Tony that come to mind when I think back on that time and that album. All the strands are knit together.

Story One: Tony’s Friend Wasn’t Sold

So, Tony and I were fans of the GBV (as established). I remember driving around one night with him in 95/96, listening to Alien Lanes. He said that GBV had kind of carried on the spirit of Nirvana for him. I’m paraphrasing and I probably have it wrong. But I remember him saying something like that both bands had songwriting that was very catchy/poppy/melodic but because of who they were it came out punk/post-punk/metal (Obviously, a lot of bands did this, these bands just did it better). And we listened to the music and we talked about GBV and we sang along with GBV…

And then Mag Earwhig came out in 1997. I bought it day one. At that point in time, GBV was a “day one must buy” band for me. I listened to it. Loved it.

I vaguely remember talking to Tony about it. I think at that stage he was a little “moved on” from my state of lifelong-full-on-fanboy-Kiss-Army-esque GBV fanaticism. He was positive but reserved, like maybe the album was a partial misstep, but he could dig most of it.

That night we went over to the house of a friend of his that I didn’t know. Tony always had a new friend. I always didn’t.

Somehow the conversation turned to the new GBV. Oh, this guy, the friend, he wasn’t sold. “‘Bulldog Skin’ sucks…They lost it.”

My response was, “I don’t know. I think there’s a lot of killer stuff on there.”

Well, suffice to say, I was instantly convinced that I never wanted to see this fucktard again. And I never did.

You see, back then, if you didn’t like the music I liked, I thought you were a fucking idiot. And, if you criticized a band I liked, well then you should probably lie down and die like a fucking dog. I now realize this was defense mechanism to keep people at arms length, but it felt right at the time. I’ve evolved since.

By the way, in that same period, I was constantly telling every person I met how terrible their taste in music was.

I was a real special guy.

But to be fair, artists must have convictions.

Let’s face it, ‘Bulldog Skin’ was the ‘Hold on Hope’ of its time (more divisive than Trump). But, I mean, Jesus Christ! Cut ’em some fuckin’ slack…I get it! It’s repetitive and dumb…and it was the lead single. But it’s just ONE song from maybe one of the most prolific and consistently interesting songwriters of our time! And you can’t say that guitar solo isn’t a lot of fun. Come on! Doug Gillard killed it!…Whatever. I’m not going to die on that hill. NEXT!

Story Two: Everybody’s Going to Love This

So it must have been the “early” internet that told me there was an import version of the Mag Earwhig CD with two bonus songs (I mean the standard album only had 21 songs, obviously we really needed two more). Well, you know, as a true believer, I couldn’t pass that up. I bought that overpriced import, and I listened to those fucking bonus cuts, and I really liked them. Particularly the song ‘Running Off With The Fun City Girls’ (In fact, many of the outtakes/B-Sides from this record are very strong and they will ALL be reviewed in my upcoming Mag Earwhig MEGA-review…COMING SOON!)

The song is a serviceable little rocker. It’s got that GBVerde sound. It’s got some nice bits in it. The drums are tasteful and tight. In hindsight, I can see why it was an outtake…but it’s not a bad track. The lyrics bring to mind the Beatle’s ‘She’s Leaving Home’…but, to me, maybe she’s leaving home to become a stripper. I don’t know, maybe I was just thinking too much about strippers at that time. It kind of sounds like he’s saying “porn” when he’s saying “fun”…I-I-It doesn’t matter now.

Bottom line, I thought the song was a cool. It was new to me and I liked it…and the theme.

So, I remember, one night, being in someone’s backyard at a little “get together”, let’s say, within a week of me buying that import. Tony was there, and others. We were handing around an acoustic guitar, as young troubadours do. I would usually play a Big Star ballad on my turn. You know, typical Ken-Powers-in-his-twenties behavior.

Eventually the showboating was over and someone started playing CDs (this was the age of CDs…before iPods, before iPhones, before BLUETOOTH! We had Spooky Tooth…just no Bluetooth) and I thought to myself, “Ooh, I’ve got an idea – a special surprise for everyone. I’ll sneakily excuse myself and grab that Mag Earwhig import out of my car. Then! When no one’s looking, I’m gonna highjack the Hi-Fi and play ‘Running Off With The Fun (Porn?) City Girls’. People are going to be knocked out. Everybody’s going to love this!”

So, you know me, once I get an idea in my head, particularly about covert operations where I think I will be helping (“educating”) the masses with one heroic act, I can’t be stopped.

The operation, technically, went off without a hitch, yet the response from the group was not what I expected. I would characterize the response as indifference mingled with a smattering of disdain. Well, you can’t win ’em all.

Those looks, OOF! They convinced me that, for the time being, I would keep my GBV torch close to the vest, thus lighting my vest on fire. Lesson, kids…watch where you’re pointing those torches.

I determined to keep my GBV flag in the car and in the bedroom. I took it way underground. It was clear that I was on the wrong side of history. That this love was not natural and not going to be easily shared with others – that I was into a cult band and the Kiss-Army cavalry was not coming to save my ass.

But goddamn it if Mag Earwhig isn’t one of the great GBV sing-along records. It summons spirits every time.

And if you ever want to hear Tony, just listen to the scream at the end of ‘Are You Faster?’. I swear to God it’s him…

End of Part 3

…to be concluded

Mag Earwhig, Distorted Mirror Broken: Part 2

So, 1997 was the year Mag Earwhig was released. It was a different time…clearly. I was unhappily working a stable-yet-uninspiring-corporate-job in an ill-fated attempt to survive capitalism (I was doing my Kafka thing). If I had been deployed and fighting in World War III (which, fortunately for me, did not happen at that time), I would have been staring at a well-worn Laetitia Casta pinup just prior to being irradiated to dust. Instead, I was looking at a lot of the “early” internet via what I assume at the time must have been dial-up services like AOL and Prodigy.

Honestly, I don’t remember a lot about my life at that time. It’s kind of blocked out. I know that was a period when I self-identified as an “artist”, spending much of my free time producing esoteric art for myself (Somewhere, there is a very large box overfilled with audio tapes of God knows what. I shutter to think). Yet everyday I grew less and less interested in sharing that art with the outside world. Less interested in seeking acknowledgment, recognition, “glory”.  Because, as a survivor of childhood bullshit turned cynic, I just couldn’t see the point. Human interaction was going to disappoint. Either they were going to let me down, or I was going to let them down. My ego was misaligned. I was down on life, down on love. Just down. And there were no answers, just more unanswerable questions to dig up. To this day, I struggle to keep that guy out of my head. He wasn’t wrong, but you can’t think like that and be happy…or content…whatever that is. I guess the hard learned lesson (for assholes like me) is to stop fighting the ocean and choose to be happy with the absurdity of life…but I wasn’t there yet.

ANNNNYYWAY, as we established in the prolog, I was a big Guided by Voices fan for a couple of years at this point. Their art inspired me in so many ways. There is so much fighting spirit in that catalog, and it’s catching. They stand out, along with my Beach Boys record collection, MST3K on TV and Austin Powers at the movies (?), as lifesavers. The memories I have of those things remind me of laughter, joy, and belonging. A bulwark against “The Many Moods…of Ken Powers”. These things inspired me, helped me tune in to some more uplifting thought patterns that brought better situations and people into my life.

Those people, where are they now? I don’t know.

Raymond Carver wrote a poem, ‘My Boat’, about a boat he was having made. He starts listing all the friends he wants to take out on this boat. “People are going to have fun, and do what they want to do, on my boat.” The boat in the poem has “plenty of room” for all his friends (even though the actual fishing boat he’s describing, 1978 Olympic Hardtop, would comfortably hold maybe six). The boat, to me, represents a sort of heaven of the imagination, where you are reunited with all the people that you remember fondly and would like to have around you, but can’t because…life.

So to the people of 1997 who made a difference, thanks. You matter. You saved my life. You did. Congratulations.

Click here to read ‘My Boat’ at

End of Part 2

…to be continued

Mag Earwhig Buys a Beer: Part 1

Guided by Voices’s “transitional” album Mag Earwhig was released twenty-one years ago. A “line-up change” record which intermixed recordings from both versions of the band, it represented the end of GBV’s formative or “classic” period. At the time, it was a breaking point for many in the early fan base, who didn’t like the evolution. Those people were WRONG, period, and can all “get fucked”. I loved that album when it came out and love it even more today. For true believers, it represents the start of Robert Pollard’s musical collaboration with guitarist Doug Gillard, which is one of the most criminally under appreciated and fruitful rock-genius-partnerships of all time. A partnership that (minus one long break) lives on and can be enjoyed to this day. In honor of Mag’s first legal beer I have decided to write some GVB-centric posts about those times.


A long time ago, in a suburb far, far away…Nineteen-something-and-five, younger Ken Powers was listening to R.E.M., Syd Barrett, Robyn Hitchcock, Pavement, SST, indie-rock, post-punk, pop-rock, punk-rock, prog-rock and psychedelic-rock on a loop…Usually, while reading comic books.

He was reading SPIN magazine, too. And in certain issues of SPIN, he was reading about this underground band from Ohio…Dayton, Ohio (?). They were described as a sort of song-guild of misfit freaks who followed this beer chugging, pot smoking, middle-aged ex-jock elementary school teacher who also just happened to be a rock n roll savant.

This man was purported to be able to compose awesome, catchy, “MANLY”-yet-sensitive indie-rock nuggets on command, all day long…every day (Ken Powers, on the other hand, was struggling at the time to write just one song that wasn’t “gay”).

This band was called Guided by Voices, GBV for short. Their front man was Robert Pollard. GBV recorded on TASCAM 4-Track in a genre of music dubbed “Lo-Fi” (younger Ken Powers was also home recording on a TASCAM 4-Track! What a coincidence!). The SPIN reporter explained that in this “Lo-Fi”  style, if done correctly, a performer could capture the most authentic performance possible, the trade-off was tape hiss and poor engineering…Well younger Ken Powers (I was in my twenties after all) was ALL about authenticity. Plus the SPIN journalist was sure to have dropped in some Barrett, Soft Boys, Devo, Cheap Trick, the Who and Wire references and I’m sure Peter Buck was probably quoted as saying GBV was “acceptable”. Buck had spoken.

I (Ken Powers that is) knew RIGHT THEN AND THERE that I was going to make a purchase. I was going to buy my first Guided by Voices record!

At the time, I was working at a record store chain, Warehouse Records. I put in a special order for the two most recent GBV releases, the just released Alien Lanes and its predecessor, Bee Thousand, with my trusty assistant manager. They soon came in, were purchased (at an employee discount), went straight into my CD player and (bingo-bango-bongo) the rest is history.

A lifelong obsession began.

Pollard’s coded lyrics fell like Tetris pieces right into the folds of my brain. The melodies and hooks echoed endlessly in my mind, but they never chafed, they were a welcome addition to the din of my subconscious. Soon, my songs started to sound more like GBV songs, my voice sounded more like Pollards. I was turning Japanese (Spin Cycle).

When all was said and done, in my mind, Robert Pollard was right there with Brian Wilson as “the man”. An estimation that has not waivered to this day.

I bought it all, every record, every EP, and every single I could order from their back catalog. It was a treasure trove, a master class in rock n roll history, composition and performance. As important as the Beatles, the Who, the Kinks in the Pantheon of Rock. And it was all mine…’cause nobody else could give a shit.

I don’t think there were more that three people in my home town capable of understanding and accepting the greatness that is GBV. I mean, It wasn’t that hard to understand…you just had to listen to the records and have good taste. Sadly, good taste was a scant resource in Thousand Oaks, California…where the people are kind of lame-ish (I don’t want to be mean).

I turned my best friend and Jam-mate at the time, Tony, on to the band. He got it…sold on “Over the Neptune/Mesh Gear Fox” and we became a little “fan club” of sorts.

I knew they were the best fucking band in the world. I tried to help others understand. In my mind GVB should have been huge. It’s not my goddamn fault if everyone else was listening to bullshit. I mean fuck, I had to watch people buy shitty records all day long at the Warehouse…it was very painful for me…Hootie and the Blowfish?! FUUUUUCKKK!!

Anyway, they put out another great record the following year and toured LA. I finally got to see them LIVE and IN CONCERT. It was a revelation. A beer fueled sing-along sausage party where everyone in the crowd felt like Roger Daltrey at Woodstock. Pollard would get drunker and drunker, slinging perfect nugget after perfect nugget. The band sounded great, an unstoppable rock n roll machine. And then there were Pollard’s scissor kicks… You haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed a Robert Pollard scissor kick live. It can’t be topped. It can’t be explained. Watching it on tape doesn’t do it justice. It’s just fucking great. It’s etched on the Mount Rushmore of rock! The crowd fucking eats it up, man. It’s beautiful! You go home, put on the record and, if you’re as inflexible as I am, you pull your groin trying to recreate it (One day I’ll get my flexibility back. I’m doing my stretching exercises EVERYDAY! YOU’LL SEE!!).

End of Prologue

…to be continued

Unicorn Steaks

Yesterday, I witnessed two things that I will never forget. One was harrowing and terrifying – the other inspirational beyond anything I have ever had the honor to have witnessed.

Bad news first

If you know me, then you’ll undoubtedly know the first event (the harrowing one) was watching #PresidentShithead’s joint press conference with Putin in Helsinki. After a week of setting fire to the NATO alliance and the Special Relationship, yesterday, #PS [aka Trump], with the whole world watching, willfully spread misinformation denying Russia’s very real cyber attack on the United States.

In doing so he went against, and publicly betrayed, our institutions of national defense and US law enforcement. He instead sided with the murderous, lying despot standing next to him. A dictator who is actively leading an attack on America, via cyber warfare, to undermine and corrode our DEMOCRACY and world influence.

We now add this offense to the list of impeachable offenses #PS has committed. Offenses the Republican congress won’t act on…but instead will allow to be forgiven and “normalized”.

I just want to take this moment to send a heartfelt message to my Republican brothers out there…Sorry. I don’t think we can give him a “mulligan” on this one, boys. This really is the end of the road and the end of this Presidency. Accept it, it’s over. As you like to say, “There are winners and losers”. Well, you picked a big fucking loser. Time to flush the bowl before you get any more shit on your hands. Kapeesh?

Nuff said about that for today.

Now the good news

SO YEAH it was the “worst of times”. But then something else happened yesterday that was maybe the most inspirational thing I have ever seen, in person, in my entire life. The most inspirational thing I have probably ever been a part of (even if only in a peripheral way). And I’m not fucking exaggerating! It was real life drama played out with real stakes and, when it was all done, it made be believe in America. It made me believe not that we are the best, but that we can be the best if we do our best. If we do our best for each other, especially when we need each other. If we can change our hearts through empathy, when it counts, we can achieve anything. I saw it happen right before my eyes and it was radiant, and I will, for one, never be the same.

[So I’m going to write my story about what happened…and it’s going to be long. With an exceedingly long tangential lead in . It will hopefully be goodish…but, fur sure, it’s going to be looong. If you just want to just skip ahead to the actual event, scroll down to “The Event”…but you’re missing out if you do…just sayin’. – Ed.]

I officially moved to Visalia, California to be with my wife, then my girlfriend, back in 2010. She, having secured a good job as an elementary school teacher, was able to buy a house in her lifetime hometown at a good price (it was bottom market, mid-Great Recession) and invited me to move in (Even though we were not married. A SCANDAL!). This was the beginning of the rest of my life. My life is with Jenny. And so I have adopted this new hometown, Visalia.

I grew up in Thousand Oaks, California, where my parents and siblings still live. When my parents bought their house in Thousand Oaks in the mid 70s it was a different place than it is today. My father had brought the family across the country from Farmingdale, Long Island, New York for a new job and a change. As an electrical engineer, his work and work opportunities were closer to Los Angeles, but he wanted to live in a suburb, like Farmingdale was a suburb to NYC.

He looked at buying in the San Fernando Valley, but thought the lots and houses seemed small, the communities dingy and packed together. He looked a little further out and found Thousand Oaks, sure it was a longer commute, but the houses and lots were bigger and, EVEN BETTER, CHEAPER. We ended up in a beautiful, idyllic home in the Wildwood development next to the Jewel of Thousand Oaks, Wildwood Regional Park.

I wish I could say my family story was altogether idyllic, but it wasn’t. That’s a story for another day.

I loved my hometown. But, over the years, it became strange to me. It grew in ways I didn’t want to see it grow. Between the influence of Hollywood Royalty overflow and the assent of pharmaceutical giant Amgen’s campus (along with many other factors) the cost of living in Thousand Oaks exploded. It became more congested. Also, the superficiality of the Hollywood-esque culture there, always a problem, became more and more pronounced, to the point that I felt no desire to kill myself trying to find the money for the high buy-in and the cost of living.

The Thousand Oaks I knew was gone anyway. Wildwood Fort gone. Geppetto’s gone. When I hiked in Wildwood Park, all I could see on the horizon was the encroaching housing developments metastasizing off of the Amgen campus. I remember developers wanted to parcel off the beautiful entrance to Wildwood Park, an open field under a majestic skyline of bluffs (made famous in many Westerns) to turn it into a golf course. And it almost happened. Thank God the residents rose up and put a stop to it…And that little slice of history kind of dovetails into yesterday’s events. Which, I swear, I’ll get back to.

Anyway when Jenny introduced me to Visalia it was kind of like someone turned back the clock on Thousand Oaks. It had that isolated and small, but well managed and bustling air about it that felt like home to me, much more than modern day Thousand Oaks. And there is no Amgen here, and our Hollywood overflow was miles away in Three Rivers (that’s a joke BTW). It just felt right.

Are there issues? Yes! We are in Central Valley ag-land so politics run red here. This area is a strong enclave for the racist tea party movement. We have a high percentage of Fox-News-watching, Limbaughtomized, water-rights-obsessed, gun-loving growers (their partners, advocates and allies) out here. Sure they don’t mind the free water, marketing agreements and subsidies that made it all happen for them, but they hate the “big government” that provides it.

And then you have our US congressional rep, Devin Nunes, who works full time debasing himself in a campaign to protect the aforementioned treasonous President. If you think #PS’s behavior gives anyone in Central Cali pause know this, in our recent jungle primary Nunes defeated his democratic opponent Andrew Janz by over 26%. So yeah…there’s that. And that’s a problem…for me.

And, honestly, that aspect of the local culture has been getting me down about my new hometown a lot. Especially in light of the political and cultural divisiveness we are all coping with and hoping will end and not worsen.

The Event

So with a little bit of dread and in this mix, earlier this year, I became aware of the threat to our local children’s non-profit theatre company, the Enchanted Playhouse. They do a hell of a lot of good for the children of this community with very little. They are on the verge of getting kicked out of their home, the Main Street Theatre, which they leased from the city of Visalia, who seem determined to sell it out from underneath them. Without a dedicated theater, the Enchanted Playhouse company will not survive and without the central downtown location they will lose their prominent placement in the identity of the community.

Last night, the Visalia City Council meeting had on its agenda the vote that would determine the immediate fate of the Main Street Theater Redevelopment and, in so, the fate of its tenants, the Enchanted Playhouse Company.

On paper, it was not looking good for the Enchanted Playhouse. Basically, months ago a bid was accepted by the city from a developer to convert the centrally located downtown theatre landmark (somewhat rundown) into some restaurants. It was all “by the books” but it was also a bit underhanded in the way it was carried out (because the city was not reaching out to Enchanted Playhouse). Any way you looked at it, this was a situation where the city council, by law, had the right to move ahead with the redevelopment, and the theatre company would be hard pressed to do anything about it, without having to get into a big legal battle it could not afford. These are volunteers; no one is making any big time money off this deal. And it’s the money that seems to be the thing causing the confusion.

To keep the background short, there was a time about 14 years ago when the city and the city council went to bat for the company, big time, getting them set up in the location and fighting for it legally. The city spent a lot of money. In return, Enchanted Playhouse, did their part and produced, in a hardscrabble time (they got through the Great Recession) as unpaid volunteers, quality children’s theatre that incorporated local children into the productions. They did this and paid rent to the city. Did I mention that children’s theater non-profits don’t make crazy money? I did, okay.

They presented their productions to the public and schools from all around would bus their students in to see them. It spread culture and joy. It created a farm-team for local live performance talent. But most importantly, it was a haven for artistic children, an extended loving family for these creative, emotional, sensitive kids.

Take my wife [, please! – Ed.], she saw the plays as a child and started performing in them at 18. Knowing my wife as you never will, you can not measure the importance and influence this company had on her life, even as a young adult. How it built her confidence up and inspired her to do other things. How it connected her to new friends who shared her interest in the dramatic arts and who encouraged her to act more and “follow her bliss” (I stopped all that). And you can add her to the thousands of children, young adults and parents changed for the better by this local institution. It’s impossible for me to put into words what it means to so many. What the value of this institution is.

The Enchanted Playhouse at the Main Street Theatre is a unicorn. It should not exist. It can not exist on a purely capitalist playfield, and yet it does exist. It exists because it spouted from the dreams of a merry band of dreamers, of gypsies that found their home. This unicorn creates magic, it inspires the weary, it heals the broken, it saves children’s lives. Literally. Period.

Somehow, in the years that followed the initial support, this connection between the city and the theatre company became disconnected. Council members change, mayors change. Emotionally stunted “businessmen” on the council start to think,

“Do we really need a unicorn? Unicorn food is too expensive. Let’s slaughter the unicorn and sell unicorn steaks! We’ll hang up some flat screens and watch freakishly large men give each other concussions…What?! Some fragile kids can’t play make-believe anymore. Too bad! Have some unicorn steak. It’s delicious. It’s seasoned with salt made from the dehydrated tears of the children.”

It’s fucked up. The city fucked up. They forgot heart and soul makes this city’s downtown what it is. Visalia has a god damn unicorn there. PROTECT IT. Its value can not be quantified in dollars and cents on a spreadsheet. Sorry, mister businessman (aka Mr. Potter), you’re just gonna have to believe me on this one.

It is a family-friendly community hub. And in so, it is priceless and worthy of preservation.

So the people who know what’s at stake (unicorn steak) heard the call of the gypsies and determined to push back on the city. This city council meeting was last night and, under a lot of pressure from the community, the city council wisely made special rules allowing for extra time and moved the meeting to the convention center to allow for extra seating so the theatre company and the community could make a final appeal to ask the city to pause the redevelopment plan to give the Enchanted Playhouse non-profit a second chance to make a bid to keep their home.

Supporters meet at the Main Street Theatre. When we got there, I was disheartened to see it not exactly overflowing with people. Could this rag tag band pull it off? We were looking like the Rebel Alliance. It put fear into me. But somehow, when we marched to the convention center, it started to feel like an unstoppable army.

Then the discussion period opened on the subject. The passion of the people who appealed to the city, over the course of an hour and half, was truly inspirational. The testimony of the children, changed and healed by their experiences with Enchanted Playhouse, moved me to tears multiple times. A father and actor told the story of the memories he had performing with his daughter on that stage, a daughter he lost soon after to a tragic and sudden illness. His testimony and the testimony of so many others declared that stage sacred ground.

And then it went to the five man (old white man) council to make their decision.

The Vote

Well that vote was high drama, too. The council was pretty hard in their opening remarks on Enchanted Playhouse board of directors for not behaving like businessmen (but as we’ve established they’re not businessmen. If they were businessmen they would have opened a sports bar. They are dreamers and unicorn wranglers).

It seemed like all was lost.

The first councilman said he was inclined to vote for redevelopment because the theatre company failed to make their bid in time which he felt showed a lack of responsibility. He asked, “Where were you?” to which many in the crowd answered “We’re here now!” (I think I might have been one of those people) But he deferred his final decision at that point.

We then heard from the second council member, who said he heard the children’s pleas and he would allow for a pause on the redevelopment. I loved this guy.

My heart soared!

Then it got to the third member, he was a hard-assed, old jarhead or jarhead wannabe. A Limbaughtomized douche…I will call him Mr. Potter. Mr. Potter said there are “winners and losers” and the market has decided to kill the unicorn (to paraphrase). He also added that 14 years ago he voted against the initial deal to set up the company at the theatre, as it went against his free market ideals, and he still felt good about that decision today (He probably thinks the NEA is a homosexual, socialist propaganda machine, too). It took a lot of self control for me to not wing my water bottle at his fat head…but I knew it wasn’t about me.

Let’s just say my soaring heart lost an engine and was tilting into a nosedive.

Then we got to the vice mayor who was also not moved by the children. He voted KILL THE UNICORN! I immediately regretted ever spending one cent in this “sweetheart’s” store before it closed (locals will understand). So I was doing the math.

1 undecided (but highly critical of the Enchanted Playhouse)
1 for giving the theatre company a second chance
2 unicorn steaks, rare

My heart was plummeting toward the earth, both engines on fire. The hydraulics were out. I was pulling on the flight stick to no avail.

So now it goes to the mayor. He tears up as he says he acted with his kids and he understands the unicorn. He hears the children. He wants to give the unicorn a shot.

I see a flashing light on the heart control panel. I hit it. One of the propellers starts to spin up again. But the altimeter is still spinning counter-clockwise out of control.

So it goes back to the undecided councilman to break the tie.

The suspense was a 10. He’d already said he was inclined to vote against the theatre. The tension was thick enough to cut with a unicorn steak knife. If he said “Kill the unicorn!”, it was gonna be real sad at the least, real ugly at the worst. He said he was still concerned about the viability of the non-profit to make an offer and that giving them a chance might be a waste of time, but ultimately that the pleas of the children moved him to give the Enchanted Playhouse a second chance.

The unicorn’s execution was stayed!

My heart stopped just before it crashed to the ground. Turns out it ran out of gas, Looney Toons style.

There was great applause and a feeling of sober jubilation. The Enchanted Playhouse was given 90 days by the city council to submit their plan to buy the Main Street Theatre.

Now the hard work and reality of fundraising the money and finding deep pocket backers to make it happen is real. But knowing it is real, knowing they have a chance to save themselves, gives me hope that things everywhere can get better. Knowing I live in a city that listens to dreamers and cares about giving creative children a home made me a believer in the system…for now.

I really hope it works out and I’ll be there if they ever need me to show up for them again.

Long live the Enchanted Playhouse at the Main Street Theatre!

Support your local theatre companies

Support your local theatre companies and children’s theatre non-profits. They need it!

See a local play, See a local musical. If you find a theatre company you like, go again, and again. They need you. Most likely, they killed themselves for months as volunteers with no pay to deliver a once-in-a-lifetime experience to you. They need you there. Movies and TV are great, but believe me, your community can entertain you just as well, if not better…and they want to. In supporting them, you become part of something. You are supporting creativity, expression, culture.  It’s not a fad, it goes back to the beginning of civilization. Civilization is not social media, it is “being there”. Plus, the more you support your local theatre, the better it will get. Experience, support, confidence, as in any endeavor, these things are the fuel of greatness. You don’t have to go to Broadway or the big city. You can witness greatness, right in your hometown, just by showing up. And you will feel the performances unfiltered and direct, a true connection between performers and audience sharing a space. Something that can never be recreated by watching recorded media. If you don’t show up, they can’t do what they do and everybody loses. Support your local unicorn…erm,  I mean theatre community.

What can we do for the Enchanted Playhouse?

I am hoping that a social media fundraising campaign will be launched to drive donations for the purchase of the Main Street Theatre from the city by the Enchanted Playhouse non-profit.

To light a fire under that campaign, I suggest they seek celebrity support, starting with approaching Ellen Degeneres, who has a great track record with these kinds of things. If not her, I have to believe someone with a platform will understand this story, the dire odds Enchanted Playhouse faces, the consequences of inaction, and will get behind making a happy ending for this situation.

Time is of the essence. LET’S MAKE IT HAPPEN!

[Jenny informed me that Ellen’s show came to Visalia  earlier this year to help Washington Elementary’s free dance class program. SHIT!… I mean, good for them… but SHIT! – Ed.]

Some of my best friends are hospitality industry housekeepers

I’ve had this title on the brain for a couple of weeks…while I was neglecting my “platform”. So yeah, I enjoyed a short resort vacation in that interim (entitled much?) and had some interactions with the hotel staff. You get back to your room in the middle of a cleaning, that kind of thing. We see these people but we don’t think on them too much. We might leave them a tip…if we feel bad.

But they live a truth. You get to this country and (if you’re lucky) you might just end up making beds and cleaning toilets in a nice hotel. It’s a job. You work hard, long hours doing redundant, menial labor for shit pay. There is no glamour, no prestige, certainly no “opportunity for advancement”. None of your co-workers envy your position. You probably have to take all kinds of shit from your supervisors and the guests. But you survive. You get your kids into the American public school system. You model your work ethic for those kids. If those kids apply that ethic in school and lose the accent, they might just find themselves working the front desk of that hotel one day. They might find themselves doing anything their little hearts desire.

This is America to me. That this can, and does, happen here. That it happens every day.

Even the most cold-blooded economist will tell you that American economic growth is driven, and has always been driven, by the hard work of immigrant labor (at least since we closed the slave auctions, that is). Let’s not forget immigrant innovation, too. Without this labor and innovation, America would not be the power house nation you see today.

Remember, dirty jobs done cheap (by immigrant labor) are always churning away just under the veneer of your pure, white heaven. You pull that piece out of the puzzle and you’ll find yourself neck deep in raw sewage before you can say, “MAGA!”

But yeah, that article title “joke” (Some of my best friends are…). I don’t know these immigrants (not really) and I never will. I’ll never be besties with them. And that goes for everyone else in my position, and YOU, TOO! Am I wrong?

Now that I think of it…Who is going to be my friend? So lonely…Shake it off, Powers!

So we need them, they are part-and-parcel of the fabric of which our country is borne, but “class” and “culture” keep them at arms length. I can’t fix that. But I know these class and culture bias “walls” (Like that?…“walls”…get it?) delay and impede the desired “cultural assimilation” we require from our immigrants. And so we get ghettos, and the poverty, alienation, desperation and crime that comes along with excluded populations in ghettos.

And we’ve had that going on for a long time. That energy and precedent feeds on itself, grows, becomes the culture, a paradigm, a talking point for racist pundits and politicians looking to further exclude these groups. American capitalism and culture creates ghettos. Period. Deal with it. Suck it. We choose to live with it. I think we can do better. But this is what it is for now…

But now we got this fucking guy…

#PresidentShithead. He sucks such ass. He makes everything worse, unless you look at the world through asshole tinted glasses.

And it’s tough. I’ve come to the point I can’t even parse it anymore. This asshole is soul spooning the 35% of the population that will always be stupid and hateful…all-day-long…every time. Call them a “basket of deplorables”, to coin a phrase (I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before…nevermind). Turns out their hatred goes racist real easy. Who would have known? And this fucking guy, turns out HE’S RACIST, TOO. A marriage made in hell. The more he scapegoats brown immigration at his hate rallies and in his hate tweets, the more they love it. It’s a majestic symbiosis of vomit.

Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate gets people to the polls. Hate got him elected. Hate is his brand. Hate is fuel for the fire. Hate needs a target. Hate is power. Hate is dominance. Hate is control. Hate is “strong”. Hate. Hate. Hate. Until we rid ourselves of this arbiter of hate we are doomed to live in a hater nation. Oh, we are soooo fucked.

But even more fucked are these poor immigrant motherfuckers. Some nice lady who, if she’s lucky, might be so privileged as to be given the opportunity to scrape your poo remnants off the inside of your hotel room toilet and fish your discarded Band-Aids out of the shower drain. Some nice lady who might have a kid she doesn’t want targeted, murdered and/or raped by some cartel funded gang. So here’s a policy, if she gets to our border with this kid, let’s terrorize her again (and the kid, too). Don’t let her scrape poo! Separate them and LOCK HER UP! LOCK HER UP! (Once again, I’m detecting notes of familiarity).

But where does it end?

I see these asshole Republicans digging in behind this racist President (Urp. Can this fuck actually be the President? I’m not convinced). They are trenching deep. Digging miles of tunnels (Supreme Court tunnels). They know those Russian chickens are coming home soon. They could wake up and walk away, but what they really, really want to do is go full alt-fact death cult. And it is a cult. The Kool-Aid has been served and it has been drunk deep. They’re guzzling that Kool-Aid down by the gallon and asking for seconds. So they can finally get what they want.

So what do they want?

Well they have a list. The original list was as follows:

  • Punish homosexuals
  • Criminalize abortion
  • Mandatory Christian prayer in public schools
  • Racial discrimination & segregation
  • Women in “traditional gender roles”

And now we can add these, too…

  • Make acquiring a gun as easy as possible
  • Reduce/Abolish taxes for the wealthy
  • Abolish social welfare
  • Privatize/Commoditize social services and education
  • Privatize/Commoditize transportation, public roads and bridges
  • Break all labor organizations (unless it’s police)
  • Build a wall across Mexico
  • Dismantle the NATO alliance
  • Defend, fetishize and ultimately implement authoritarianism
  • Demonize people who don’t agree with you
  • Call the independent free press the “enemy of the people”
  • Allow the unrestricted destruction of the natural environment and discredit scientists who warn against it
  • Make sure that all important decisions are made by, and in the best interest of, old, white, rich men.

So let’s say they get everything they want. I mean every checkbox is filled. I mean no taxes. Zero. All the glaciers are melted down. Done! #PresidentShithead’s tweets come over your media devices via the Emergency Broadcast System. Jesus’ face is placed smack in the middle of the American flag and the stars are swapped out for crosses. Women who’ve had abortions are put in stocks in the public square. Sounds nice, right?

What do you give to the racist who has everything?

So they get everything they want. And yet they still feel angry and empty inside. I mean sure, yeah, they needed all those things. But something’s still off. It’s that pesky white nationalist itch. If it isn’t scratched, they’ll never feel reich … I mean “right”. It isn’t you, it’s them. You did your best. You were submissive and compliant, just like they said they wanted. Shit! They got everything they asked for, but it turns out it just wasn’t enough.

So long as the people who reflect slightly less light into their retinas than other people exist, or even have the potential to exist, within their fields-of-view, lets be honest, they’ll never be happy (unless that person is way off to the side holding a toilet brush …obviously). Because lets face it, reflectivity is the ultimate measure of a person’s worth.

I mean, isn’t this what really brought that 35% together in the first place. Sure they made that silly little list of stuff they wanted. It was fun. A bonding experience. But let’s get real. There was one thing they didn’t want to put on the list. They were embarrassed. Probably should have been number one. They just wanted you to get it for them without them having to ask. I mean, if you really knew them, you would have gotten it for them already…if you really knew them…

“Genocide! For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have.

I see you

Sorry for the long strange trip. I’ve just had my fill of racism and xenophobia. I see these immigrants. They come to America to do our dirty shit jobs for us so that maybe, just maybe, their children will have a chance at a better life. I see them. I respect them. I know their story is the story of my family tree, not so far back. When I see these people abused, maligned and scapegoated, by a bunch of entitled, selfish, unappeasable, WILLFULLY STUPID white fucks WHO SEEMINGLY HAVE NO GRASP OF HISTORY (EVEN THE LAST HUNDRED YEARS), it boils my blood.

It makes me crazy when I see the President of the United States embolden these fucking losers, to bluntly and repeatedly reinforce their stupidity and hatred. It makes me crazy when I see the President of the United States IS ONE OF these fucking losers.

It has to be stopped! This FUCK has to be impeached! He should have been sent up for impeachment the day he said the press was the “enemy of the people”…just for that alone. I don’t know how to stop it, but the stopping of it has to start, “big league”.

#OccupyWashington? Where are you? Is that a thing? Can it be a thing? I think it better become a thing…soon. We have to get a couple of million peeps on the streets in DC, stat. Bring your water boxes, bring your canned food and just fucking camp out. Have hand drum, will travel. Discuss amongst yourselves.

’Til next time.

P.S. (note to self) Remember to tip the housekeeper, you cheap fuck.

Mike Hunt or: Little Miss Seaward

I’m going to preface this with a note explaining that I know that no one cares what a middle-aged white boy from the ’burbs has to say about the Full Frontal C*nt-roversy. In fact, I know I have no right to make any comment at all… and yet, oops?

No one likes to be ad hominemed or debased in public. People enjoy doing it or witnessing it being done onto others. But being targeted? Well, that’s another story. And the “c-word” ad hominem, WOOF, that is a prickly pear in American culture. In England they fling that thing around to the point where it’s almost a term of endearment, but here, in the “puritanical” US of A, it is considered the “nuclear option”. American women don’t like it at all, and we must respect that.

I (my wife and my 5 year-old-son) have found that I use that term exclusively when discussing other drivers when I’m on the road (regardless of their gender). Not often, like I said…“nuclear option”, but if you narrowly cut me off on the freeway going 80 and then slam your breaks…I will “push the button”…and often supercharge my attack with a colorful f-bomb based continuous verb prefix modifier…because you have to. Yeah, in case you weren’t in the know, I curse…occasionally.

So, I’m not casting any stones here. I’m keeping all my stones in-hand, just in case I need them to fight my way out of this post. As I said, this is a prickly pear subject.

Tone Deaf

I was annoyed that I read about the controversy prior to seeing the show, because it robbed me of my own gut-check on the word. I would have liked to have known how the slag would have landed with me, before it was colored by pundit opinions. And that’s a real problem I have with instant news; it’s always trying to tell me how to feel before I have the experience myself.

When I did actually watch the bit, I honestly did not like the word in context, but I did understand the rage behind it. The insult was at the apex of a passionate plea calling for a stop to our US border enforcement’s abuse of immigrants, and disgusting policy of separating asylum seeking immigrant parents from their children.

#PresidentShithead could stop these abuses (with one of his beloved executive orders), but he is a vile, racist, scapegoating, opportunistic, piece-of-shit (have I gone too far?) who will gladly trade in human misery so long as it keeps him in good stead with his racist, racist-adjacent, and racist-tolerant base (a base that includes that off-her-meds, racist, shit-show Rosanne Barr). Ivanka Trump is an “Advisor” to his administration (a complicit part of this administration) and so she’s a fair target.

I just don’t agree with targeting Ivanka for Instagramming with her young son (Mob Rules – spouses and children who aren’t “in the business”,…yet, are to be left out. Of course, that didn’t keep #PresidentShithead from laying a hit on Ted Cruz’s wife. But anyway…). Bringing Ivanka into the crosshairs in this context is one thing (I get it), but then laying that “nuclear option” ad hominem on top of that context, it just wasn’t a take that I care to rally behind…in the greater context of “the Movement”. The Movement that seeks a pathway to a more conscientious culture. A culture still chock full o’ penis and vagina jokes, to be sure (FOR AMERICA!). Just more conscientious penis and vagina jokes. But I digress.

That’s probably why the joke landed flat with me. And trust me, I feel Bee’s rage. And rage will make you say some strooong shit. Trust me, I know. I just think it’s a shame that Bee’s message was lost and her platform was threatened because she went “feckless [c-word]” instead of…I dunno…“Twat”? Is that just as bad? Shit!

Summing up

I am an unapologetic Samantha Bee fan, she’s been making me laugh and think for years. Entertainers who do that for us hold a special position in our hearts, and so we cut them “slack”. It’s called “good will”. Good will is a resource. I can be eroded and it can be spent. Good will can also be built back up and restored. Samantha Bee has a shit-ton of good will banked in reserve. So we’re good. She apologized, so everyone just back the fuck off.

Ivanka Trump, on the other hand, is tantamount to a nonentity to me. She represents superficial things like corporate fashion, corporate branding & cosmetic surgery. These are things I don’t hold in high esteem. I’m not a hater on them either, they just don’t buy much of that aforementioned “good will”. As a surrogate for her father, she has proven herself a garbage human being, so there’s that. Her husband has apparently attempted to peddle influence to foreign powers and advocated against those who refused to pay in (we call that racketeering, in case you didn’t know). This doesn’t seem to bother her either. Yet I still don’t want to see her called a c-word on television…Maybe that makes me part of the problem. I just want them fired and investigated if necessary. That will be enough.

It’s a tricky time to insult any woman (even if she is a quantifiably vapid or shitty person), especially via the c-bomb through the platform of commercial television. It was pretty out there and presumptuous of Bee, her producers and writers to go there…mainly because of the commercial television angle. Sponsors are selling soap…to wash out your c-word. Laying a politically charged c-word on corporate sponsors sounds like career suicide to me. Remember Samantha, you are not driving in your car…you’re on TBS.

You do have to do the “We won’t get your products boycotted” dance just a little bit. And a good place to start is with a no c-word policy. Unless, that is, you’re talking about a man. Take, for instance, #PresidentShithead, that guy is a total cunt. [Redacted]

Musicrime (Nineteen Eighty-Four)


In 1984, I was watching MTV and saw the “World Premiere” of the music video for the Eurythmic’s Sexcrime (Nineteen Eighty-Four), the single from the soundtrack album they produced for the movie adaptation of George Orwell’s seminal novel.

I can remember watching it in deep confusion. Being a child, I had no context to understand the intercut movie footage, its monochrome tone themed after Soviet Russia. I was, however, familiar with the Eurythmics, as their initial hit single/video Sweet Dreams was in heavy rotation. That video had abstract imagery and Annie Lennox’s androgynous persona, which I also didn’t get…but I didn’t get a lot of what I saw on MTV. I ingested it. I accepted it. Did I get it? I don’t think so. At the time, I didn’t even understand that the Village People were, ya know, “open minded”.

So, when I saw this 1984 video back in the day, I just thought, “Wow, the Eurythmics are weird.” It was disposable, washed over me, next.

Years later, in high school, I read the novel, saw the movie on glorious SD VHS…and that’s an essay in itself, because those experiences blew my mind and changed my life, my world view…but this essay is purely about the Eurythmics, that song, and that video. WOOF!

I want to be clear, I think the Eurythmics are a great band, with an excellent catalog of creative, innovative and catchy songs, and Annie Lennox is one of the great female vocalists, period…But this song and video, in the last year, has caused me sooo much pain. Sooo much pain. To put it in MST3K speak, “Deep Hurting”.

Just watch the video…IF YOU DARE! I did, about a year ago, out of curiosity when I was re-reading the novel, and I haven’t been the same since. It infected me, like the tape from The Ring. I think the most hurtful part, for me personally, is the chorus (?). From the doot-doot-doot-boop-boops right through to the monotone vocoder effected “1984”, it’s catchy…like the Black Plague. If you get infected by this earworm, you may very likely begin to wish for “the long-hoped-for bullet” to enter your brain…just to stop the doot-doot-doots…which will not stop…will never stop. And it doesn’t help that the novel’s themes are in the zeitgeist. I see something in the news, I have a thought about Newspeak, or the like, and the doot-doot-doots start again (Why wont they STOP?!).

AND the video itself is just so painful and ill-conceived. It’s like a parody of a parody of the MTV 80s. Just the idea of Orwell’s novel being cross promoted with pop-music is insane! Fucking INSANE! And now, in 2018, we have to live with the ramifications…doot-doot-doot (KILL ME!).

Who’s the Snake?

Since #PresidentShithead decided to dust off one of his Greatest Shits, “The Snake”, at CPAC, I thought it only appropriate to ask, “Who is the Snake, again?”

I immediately thought, “This sound bite needs to be set to animation with Trump as the Snake and Lady Liberty as the…ya know, Lady.” I checked the internet and saw political cartoonist Bill Day beat me to the punch. And in getting ahead of me, he created a beautiful style guide. And look, the cartoon is great, but I think the #NEVERAGAIN kids need to see this baby fully animated to really get the point across.

I would do it myself, but, as I’ve previously stated, drawing is hard. So I nominate others to do the hard work I refuse to do myself, like any dedicated Liberal should.

Shit! Let’s make this a competition!

I want to call out the following people to each create individual cartoons based on the idea I had (that Bill Day just happened to have before me… so it is not, technically, stealing):

  • @psychicpebbles
  • @colbertlateshow
  • @geraldscarfe
  • @MikeJudge
  • @SouthPark
  • @JohnKricfalusi
  • @schoolhouserock

We’ll do a Twitter poll to determine the winner. We want to be fair and let the Russian Twitter Bots have a say, too.

Deadline for submissions is before the world ends.