September 2012, 40 Watt, Athens, Ga.
To the right of the drum kit sat the blue cooler with its never-ending supply. Robert Pollard walked center stage, with a half-empty tequila bottle in hand, took a swig and graced the mic. “Hello Athens,” he said, scanning the riotous 40 Watt crowd. “We’re pickled and we’re ready to rock.”
For two hours and several encores, Guided By Voices did what it does best — incite the crowd, play a shitload of songs, drink, smoke and inhabit the spirit of punk music in its purest form. You listen to GBV through speakers and it comes across as catchy in almost a power-pop way, with gleaming choruses and inventive bridges. Watch it on stage and it’s a primal beast of musical fury, seething in a wave of guitars, led by a man who can drink all he wants and still kick high over his head with fierce precision.
It’s as if Ernest Hemingway wrote a play and set it to music. GBV’s songs are short and direct, with titles of mundane moments that carry a quiet elegance (“Doughnut for a Snowman,” “Roll of the Dice,” “Kick in the Head”). There’s no sense of dawdling — the songs come in tight procession, moving quickly from one thought to another. There’s the alcohol — always a running theme in Hemingway novels — which fueled the show for moments of levity. At one point, Pollard brought the tequila to the front of the stage, sending it off to a hand in the crowd. “Come join me in my death,” he exclaimed.
Minutes later the bottle came back empty, but was joined by a full bottle of Crown Royal. This is a crowd that preps. This is a crowd that wants to live.
And then there’s the overt manliness — the near fights, the unbridled aggression, the roving mosh pit, the fists in the air. Replace the crowd with bulls and you have Pamplona 1925: Raw, fraught with danger and endlessly entertaining. It’s been years since I attended a show and left fully spent just by watching the spectacle. I was a mosh pit guy 25 years ago — no more — but GBV had me almost in the fray, remembering those DK shows I attended in the 1980s, mixing it up with the big boys boasting blades on their boots.
During 120 minutes and 50 or so songs, GBV turned back time and reveled in the domain of excess and frivolity, gratuitous for good reason, telling the stories of everyday men. A Hemingway quote welled in my head, a coda for the night’s display.
“In order to write about life first you must live it.”
Another chapter in the books.
