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Guided
By Bob
We
all know that Bob Pollard of Guided by Voices is, well, guided by voices.
Logic therefore dictates that if you want to be guided by voices, first
you have to be guided by Bob. We took to the streets to find out what,
if any, practical advice Bob has given us over the years.
• The
closer you are, the quicker it hits ya. (Alien Lanes)
The
streets of Swindon are no place to try out this. Lorries routinely cut
you up at any given opportunity in any case round here, and we couldn’t
find any volunteers to stand in the middle of the road and wait for
the inevitable. We’ll just have to trust Bob on this one. Result:
trust in Bob. He knows best.
• Closely
examine the contact point of the opposing rams. (Do The
Collapse)
Now,
however un-PC this might seem, we’ve always been a bit partial to a
little bloodsport. You know the sort of thing – which fly reaches the
top of the window first, which goldfish might be the first to headbutt
the top of the tank cover in a desperate bid for freedom, whether the
fucking dog next door will ever stop its yapping without being throttled
first. Sheep jousting has, however, never lain high on our list of priorities.
Not that it has never appealed, of course, but the sight of two ovine
creatures running towards each other hammer and tongs isn’t a common
sight round here. Let alone being able to examine the point of contact
between them. We hung around in a field trying to catch ourselves a
couple of rams, but they all ran away, we got strange looks from passers-by
and shot at by the farmer. So we went home a little dejected. Result:
abject failure. And shotgun wounds.
• I’d
like to take you on a quick spin sometime to show you what it’s got
(Sandbox)
For
the moment we shall ignore any sort of double entendre, intended or
not, and concentrate on the true meaning, ie motor cars. Mavis’s rather
fetching Nissan Micra is pictured right. Now we are sure that Mavis
in her quest to snare Bob would love to take him for a ride in it and
show him all the lovely features. The way the backs of the seats move
up and down. The stereo which has fast forward, play, FM, medium and
long wave, which is especially useful to listen to the shipping forecast
and test match commentary on. The way the back seat folds down to give
a larger boot. The question remains: how could Bob reciprocate? What
sort of car does he have? And could that crushed thing on the front
of Do The Collapse possibly be the infamous Sunbird? Result:
really needs Bob to fulfill this one. We can fantasise though.
• Just
one spark makes a hell of a fire (Sandbox) Uh-oh.
Kids, don’t try this at home. For a start, fires are hot and you could
burn your fingers. Secondly, you could also burn down your house. Which
may in fact be a good thing if you live in a hovel insured up to the
eyeballs. But not a good thing if you’re not. So, in the interests of
purely scientific research, you understand, we found a pile of rubbish
on the local recreation ground, shoved some paper and lighter fluid
under it, and tried to light it with one spark. Now, I don’t know if
you’ve ever tried creating just one spark, but it’s not as easy as it
sounds. A lighter will only do the trick if there’s no fluid in it.
And, committed smokers to the nth degree, none of us were willing to
empty/snort ours into oblivion in the interests of a mere zine article.
We tried rubbing two sticks together, but they were damp and we got
blisters. So we just chucked our lighters in and watched it burn. Boy,
what a fire. We had to scarper quick though when the fire brigade arrived
to put out the clubhouse. Result: up before the beak next week
for arson.
• Fake
capes baby they’re hard to wear, put them on and everyone will stare
(Under the Bushes...)
Capes.
Cloaks. Call them what you will, they belong to a fashion that was dated
three hundred years ago. Highwaymen wore capes. Wizards wore capes.
Hell, Batman and Superman both wear capes, and they also wear their
underwear on the wrong side. QED. Quite what a fake cape may be escapes
us, unless it’s imitation fur or something, and who would go out wearing
a fur cloak for God’s sake? Damn right everyone would stare. Quite probably
you’d be hauled off to the local lunatic asylum while you were at it
and force-fed gruel until you were forced to admit that, in fact, Northern
Uproar are the pinnacle of British twentieth century musical achievement.
Now we don’t possess a cape, so we had to make do with a rather large
white sheet. We walked round Swindon in it for a bit, and we would like
to concede the following. 1) Our cape was in fact fake, ie not a real
one, and therefore it was rather difficult to wear. It wouldn’t stay
round our shoulders properly and dragged on the ground and got all mucky.
2) Capes aren’t seen in Wiltshire very often, so people did stare. And
after about ten minutes we were so embarrassed we had to take the damn
thing off. Result: spot on Mr Pollard!
• Unless
you got the answers don’t patronise the mountain man (Devil Between
My Toes) Try as we may we couldn’t fathom this one. The nearest
mountains are in Wales, and frankly we want to go to Wales as seldom
as possible. And we don’t have too many answers and lots of questions
(sample: what’s the circumference of the average orange?). So, like,
if mountain men are supposed to be the fount of all knowledge, like
in Tibet, what the fuck’s the point in going to them to ask a question
you already know the answer to? Result: you’re talking out of
your arse Mr Pollard.
THE
FINAL RESULT is that, while we have great respect for him and his
music, quite frankly Robert Pollard is not a suitable target for cult-like
idolisation or pre-milennial proclamations. But we love him all the
same, don’t we?
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