Pitchfork

Dayton, Ohio, 1968. A 10-year-old boy creeps through the dimly-lit hallways of his house. He checks every room twice-- yes, mommy and daddy are still at the grocery store. He's all alone. He sneaks into the kitchen, and drags the stool from the corner of the room over to the kitchen table. Slowly, he climbs up onto it, then onto the table itself, trying as hard as he can not to knock anything over. He grabs his Mattel Superstar Microphone, and shouts at the top of his prepubescent lungs, "This song is called... 'Poopy on the Potty of Professor Plum,' from the album Little Puppy in My Front Yard! One, two, three, four!"

Yes, it's always entertaining to think of little Robert Pollard shouting ridiculous song titles from atop his kitchen table. But it's also funny to think that, as he nears middle-age, Robert Pollard has a career standing in front of amorous crowds and saying, "This song is called... 'Gold Star for Robot Boy,' from the album Bee Thousand! One, two, three, four!" Considering that Pollard was working away at excellent tunes like "Weed King" before he even approached his teenage years, saying that Pollard never really grew up as a songwriter is sure as fucking hell not an insult. When I was that age, the best song I could come up with was called "Mean Mole," about a mean mole who's "Not like a genie/ He's a real meanie." Even my 7-year-old peers thought it was pretty weak.

It's been said again and again that Pollard's more recent work has been indicative of a more mature type of songwriting. But while his lyrics and music certainly have taken a darker, more adult-oriented turn, Pollard still seems fascinated with living out his big rock fantasy. Isolation Drills, though more lyrically personal than any GBV record before it, still relied greatly on larger-than-life arena rock hooks, resulting in a pretty good rock record, but one that didn't much deliver in the way of conveying the introspective sadness expressed in its lyrics. Choreographed Man of War, played by Pollard, bassist Greg Demos, and Drummer Jim MacPherson (all of whom appeared on Do the Collapse), couples Pollard's newly discovered introspection with a more stripped-down, melodic sound. And the result could very well be Pollard's most promising solo record since Waved Out.

"I Drove a Tank," a song which has become a staple at GBV shows, provides a shaky start for a surprisingly solid album. Opening with a riff that borrows the rhythm from the classic "Postal Blowfish," the song shifts quickly into a hook that's perhaps the most blatantly Who-sounding moment ever to grace a Pollard LP. "I Drove a Tank" may actually have benefited greatly from the Schnapf treatment that was given to Isolation Drills, as the present version, with its meandering, sloppy mid-section, doesn't do the arena-sized hook justice.

Choreographed Man of War's first true standout comes with "Edison's Memos," one of only two tracks on the album to break the four-minute mark, and one of the finest melancholy rock songs Pollard has ever written. With a gorgeous verse and brief, rocking chorus, "Edison's Memos" kicks off to a brilliant start, before degrading slightly with a gratuitously fuzzed-out bridge, and redeeming itself with the introduction of another awesome big-rock hook.

"7th Level Shutdown," another excellent track, crystallizes the vague melancholy of "Edison's Memos." With its heart-wrenching chorus of, "You wanted to be alone/ But I don't want you to be alone," "7th Level Shutdown" is the most direct, beautifully reflective song Pollard has penned in ages. "Aeriel" is similarly gorgeous, excepting the two-minute instrumental introduction that makes the track rather hard to swallow.

On the more cheerful side of Choreographed Man of War is "Kickboxer Lightning," a breezy rock tune with a feel similar to that of "Drag Days" off Under the Bushes Under the Stars. GBV vet Greg Demos' melodic yet understated bass-playing helps make "Kickboxer Lightning" a seriously great rock song. The similarly rocking "Bally Hoo" begins somewhat awkwardly, but goes on to revisit the hook from "I Drove a Tank" with an added guitar hook big enough to make Pete Townshend notice. And he's nearly deaf, you know.

As is the case with most GBV-related albums, Choreographed Man of War is not without its throwaways and failed experiments. But the record's significance seems to transcend the overall quality of the songs-- this is truly the first album in Bob Pollard's recent canon on which he seems willing to lay off of the crunchy riffage to let some genuine melodic beauty and emotion seep through. Perhaps he's finally learned that if you're hanging your head in sadness, you can't do a high-kick without kneeing yourself in the face.