Pitchfork

If more drunks would learn from Robert Pollard, simply accept his teachings, alcoholism wouldn't be treated-- it would be celebrated. An alcoholic risks losing his family and his job, systematically alienating all who would ever respect or care for him; Robert Pollard is loved, adored, and urine-free. Surely this career arc is the very embodiment boozing success, a seminal text on how to drink professionally for more than a decade.

The secret directions to the Bizarro dimension Pollard inhabits, however, have until now been well-concealed, only unearthed from the occasional between-song words of wisdom doled out at GBV gigs, and impossible to accurately assemble into a true life-plan. With the tearful passing of GBV's live act, it seemed as though the teachings would be lost forever, but listen up, drunky, because there's hope: Relaxation of the Asshole, like the Rosetta Stone of Inebriation, is the first step towards making sense of the the Man, the Wisdom, and the ins and outs of a healthy career in alcoholism.

Yes, this most definitely is a CD of stage banter, Uncle Bob's rants, and nothing but. Let the record show that you have been warned: The only precedent I can think of (and painstakingly verified by minutes of searching) is Having Fun on Stage With Elvis. Now, if anyone deserves that treatment more than Elvis (and lots do, for sure-- we should make a rule that 20 years of touring and at least one band member with a substance abuse problem makes one of these albums mandatory), it's Uncle Bob.

The similarities are manifest, as both have performed some of the most classic rock songs of all time (of, uh, varying levels of renown). The difference, of course, is that at the time of Elvis' recording, he was a pill-addled super-heavyweight surrounded with yes-men eager to milk a buck from a fan base dumb enough to pay for an album of "thank ya"'s and "uh-huh"'s, while, conversely, every time Bob bitches about Adam Duritz, I kind of secretly wish that he was my dad.

And by now you've surely seen the rating. On the scale of artist indulgence, and by any other measure for that matter, this is a solid 10.0 if ever there was one, friends. This-- this-- is a 10 as surely as Metal Machine Music is a 10, as surely as Having Fucking Fun on Stage With Elvis is a 10, as surely as any exercise so bafflingly, inexplicably, unintentionally and intentionally hilarious even in concept is a 10; good god-- what the hell else can this album receive? The rating is inconsequential. It's either a 10 or a zero, and considering Bob is the reigning king of intoxicated concert rambling it's sure as hell not a zero, m'man. A single listen will verify this. Behold!

"Rolling Stone just published a list of the top 100 guitar players of all time-- and they included Joan Jett. How can you fuckin' put Joan Jett in the top 100 guitar players of all time? Ahead of Pete Townshend! Rolling Stone sucks! They can blow me forever! If anyone here is from Rolling Stone they can blow me. You want some payola? Here's some payola, motherfuckers!"

Gold.

"To everyone that says we have a drinking problem, we say 'Fuck you.' I said it to my mom."

Golder.

"I wanna know how the guy from the Counting Crows used to fuck everybody from 'Friends'? How the fuck'd he do it? He's an ugly motherfucker! He's fatter than me! What the fuck's he got? Money."

See?! This isn't some album you listen to because you enjoy listening to it, let alone more than once-- oh no. This isn't the summer jam for a cruise round the OC or the soundtrack to your formative years as a misunderstood adolescent. This is a long-view textbook interspersed with cheering and unintelligible phrases; you study it, you internalize it, and then you go forth and lead a better life. Subsequent listens are irrelevant-- why keep meditating once you've reached nirvana? When it comes to drinking for a living, you learned from the best; never look back.