The Releases: King Shit & The Golden Boys (LP—Scat, 1995) / Guided by Voices/Grifters (EP—The Now Sound, 1994)
Teaching is an exhausting profession. I mean, maybe all professions are exhausting, but being a teacher is the only one that I’ve ever cared about enough to stick with in a ‘non-placeholder’ capacity; and therefore, it’s the only one for which I feel qualified to comment upon its ability to exhaust. But that doesn’t mean that non-teachers always exercise the same kind of restraint in regard to occupational commentary. These folks often cite the significant amount of off-time that is built into a school calendar, and while it is a definite perk of the job, many fail to realize that teachers are often every bit as busy during their summer months: supplementing their typically-modest (at least for well-educated professionals) salaries; taking on additional tasks like tutoring, summer school, or coaching; or engaging in professional development.
I’ve done most of those things before, but now—twenty-something years into my career—I tend to treat my own summers as ‘off limits’ to such endeavors. At the expense of making a little extra money, my summers are ‘project time’—an opportunity to dive into the things that I enjoy most (mainly making music, listening to music, and writing about music) but that don’t generate any income. It’s a necessary break, and one that allows me to further justify a career that is simply fucking exhausting.
Sure, the physical component of teaching is a lot less taxing than that of many other professions, but it’s not non-existent. I manage to “close my rings”—or at least come close to it—most days, without doing anything out of the ordinary. Over half of a typical day at work is spent standing and/or walking; and much of this in front of at least thirty sets of eyes, which for whatever reason always seems to add some degree of physical stress—seriously, do it for a day and tell me I’m wrong.
Then there’s the mental exhaustion. Again, at the twenty-something-year mark, I’ve (mostly) gotten to the point where I don’t regularly bring work home. That doesn’t mean that I’m not spending well over forty hours per week planning and implementing a curriculum that is never perfected, and can always be better at promoting engagement, critical thinking, and access points for learners at every conceivable level of academic aptitude. Throw in the requisite grading, IEP meetings, and staff development—and if you’re any good at the job, the need to remain an updated expert in your field of study—and the average teacher spends well beyond forty hours per week heavily mentally engaged in their work.
Finally, there’s the emotional toll. Even when things like budget shortfalls, rising class sizes, and pressure from every angle (administration, parents, the community) are kept at bay, in addition to being a deliverer of curriculum, a teacher is also expected to act as a caretaker, a counselor, a triage nurse, a mentor, a life coach, an entertainer, an advocate, an ally, and a figure of at least some authority. Performing all of these tasks simultaneously is a source of almost-continual emotional whiplash. On several occasions over the past four months alone, I’ve had to transition instantly from reading a devastating email—a student in the wake of the election, confiding in me that he was terrified about the potential rise in anti-Asian hate crimes; another who felt that I was the first person in their life who should be aware that they were having serious questions about their gender identity—to teaching an often intense subject to a group of teenagers. Oh, and then there’s the fact that some of those kids absolutely resent having to be there; while others can’t wait to get there, because school is the only place in their life where they feel any kind of structure or support. You know, easy shit, right?
It takes a certain kind of person to be able to do this work. But the thing is, unless you’re completely arrogant—or incapable of genuine critical thought—a teacher is almost constantly questioning whether or not they really are that kind of person. A job this complex, difficult, and goddamned important practically requires its practitioners to live in a constant state of self doubt. We might only recall one out of every dozen successes that we have, but we can remember every single failure with alarming clarity. If “severance” were ever to become an actual thing, you’d be shocked at how many teachers might line up for it.
But all that said, there’s another side of the job: a reason that keeps us coming back. If you’re any good at it, you’re unlikely to find more rewarding work. Physical exhaustion might be paid back with a summer off; mental energy is replenished when you can see your own knowledge, skills, and experiences passed on to others; and emotional exhaustion is repaid in myriad ways that are hard to articulate. To that last point, while much of this is also tied to my natural predilection for introversion, I often find it difficult to talk about my work—especially to those who have never done it, but even to those that have.
All things considered, while there are aspects that I dislike—waking up early, communicating via email, and the always-present scourge of anti-public education blowhards—I genuinely like my job. I worked hard to get it. I put all that I can into it. And I’m good at it. But, if I could make say, seventy-five percent of my current income via Strange Currencies, or through starting some kind of garage rock reissue label, or by getting extraordinarily lucky with one of my music-making projects, I’d leave my job in a heartbeat. Why? I suppose it’s because I’m in my mid-forties, and have done the same job for the aforementioned twenty-something years. I’m still relatively young, and it wouldn’t be preposterous to switch careers at the rough-midpoint of my working life. Both of my kids are legal adults, and are out on their own (kinda). My wife earns a good income. But perhaps most importantly: I’ve had a good run as a teacher, and I’d love to step away before I ever become a burnout.
In the summer of 1994, Robert Pollard left his teaching job at Lincoln Elementary in Dayton. Scat Records was about to release Guided by Voices’ masterpiece, Bee Thousand, and larger labels—including Warner Bros., who flew Pollard out to Hollywood in an effort to court the band—were hovering everywhere. Against all odds, Guided by Voices had attracted national attention, and they now had a brilliant new album with which to back up the hype. Pollard had a chance to do what every creative-turned-teacher dreams of; he might actually be able to make “The Leap.”
GBV’s parading around with labels from coast-to-coast was also done with a embryonic version of what could have become the band’s next record, tentatively titled Scalping the Guru—a name that would eventually be applied to the collection of their “pre-Thousand” EPs. At the same time, Pollard readied the release that would mark the group’s departure from Scat: a five-disc box set, plainly called Box. In addition to the band’s four pre-Propeller records, Box included a new LP’s worth of previously-unreleased material, King Shit & The Golden Boys.
Never one to half-ass a project, Pollard arranged King Shit as a fully-functional album—not quite as cohesive as Bee Thousand, but a damned great peak-era GBV record nonetheless. And like Bee Thousand—of which several of King Shit‘s songs were outtakes—this follow-up project was compiled of recordings that spanned much of GBV’s lifespan. While specific information about most of these tracks remains elusive, it’s easy to hear how a song like “Dust Devil” clearly originates from the same era that produced 1989’s Self-Inflicted Aerial Nostalgia; while Tobin Sprout’s “Scissors” could have come from the same four-track tape—and same basement humidity level—as 1994’s “Smothered in Hugs.”
But while these songs vary in era, personnel, and fidelity, like the best of GBV’s work, they are united by Pollard’s (and when applicable, Sprout’s) unfailing sense for melodic hooks. “We’ve Got Airplanes,” “Crutch Came Slinking,” and “Postal Blowfish” are all frequently listed among the band’s classic recordings, but in sum total the nineteen songs of King Shit are nothing less than a treasure trove from Guided by Voices’ most productive and rewarding era. The fact that songs this good were castaways is damn near impossible to fathom.
In Marc Woodworth’s 33 1/3 book on Bee Thousand, Robert Pollard offered the following thoughts while reflecting on the decision to leave his job at Lincoln:
“There were people who said I still shouldn’t quit teaching, because I’d been doing it for fourteen years and had benefits and a family to think about, but I knew this was something I needed to do. . . . My decision caused difficulties later on—being on the road eventually led to a divorce—but I still can’t regret making that decision to take a chance because I got to do what I sometimes feel I was meant to be doing.”
Bob, regardless of how good of a teacher you were, if King Shit & The Golden Boys represents your ‘leftovers,’ I think it’s safe to say that you found what you were meant to be doing. Thank you for your service, Sir.
Ratings: King Shit & The Golden Boys (8.6) / Guided by Voices/Grifters (6.0)
Bob-ism of the Week: “And all the easy faces / Running out of happy places / Gone to the academy / And bloody sonic liars / Into the Navajo amplifier / For us to hear and see” (“Indian Was an Angel”)
Next Week: A second masterpiece arrives, as GBV land with a formidable indie imprint. Together, the band and label work to redefine post-Nirvana American alternative rock.
