The GBV Project — Week 3: Sandbox

The GBV Project


The Release: Sandbox (LP—Halo, 1987)

There’s a theory suggesting that if you hear any song enough times you’ll eventually grow to like it. Essentially, the argument is that our enjoyment of music tends to come from a place of familiarity and/or comfort. As someone who spends an inordinate amount of time analyzing music, I personally hate this theory, and have always hoped that—at least in my case—it is utter bullshit. After all, for every song that I was initially indifferent to but ultimately came to love—let’s say, for example, “What a Fool Believes”—I can think of plenty that I’ve heard countless times and still despise: we’ll go with “Hotel California,” “Closing Time,” and anything by Aerosmith.

Last week, I was a little worried that I might have inadvertently been proving this theory with “The GBV Project.” Specifically, a Guided by Voices album that I had never thought much of—the band’s 1987 debut LP Devil Between My Toes—all of a sudden sounded like a lost classic, after I listened to it no less than half-a-dozen times over a handful of days. The 6.5 score that I had given it on my GBV Catalog Crawl feature was raised to an 8.4, and—if nothing else on that list had changed—the album would have vaulted all the way from #31 on that 2021 ranking into a tie for fifth place. Could it be that GBV Stockholm syndrome was already setting in after only two weeks, or was I—a notorious and self-admitted music snob—no more capable of controlling my likes and dislikes than the average “casual” music listener? Well, I’m happy to report that this week—for a rather unconventional reason—I am thankful for GBV’s second album, Sandbox.

Now let me make it clear that I don’t think that Sandbox is a particularly bad album, per se. Prior to my week-long focus on it, I knew Sandbox had its defenders—plenty of whom consider it to be the best of the band’s four “pre-Propeller” records. And sure, it has some hooks and genuinely spirited performances. There’s an easy rapport and chemistry developing between the four members of the (momentarily) steady lineup that makes for a perceptible growth from the then-still-recent Devil Between My Toes. No, Sandbox is not a bad album. But it’s also not a particularly good or interesting one either. And it’s that second adjective that makes for a pretty damning characterization in the Land of Pollard. After all, even in the somewhat-rare instance that peak-era Robert Pollard wrote a ‘bad’ song, it was generally fascinating.

And I’m far from the only one that sees Sandbox as a reasonably significant step backwards for Dayton’s finest gang of drinking buddies turned indie rock gods. In his 2005 book Guided by Voices: A Brief History, Jim Greer refers to Sandbox as “probably the weakest album the band ever made.” Aside from Devil Between My Toes—which, by the way, is inexcusable—it has the lowest score of any pre-reunion GBV album on RateYourMusic. And most importantly, on numerous occasions Pollard himself has either damned the album with the faintest of praise, or dismissed it outright. From the sterile sound, to the (mostly) forgettable melodies, to the lack of a particularly idiosyncratic “Bob-ism of the Week” (see below), Sandbox is the exceedingly rare Guided by Voices album to lack character.

But weirdly, little had changed structurally between the recording of Devil Between My Toes and Sandbox. As mentioned earlier, the traditionally-volatile lineup had solidified into a stable quartet of Robert Pollard (vocals and guitar), his younger brother Jimmy (guitar), their brother-in-law Kevin Fennell (drums), and longtime friend/collaborator Mitch Mitchell (bass). Like Devil, Sandbox was recorded in the eight-track garage studio of Steve Wilbur—where the $15 per hour fee remained unchanged. Of course, this shouldn’t be all that surprising, as the sessions for Sandbox began almost immediately after the release of its predecessor.

However, the difference between these records is immediately noticeable. Right off the bat, it’s apparent that the band were going for a more professional—or “polished,” as Pollard calls it in A Brief History—sound. None of the wild fidelity variance, rough edits, or audible mistakes that had in part defined Devil are to be found here. And while this probably makes for a more immediately-appealing entry point for most listeners, none of the spontaneity—and little of the cockeyed charm—that had also defined the band’s debut LP can be found here either. Sandbox‘s twelve songs almost sound as if they could have been recorded in any halfway-functional studio, played with any halfway-decent instruments, and performed by any halfway-competent band. And this would still all be fine, as long as those dozen tracks didn’t sound like they could have been penned by any halfway-engaged songwriter.

Okay, maybe I need to slow down here. That probably sounded pretty harsh—and perhaps even mean-spirited. Let me remind you that I obviously love Guided by Voices—why the hell else would I be doing this project?—and think that Robert Pollard is a phenomenal songwriter. I also just said that I don’t characterize Sandbox as a “bad” album, just a rather ‘meh’ one; so yeah, this is essentially the equivalent of the “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” position. But allow me to deflect from Guided by Voices/Robert Pollard for just a moment here:

Sandbox, in many ways, reminds me of another 1987 release from another group that I also love: the self-titled debut EP by The Tragically Hip. Like Sandbox, The Tragically Hip is the work of a Great Band that was not yet a great band. Sure, it rocks, and clearly the musicians have some chemistry; but the songs are lackluster, the production is sterile, and the band doesn’t look nearly as cool as they think they do on the album sleeve. It sounds—and in the case of the Hip, it looks—like it could have been the product of any generic, semi-hard rock, small town bar band. You can practically see the reflection of a Reagan-era Natty Light beer sign—or Molson, in the case of the Hip—in the reflection of the record when it sits on your turntable. And—just as I am with Robert Pollard when I listen to SandboxThe Tragically Hip makes me disappointed, but not mad, at the late great Gordon Downie.

I mention this, not to drag another artist that I care for a great deal, but to provide a reference point that might not raise the blood pressure of a GBV fan. Honestly, I’m not sure how much the circles on the Venn diagram of GBV/Hip fandom overlap, but I do know that both groups engender a certain kind of protectiveness from their most committed acolytes. We don’t get a ton of comments here at Strange Currencies—which I (probably protectively) blame on the fact that we require logins for such interactions in order to cut down on spam—but I’m reminded of an anecdotal bit of evidence from our 2021 In the Wilderness feature on the Hip. In that piece, which takes the form of a meandering three-way conversation, I refer to that debut EP with descriptors like “badly dated,” “sucks,” “unnecessary,” and “sub-mediocre.” Harsh? Sure, but I stand by it. Like Robert Pollard, Gord Downie was a brilliant—perhaps even one-of-a-kind—artist who, in this early release, sounds almost shockingly pedestrian. It’s boilerplate rock ‘n’ roll, and not the idiosyncratic, imagery-laden, surrealism-via-everyman that he would craft in time.

And—even though Sandbox bests The Tragically Hip by a significant margin—in Pollard’s case, this was especially disappointing for another reason: he had already made music that strongly hinted at his eventual peak. Sure, 1986’s Forever Since Breakfast was ‘polished’ like Sandbox, but it had twice as many hooks in roughly half as many songs. And I know I keep harping on it, but Devil Between My Toes is a legitimately excellent album that actually sounds like a Guided by Voices record. Making a slick sounding recording is one thing—and we’ll get to the Do the Collapse/Isolation Drills subject in time—but if you bring good enough songs, the production quality (good or bad) shouldn’t really be that important in determining its ultimate appeal; we’ll get to the Do the Collapse vs. Isolation Drills debate in time.

So then, defenders of Sandbox, tell me: What does this album really provide in terms of good songs, or even ones that are all that interesting? What here really sounds like the work of a budding genius? What here did you have the ability to instantly recall in your head after hearing it only once or twice before? What here sounds like the work of a quartet that was more than merely competent?—and I sure as hell don’t mean showy, but instead vital, or at least inspired. The strongest proponents of Sandbox often build it up at the expense of Devil Between My Toes. I made a case for my favorite of the two last week. Now make yours. And remember, I know this band. Just today, I received in the mail a copy of a split 7″ (“If We Wait”) that I paid $50 for—just to get one tiny step closer to owning the entire GBV vinyl catalog of 114 (as of this moment) releases. I love this band.

Okay, once again, I should probably slow down. But GBV fandom is one hell of a drug. I don’t mean to flex by mentioning that I spent way too much money on a first-pressing single from the early-nineties—if anything, it’s evidence of the fact that I make terrible decisions with money. And even though I might think it sometimes, I didn’t mean to suggest that my opinion on this band is really worth any more than that of someone who has only ever heard the A-side from that 1993 single by streaming it on Spotify a few times, but who loves it all the same. Or, for that matter, someone who adores Sandbox‘s “Barricade” and despises “If We Wait”—but really, give me a fucking break, hypothetical GBV fan. However, this line of logic also gives equal ‘validity’ to my (terse) opinion that the only (marginally) interesting part of “Barricade” is when Pollard briefly steals a hook from the (probably) worst song on With the Beatles.

And so, perhaps the point here is that music criticism is ultimately fruitless (it’s at least unprofitable, in my experience). After all, according to some studies, all we need to do is listen to a song enough times, and we’ll eventually love it. And look, I’ll make a few concessions to you Sandbox defenders: “Long Distance Man” is an absolute gem, with a gorgeous melody and lovely harmonies; “Everyday” is built on a nice chord change; “I Certainly Hope Not” has a herky-jerky charm that reminds me of The dB’s; “Adverse Wind” (and at least the second half of “Common Rebels”) kind of kicks ass.

And, as I already mentioned several hundred words ago, even the parts of Sandbox that I think kinda suck at least serve to remind me that I’m not in some kind of Bob Pollard death cult. Really, I don’t hate this record. In fact, there are moments where I think I might actually like it. Apparently science suggests that I probably just need to listen to it a few more times. But there’s no fucking way in hell that I’m ever coming around on “Love in an Elevator.”

Rating: 6.2

Bob-ism of the Week: “Just one spark makes a hell of a fire / I’m still wrong, but you’re still a liar” (“Trap Soul Door”)

Next Week: The band sticks with Steve Wilbur and his garage studio, and starts to sound a little bit like themselves (again).

Author

  • Matt Ryan founded Strange Currencies Music in January 2020, and remains the site's editor-in-chief. The creator of the "A Century of Song" project and co-host of the "Strange Currencies Podcast," Matt enjoys a wide variety of genres, but has a particular affinity for 60s pop, 90s indie rock, and post-bop jazz. He is an avid collector of vinyl, and a multi-instrumentalist who has played/recorded with several different bands and projects.

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