Entry Seven Part Two: In Defense of "Hot Freaks"

From Bee Thousand, 1994

Firstly, allow me to disabuse our non-existent audience of a possible misconception: this blog actually has two authors! Not only is it bi-authored, it is bi-coastal. One dork, Gary, in Portland, OR, and on dork, me--Zak, in New York, NY, together bro-loving the shit out of the work of another dork, Bob, in Dayton, OH. We cover a lot of ground. Gary wrote the last entry that was railing against Bob Pollard for Hot Freaks. While his imagery about the crazy, sleeveless, domestic-lager-in-cans-swilling uncle is undeniably vivid, I feel it falls short of truly assessing "Hot Freaks."

I am more than willing to admit that "Hot Freaks" is not a home run, in spite of Pollard's status as the Sadaharu Oh of modern indie rock songwriters (wikipedia "Sadaharu Oh" if you're not as big a jerkoff baseball nerd as I am). This does not mean it is a failure. It also, of course, does not mean that Pollard hasn't absolutely and momentously failed in some efforts. (I'm building up for some total slamfests on Bob for writing "Hold on Hope" and the snoring in "Ex-Supermodel...wait for it.)

What Gary failed to look into is what it means to be Bob Pollard. Sure, in the most glowing view he is a genius of the Lennon/McCartney model, and at the worst a savant tunesmith, but he was also, at one point, an unheralded dude pushing middle-age with a day-job as a middle school teacher. Say you're 37 (I was totally wrong...Bob's 51 and going on 52 this year...sorry for earlier errors) in 1994, you've finally gotten enough cred to quit your job teaching middle school students because someone at Scat Records (an almost minor-major) has decided you rock hard enough to be a full-time rockstar. Say you've been drinking Miller Light in a basement for years with your buds, pretending to be a rockstar on the weekends. Say you've recorded hundreds of songs and FINALLY someone thinks you're worthy of performing out on a national level. Say that you're finally, after a decade or more, in a position to make some money doing so. Say you love curious and inventive shit like King Crimson, but you also want to out-roger-daltrey Roger Daltrey and you want to, when you perform live, really fucking rock? What do you do?

Well, first, you release an album with some of your best stuff (as is on Bee Thousand--see "I Am a Scientist" or "Tractor Rape Chain" or "Echos Myron" [sic] or "Gold Star for Robot Boy"). Also, though, you want some totally rock out songs during which you can chug a beer and kick your leg as high in the air as you can. That's why you write "Hot Freaks."

Not intellectually challenging musically, you can pound a Nattie during the slow points. But it has a kicking Mitch Mitchell guitar line and begs even the Grumpiest Gus (Gary, for example) to tap a toe slightly and begs a bit of rockstar showmanship. Throw in some delightfully obtuse lyrics and a great refrain to yell--HOT FREAKS!--and you're good to go. You can go back to being a genius later...for now you want to Iggy Pop your ass off by screaming, kicking, and spinning the mic on its cord, and spitting beer into the crowd. You can be smart and clever later.

On a more serious note, this is a song which is carried lyrically. While Gary may (somewhat rightfully) poo poo this song musically, in the context of an album or of a live set, it offers a brief reprieve and an opportunity to really enjoy the bizarre lyrical world of Bob Pollard. How can a "non-dairy creamer" be "laid out explicitly like a fruit cake?" It may not mean a goddamn thing, but it sounds okay all slurred together. It fits neatly between "The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory" and "Smothered in Hugs" and *SHOULD* be on this album, if one looks at the album as a whole. As for "Yours to Keep," well, that's another blog entry for another day...

B- (There's much better, but there's also much, much, much worse...even on this album)

Favorite Lyric: (Gary's right): "I walked into the Hall of Miraculous Recovery / And stood before King Everything"

P.S. If this is lacking in sense or syntax or spelling...I wrote it a bit buzzed and refused to proofread. Bob would forgive.