Guided By Voices in L.A.

The Los Angeles branch of House of Blues sits on a corner of the infamous Sunset Strip, a looming oversized "shack" that hosts a variety of middle-of-the-road acts, the occasional funk band and the rare indie rock superstar. Bob Pollard falls into the latter category and he wasted no time in singing the club's praises. "I think this is the best club in L.A.!" he proclaims, smiling into the darkened room. "They treat you nice and they lay a tasty spread up there in the rock room."

Free food, a little luxury?that's all Bob wants. Give him a loyal fan base, a comfortable place to play, some good friends on guitars, bass and drums (longtime Guided members Doug Gillard, Tim Tobias, Nate Farley and Jon McCann) and he's off to the races. It took GBV about three seconds to warm up the room, as Pollard proceeded to regale the kids with his trademark high kicks and witty stage banter, cheerfully beer swiggin' and chain smokin' his way through almost two hours of Guided's extensive back catalogue.

"We've got a lot of songs," he said apologetically, "and I've been criticized for that. But I can't help it. I just can't stop!" In addition to classics from GBV's past albums Pollard made sure to include a solid amount of tracks from the band's newest release Isolation Drills?"'Cause the boys from TVT Records [GBV's new label] are watching!" Then the band launched headfirst into the album's first two singles, "Glad Girls" and "Chasing Heather Crazy" as the audience (consisting almost entirely of men in their mid-20s to late 30s) sang along happily.

Pollard is an unlikely frontman. The former elementary school teacher has a sweetly plump face surrounded by a mass of unruly curls and a wicked little grin, which gives him the look of a mischievous cherub. The plumpness extends to his belly, where who knows how many beers have made their mark, and his slow, lumbering gait is hardly what one might call graceful. Yet Bob's got the 'it.' His voice is unexpectedly high and sweet and richly layered and he can pull off a perfect metal ballad pierce without any noticeable strain. He swaggers, he twirls his microphone, he belts out a tune with all the predictable posturing of a late 70s British pop star. Bob may be from Ohio yet his coyly smug Anglo pomp is never false, never insincere. Even his accent?cornfed Midwest by way of Swingin' London?seems simply a byproduct of his utter dedication to all that is rock. Guided are what might have happened if the Who and Yes bought a rundown farm on the outskirts of a forgotten Breadbasket industrial town and settled down to raise a family.

Although drunken antics and the occasional sloppy show have marred GBV's performance history, there were no weaknesses apparent at House of Blues. Bob was in fine form, the band was tight and the music loud and fast and utterly anthemic, the sort of stuff that makes you want to throw one fist in the air and holler. The sold-out crowd was glad to throw themselves into such experienced hands, glad to lift their faces toward waves of guitar crunch and pounding bass, glad to see GBV and Mr. Pollard still kicking out the jams, still frantically waving that rock 'n' roll flag. A man in front, wearing a neck brace that did little to hinder his head banging, captured the feeling best when he shouted over the furious din, "In Bob we trust!"