Poetry won’t feed the hungry; songs won’t stop the war
That painting’s doing nothing to combat global warmth
But in between the barricades I might steal a kiss
Just to remember why we’re fighting, General Obvious
New Yorker Bob Gaulke, a self-styled “rootless cosmopolitan,” stirs a swirling storm of styles, skating through Brazilian rhythms, synth streaks, tropicalia tones, ska skanks, and breezy lounge licks. A wandering minstrel by nature and a public school teacher by trade, Gaulke spins songs that slip past saccharine serenades or scattershot musings on fractured modernity, instead pricking at the tender truths of life today. His recurring themes—class, desire, estrangement—tumble through his work with sly wit and sharp poignancy.
Now he unfurls his latest LP, Stupid, a collection of eight tracks that explore the tension between life’s fleeting joys and its persistent struggles, emphasizing the importance of embracing connection, transformation, and authenticity. Through themes of love, loss, rebellion, and resilience, they weave a vivid portrait of navigating a world that is simultaneously chaotic and filled with meaning, urging listeners to confront their fears, embrace vulnerability, and find grace in both personal and collective challenges.
In New York’s nocturnal nooks, Gaulke’s musical palette dances on a post-punk skeleton, fleshed out with jazz’s free-wheeling spirit and global grooves. With over 30 compact records already scattered to the wind—and 50 more threatened—his creativity thrives in an age adrift in false comfort and discord dressed as progress. Drawing whispers of Leonard Cohen, Lou Reed, and Beck, his songs sway with rubbery bass, spiraling trombones, and angular guitars, a cracked mirror reflecting the likes of Brian Dewan, Suzanne Vega, and yes, They Might Be Giants.
The album opens with Advertisements for Life, which barrels through the barricades of boredom, urging all who hear it to leap headlong into the whirlwind. Time slips like sand through greedy fingers; hesitation is a thief, fear a false friend. It whispers boldly—transform stumbles into steps, chaos into color, silence into song.
Dr. Panglossian prowls the uneasy terrain of love’s longing, where closeness is craved but denied. One heart, wide open, reaches for another sealed in its shell, hidden behind painted masks of detachment. It probes the tender ache of naivety, asking whether connection can bloom where walls stand high.
The Ghost of Phil Ochs walks the worn streets of New York, its promises faded, its ideals worn thin. Music rises like a salve for broken dreams, binding a listener to something vast and unseen. It speaks with somber resolve to youth—truth is a torch, even in the dark, and though trials persist, joy and love remain as enduring sparks against the tide.
Even If Only bends toward the fragile beauty of connection, where shared laughter and lingering sorrows entwine. It seeks solace in rediscovered joys, those buried beneath years of ache and the easy pull of old habits. General Obvious lifts a mirror to art’s struggles and shortcomings, its inability to halt hunger or war, yet it holds tight to the quiet sparks it ignites. The song whispers that life’s hardships are rooted early and stretch unbroken, but it also leans into the strength found in baring one’s soul, as art stitches together a patchwork of purpose in the mess of living.
The Radical Bureaucracy unravels rebellion’s uneasy compromise with power, where wild creation is reined in, repackaged, and sold. This powerful song scorns censorship, questions culture’s cracks, and lingers on the burden of truth-telling in a tangled, ever-changing world. Its avant-garde jazz sound brings to mind Frank Zappa’s strange arrangements, hammering home the message of experimentation.
On It peers into love’s flickering flame, a fragile light in the maelstrom of calamity. Lovers clutch at their connection as the world quakes around them, their passion as precarious as Pompeii’s last embrace. The lyrics press hard against despair, proclaiming love as both battle and balm—a stubborn shield against creeping dread. Without the anchor of this bond, the singer stumbles, uncertain of their own contours, their sense of self blurred without the one they hold dear.
My Entire Adult Life spins the saga of a seductive scoundrel, a thief with charm as sharp as a blade. Legal binds and personal ruin become part of the pact, the singer entwined in a dance of danger and desire. Assets are gambled, trust is stolen, yet the thrill eclipses caution. Fear of sameness, of settling into the dull mold of a maternal memory, propels the singer into these reckless tales—a carnival of self-deception and peril where they almost believe the lies they’ve spun themselves.
Listen to Stupid below and order the album here.
Gaulke is a regular collaborator on NYC stages with Gil Oliveira, Martin Scian, Matt Carrillo, Kevin Cerovich, Emilia Cataldo, Peri Mason, Suely Mesquita, Richard Von Sturmer, and Pavlo Terekhov. Hailing from The Bronx, Gaulke grew up with the first wave of post-punk as well as the likes of luminaries such as John Cale, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and Caetano Veloso.
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