Poetry review – VOX WAH WAH: Mat Riches enjoys browsing this short, guitar-themed collection by Hilary Menos
Vox Wah Wah
Hilary Menos
New Walk Editions
ISBN: 9781919307725
£7
Vox Wah Wah is Hilary Menos’ third pamphlet in a row (and let’s ignore, for now, the fact that she is long overdue a third full collection), and this one shifts the attention away from two of her sons after 2020’s Human Tissue (Smith|Doorstop), and 2022’s Fear of Forks (HappenStance) and onto her partner—and co-founder of The Friday Poem – Andy Brodie. Brodie is a guitarist (among many other things) and many of the various accoutrements of being a working musician are the jumping off points for many of these poems.
It’s quite the Menos-ian trait to use an inanimate objects as the catalyst for a poem about something else entirely, and this was particularly prevalent in Fear of Forks. There are better poems in Fear of Forks, but her poem “White Star Line” is a fine example of this. However, we are here to talk about Vox Wah-Wah, and even this title is an example of this technique.
For those unaware, a wah-wah is a ‘type of effects pedal designed for electric guitar that alters the timbre of the input signal to create a distinctive sound, mimicking the human voice saying the onomatopoeic name “wah-wah”. And this is all well-documented in the second poem of the pamphlet, “Bow Chicka Wow Wow”.
The poem opens with the giddy rush of discovery by ‘Brad Plunkett plugging a cable jack / into a tangle of technical parts on his bench / then cracking the dial / / to discover that wah-wah sound’ before moving on to remind us where we all know it from—whether it’s from ‘the opening riff to Voodoo Child’…’ or ‘the theme from Shaft—/ that percussive wacka wacka rhythm’. I won’t spoil where the poem ends up as I think it would be shame to give it away, but I’m pretty sure there will be a nod of recognition among many.
This poem is the second mention of Hendrix as the opening poem, “The Queen of Tone”, deploys a similar technique to the one above. It documents Hendrix’s well-known performance of Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock. We’ve all seen and heard the noise from that performance, the flames rising from his guitar, etc, but Menos makes this all feel anew and comes from a different angle to point to Abigail Ybarra, the titular queen here. She is recognised as the woman behind many of the most famous guitar tones ever through her work with pickups in the guitar at Fender.
While the first 3 stanzas describe the infamous performance, and ground us in the time and place it all happened as well as offering up descriptions of the sound of the performance as if it was a journalist reviewing the gig, it’s the final two stanzas that offer something similar to Ybarra that really make the poem come alive.
and from the singe-coil pickup
hand-wound by Abigail Ybarra at the Fullerton workshop
where she ran the machine for four hours a day,
guiding a strand of wire between finger and thumb
onto the bobbin core,
controlling the tension, winding in just enough air,
her hands shaping the resonance of every Fender guitar
with consistent inconsistency
so Hendrix could hold and shape raw sound
and find new tone for the old tune.
The giddiness of the enjambment and line lengths add to the thrill of the creation, almost as if Ybarra is performing some sort of wild solo, as if the strand of wire forming the coil of the pickup is a set of guitar strings as she forms chords, etc.
However, it’s not all rock stars and world renowned innovators. Brodie, or what I assume to be him, features frequently, for example in the third poem, “Wall of Sound”—and I hope Hilary forgives me for this leap, but even though the opening stanza references ‘The Grateful Dead’s Wall of Sound’ set up, I think the dense detail layered into this poem is a tribute to the Wall of Sound created by Phil Spector, although not a tribute to Phil Spector himself for obvious reasons. You’ll know this sound if you’ve ever heard The Ronettes’ Be My Baby, and if you haven’t you must remedy that immediately. I’ll wait.
Back to the poem then…it’s an interesting poem about the need for creativity and feel in a world that’s becoming increasingly automated, work-flowed, etc. The third stanza touches on a world of
in-ear monitors, dummy cabs, an electronic drum kit
and every cable plugged into an amp sim with an IR—
all you hear is the soft tiptoe of sticks on rubber pads,
a neutered strum, and the singer’s voice stark in the space.
It’s musical mime, an exercise in containment and control,
safe, clinical, precise; you can even play to a click|
but (as he says) it just ain’t rock’n’roll.
How you take this may depend on where you stand on what is and isn’t rock’n’roll, and where you stand on old men having opinions, but for those of us that like a bit of chaos in our creativity it’s pretty clear where the opinions are here. The ‘neutered strum’, ‘musical mime’, etc leave us in no doubt as to which side of the fence or stage the poem’s subject stands.
And for those of us who have attended some ear-splitting gigs (thanks Dinosaur Jr…etc), we can all feel seen in the second stanza where our man goes to bed hearing ‘…the ring/ of a hundred furious violins bowing the E-string / and the hiss of shifting sands.’
Speaking of E-Strings, the poem that follows this one, “Self-Portrait”, has a ‘1964 Butterscotch Blonde Fender Telecaster’ talking to us in 8 sets of rhymed couplets. It’s definitely a poem that will appeal to collectors of guitars who buy into the theory that the ideal number of guitars to own is n+1 where n is the number of guitars you currently own. (NB this theory applies to bikes, running shoes, kitchen knives, whatever your collecting poison is, etc).
It’s almost a love poem that makes me wonder who the poet is talking to. Is the title of the poem suggesting that the poet’s comparing themselves to the guitar in a plea for attention? Probably not, assuming they don’t have a ‘headstock [or} chromed brass strap button’, but the final couplet might suggest there’s something in this.
I’m easy to live with, easy to love, difficult to master,
I’m your 1964 Butterscotch Blonde Fender Telecaster.
While the book is very far from formulaic, these first four poems help to set what is something of a formula or pattern throughout. The order may vary, but we have poems about technical points or historical events (e.g. the first two) and how they relate to people, the personal take from Brodie/Menos, and then the personification of a guitar. I’ve focused on the first four poems, but there are many more throughout that could easily have been highlighted.
Just like the guitarist who puts his foot on the pedal to change the sound of an instrument, every poem in Vox Wah-Wah seemingly speaks to a supporting cast that allows someone to create- whether that’s the maker of an effects pedal, the maker of specific a guitar part, the uncredited female artists of the early rock’n’roll/blues era in ‘W.O..M.A.N.
And if it’s not doing that then it’s exploring creativity and the unknowable practice involved in letting go, as in poems like “Letting the Pig out”— ‘Andy’s term form playing with reckless abandon.’ or “The Great Pool Shoot-Out”.
The final poem of the pamphlet, “The Art of Leaving”, muses on knowing when to stop, how to leave a performance. I can only say thank you for reading, this is my last sentence. I’ve already suggested Menos is way overdue a third collection, but in the absence of that, I hope every copy of Vox Wah Wah leaves the building, just like Elvis does in the poem.
Aug 9 2026
London Grip Poetry Review – Hilary Menos
Poetry review – VOX WAH WAH: Mat Riches enjoys browsing this short, guitar-themed collection by Hilary Menos
Vox Wah Wah
Hilary Menos
New Walk Editions
ISBN: 9781919307725
£7
Vox Wah Wah is Hilary Menos’ third pamphlet in a row (and let’s ignore, for now, the fact that she is long overdue a third full collection), and this one shifts the attention away from two of her sons after 2020’s Human Tissue (Smith|Doorstop), and 2022’s Fear of Forks (HappenStance) and onto her partner—and co-founder of The Friday Poem – Andy Brodie. Brodie is a guitarist (among many other things) and many of the various accoutrements of being a working musician are the jumping off points for many of these poems.
It’s quite the Menos-ian trait to use an inanimate objects as the catalyst for a poem about something else entirely, and this was particularly prevalent in Fear of Forks. There are better poems in Fear of Forks, but her poem “White Star Line” is a fine example of this. However, we are here to talk about Vox Wah-Wah, and even this title is an example of this technique.
For those unaware, a wah-wah is a ‘type of effects pedal designed for electric guitar that alters the timbre of the input signal to create a distinctive sound, mimicking the human voice saying the onomatopoeic name “wah-wah”. And this is all well-documented in the second poem of the pamphlet, “Bow Chicka Wow Wow”.
The poem opens with the giddy rush of discovery by ‘Brad Plunkett plugging a cable jack / into a tangle of technical parts on his bench / then cracking the dial / / to discover that wah-wah sound’ before moving on to remind us where we all know it from—whether it’s from ‘the opening riff to Voodoo Child’…’ or ‘the theme from Shaft—/ that percussive wacka wacka rhythm’. I won’t spoil where the poem ends up as I think it would be shame to give it away, but I’m pretty sure there will be a nod of recognition among many.
This poem is the second mention of Hendrix as the opening poem, “The Queen of Tone”, deploys a similar technique to the one above. It documents Hendrix’s well-known performance of Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock. We’ve all seen and heard the noise from that performance, the flames rising from his guitar, etc, but Menos makes this all feel anew and comes from a different angle to point to Abigail Ybarra, the titular queen here. She is recognised as the woman behind many of the most famous guitar tones ever through her work with pickups in the guitar at Fender.
While the first 3 stanzas describe the infamous performance, and ground us in the time and place it all happened as well as offering up descriptions of the sound of the performance as if it was a journalist reviewing the gig, it’s the final two stanzas that offer something similar to Ybarra that really make the poem come alive.
and from the singe-coil pickup
hand-wound by Abigail Ybarra at the Fullerton workshop
where she ran the machine for four hours a day,
guiding a strand of wire between finger and thumb
onto the bobbin core,
controlling the tension, winding in just enough air,
her hands shaping the resonance of every Fender guitar
with consistent inconsistency
so Hendrix could hold and shape raw sound
and find new tone for the old tune.
The giddiness of the enjambment and line lengths add to the thrill of the creation, almost as if Ybarra is performing some sort of wild solo, as if the strand of wire forming the coil of the pickup is a set of guitar strings as she forms chords, etc.
However, it’s not all rock stars and world renowned innovators. Brodie, or what I assume to be him, features frequently, for example in the third poem, “Wall of Sound”—and I hope Hilary forgives me for this leap, but even though the opening stanza references ‘The Grateful Dead’s Wall of Sound’ set up, I think the dense detail layered into this poem is a tribute to the Wall of Sound created by Phil Spector, although not a tribute to Phil Spector himself for obvious reasons. You’ll know this sound if you’ve ever heard The Ronettes’ Be My Baby, and if you haven’t you must remedy that immediately. I’ll wait.
Back to the poem then…it’s an interesting poem about the need for creativity and feel in a world that’s becoming increasingly automated, work-flowed, etc. The third stanza touches on a world of
in-ear monitors, dummy cabs, an electronic drum kit
and every cable plugged into an amp sim with an IR—
all you hear is the soft tiptoe of sticks on rubber pads,
a neutered strum, and the singer’s voice stark in the space.
It’s musical mime, an exercise in containment and control,
safe, clinical, precise; you can even play to a click|
but (as he says) it just ain’t rock’n’roll.
How you take this may depend on where you stand on what is and isn’t rock’n’roll, and where you stand on old men having opinions, but for those of us that like a bit of chaos in our creativity it’s pretty clear where the opinions are here. The ‘neutered strum’, ‘musical mime’, etc leave us in no doubt as to which side of the fence or stage the poem’s subject stands.
And for those of us who have attended some ear-splitting gigs (thanks Dinosaur Jr…etc), we can all feel seen in the second stanza where our man goes to bed hearing ‘…the ring/ of a hundred furious violins bowing the E-string / and the hiss of shifting sands.’
Speaking of E-Strings, the poem that follows this one, “Self-Portrait”, has a ‘1964 Butterscotch Blonde Fender Telecaster’ talking to us in 8 sets of rhymed couplets. It’s definitely a poem that will appeal to collectors of guitars who buy into the theory that the ideal number of guitars to own is n+1 where n is the number of guitars you currently own. (NB this theory applies to bikes, running shoes, kitchen knives, whatever your collecting poison is, etc).
It’s almost a love poem that makes me wonder who the poet is talking to. Is the title of the poem suggesting that the poet’s comparing themselves to the guitar in a plea for attention? Probably not, assuming they don’t have a ‘headstock [or} chromed brass strap button’, but the final couplet might suggest there’s something in this.
I’m easy to live with, easy to love, difficult to master,
I’m your 1964 Butterscotch Blonde Fender Telecaster.
While the book is very far from formulaic, these first four poems help to set what is something of a formula or pattern throughout. The order may vary, but we have poems about technical points or historical events (e.g. the first two) and how they relate to people, the personal take from Brodie/Menos, and then the personification of a guitar. I’ve focused on the first four poems, but there are many more throughout that could easily have been highlighted.
Just like the guitarist who puts his foot on the pedal to change the sound of an instrument, every poem in Vox Wah-Wah seemingly speaks to a supporting cast that allows someone to create- whether that’s the maker of an effects pedal, the maker of specific a guitar part, the uncredited female artists of the early rock’n’roll/blues era in ‘W.O..M.A.N.
And if it’s not doing that then it’s exploring creativity and the unknowable practice involved in letting go, as in poems like “Letting the Pig out”— ‘Andy’s term form playing with reckless abandon.’ or “The Great Pool Shoot-Out”.
The final poem of the pamphlet, “The Art of Leaving”, muses on knowing when to stop, how to leave a performance. I can only say thank you for reading, this is my last sentence. I’ve already suggested Menos is way overdue a third collection, but in the absence of that, I hope every copy of Vox Wah Wah leaves the building, just like Elvis does in the poem.