A year ago today, I did not go to school. Due to our COVID-enforced hybrid schedule, Wednesdays were at-home days where no virtual classes took place.
In our living room, my mother had the news on in anticipation for the televised electoral vote count from the previous year’s election. I was interested to see how the event would play out, as I was well aware that protestors would be at the Capitol insisting that the loss of the previous president to the people’s vote was unjust. I was expecting to laugh at a gaggle of delusional, pathetic fools as one of this country’s final remaining tenets of democracy did its thing.
What I actually ended up seeing was a direct, effective, borderline killer threat to democracy itself.
I was practically glued to my television screen as rioters with their profane chants and absurd displays of red, white, and blue clumped into a boisterous mass eventually powerful enough to seep into the Capitol with very little restraint. I got to see a makeshift militia of brainwashed, blood lusted, homegrown terrorists, ordered by their chosen leader to protect their country by trampling on its foundations, stumble around those supposedly sacred halls of American institution, power-drunk and disgraceful. What did the popular vote matter when these once-marginalized, now-organized morons didn’t get their favorite flavor of Popsicle?
I knew right away that things would never truly be the same again.
The storm was ultimately unsuccessful at actually overthrowing the government. But it threw the doors wide open for those who cannot stand to think that we are all human. It beamed from the rooftops: fight for your belief in lies! Fight for inequality! You can do it! And these signals have worked, based on how many concerned parents have been putting up hands at school board meetings or opting for homeschool because their districts dare to teach children basic truth, or how many people are passing around cups of bleach flavored Kool-Aids about everything under the sun.
A lot of people love to cry “never again” at every big, culture-shattering event before excusing events of similar magnitude that do not negatively effect them or their favorite political pundit. But it’s true: deluding yourself has never been so cool.
Maybe it’s time we stop living in fear of the truth. Maybe.
In the midst of the chaos of 2021, it was actually a great year for me on a personal level. I remained dedicated to my studies and hobbies despite a worldwide pandemic and repeated human fallacy telling most people that giving up is the better option; I was able to go out and actually do things after a year indoors, meeting people I have always wanted to meet and going places I have always wanted to go; I started this here blog. I can tell that the person I am has become more mature and more realized, due in no small part to support from all the people I have connected with and the experiences I have had along my way. I’m grateful for all of it, and I know I personally wouldn’t want a do-over…
…even though the world could really use one. If this year proved anything on a major scale, it was that we as humans are all still self-obsessed, anxious, confused little babies with false concepts of freedom and liberty implanted in our heads, acting on our base impulses. Every headline about humans ignoring COVID safety protocol and media pundits taking advantage of ignorance for their own selfish gains has been more agonizing than the last. The Omicron strain doing its very un-sexy thing doesn’t help. I received my booster shot on Monday—and that’s after two jabs and a minor bout with the ‘rona—but I’m still a human. And humans are as resilient as they are fragile.
But then again, every year is its own strain of hell; COVID just made the flames higher and the stupid crap stupider. Being able to recognize that certain things are, at their core, extremely stupid and laughable is a really crucial part of making life somewhat enjoyable. And I sure did a lot of that last year!
So what does this year have in store? For me, it means escape—escape to the college of my choice and a chance to start fresh. It’s the only thing that seems certain when it seems like the ability to do anything exciting is based entirely on how reckless other humans want to act on any given day. It’s hard thinking about the future when things seem so murky. In the meantime I’m trying to follow the advice assorted elders push upon me: savor this time while you still can.
The mask mandates that are repealed or disregarded…the underlying shiftiness of newfound lukewarm winters…the recklessness of humankind on display everywhere from the grocery store to the Facebook feed…the creepy fake ducks I saw in a (most likely man made) pond outside a developed community I drove by last weekend…varying states of growth and regression, evolution and de-evolution…what a weird, fascinating time to savor.
I’m not saying that because it was a bad day—it was an average day, and my week was a good one overall. I say that because some attention-seeking brats decided to use TikTok, the greatest social media platform there is, to spread false rumors of nationwide school violence today in the aftermath of the horrendous Oxford, Michigan massacre. I guess the human race still needs to prove how senseless it can be. It blows my mind how someone could look upon such cold blooded slaughter and then capitalize on it by spreading useless, irrational fear capable of unsettling people young and old across the nation. We are already bombarded with an overload of subliminal fear-mongering in our day to day lives; we don’t need a new generation of coddled edgelords continuing the grift. If I’ve learned anything by watching the twenty-first century news cycle, it’s that
my university of choice is going to be overrun by this gang of frothy-mouthed militants
my hometown is going to be Hiroshima’ed by that warmongering country
my few hopes and dreams are going to be stolen by this capsized group and
my entire life is in the hands of that secret-but-not-secret cabal of all-powerful baby-slurping ‘liberals’
messages that only encourage the populous to withdraw, to mistrust others, to get a gun and keep it loaded. Make sure it’s military grade, too; and never keep it locked up—you never know when you’ll need it.
Luckily none of my peers felt that need today, as the school day went without disruption. I wore a discreet Safe As Milk pin on my shirt because the other thing weighing heavy on my mind was that today marks the eleventh year since Don Van Vliet—better known as Captain Beefheart—died. A quote of his hangs attached to my bedroom mirror—“The stars are matter; we’re matter; but it doesn’t matter.” Offbeat, yet eloquent. Maybe if we chose people like Beefheart over the fear-mongers in power, we’d be a better species.
I crossed another city off my bucket list this weekend: Washington, D.C., this nation’s capital.
Despite the initially dreadful parking situation, I enjoyed what I experienced of the city, which was limited to its outskirts. At one point the silhouette of the Capitol building was visible from the car’s front window as we entered the city, but that was the closest we got. Still, it was interesting to be in the place where the government I live under has its home base. I listened to a lot of Jello Biafra on my iPod as we tried to find a parking spot.
Instead of seeing those usual obelisks and statues, we saw some very rowdy humans do their collective thing. Surfbort put on a lively and very fun show at the DC9 nightclub, full of yelping, stomping, and dancing. They shut out the December chill and proved themselves to be very nice people after the show. I hope the rest of their tour goes just as nicely!
It made up well for having had to cancel a Thanksgiving weekend roadtrip. Luckily, we were able to make the best out of out Mourning Turkey Day. The break had its fair share of ups and downs, and I’m grateful—even thankful—that it’s ups were so, well, up. That, alongside seeing from a distance the site of such a cruel and maddening attempt at a coup in D.C., reminded me of the stark contrast between security and discomfort, truth and manufactured reality. It’s becoming more and more frustrating how so many people hide behind facades of good intent. Maybe “facade” is the wrong word—it seems like almost everybody in today’s world wears their worst traits on their sleeves. It’s a transparent veil at best. From the highest ranks of society’s ladder to somebody on your block, goons are everywhere.
They try to make you feel appreciated when they really want to use you; they try to make you value meaningless things; they will suck up your time and try to justify it. They will place you into boxes, for categorizing humans as three dimensional takes up too much brain power that could be instead used towards contemplating the complacent nature of such cardboard cutouts. If you let society mold you in this way, you may gain popularity within some circle of equally fake people who will only show their true selves when they intend to harm you or at least wear you down. They want to reprogram your way of thinking, to make you think that the things that are harmful are harmless. The longer the frog boils in the pot, the more comfortable it becomes. You are reprogrammed to live a lie.
It takes work, courage, and awareness to stand your ground. It’s not easy to do alone.
If there was anything I was thankful for this last Mourning Turkey Day, it was the true friends I have for support. They provide more comfort and warmth than an early Christmas tree ever could, and they’re the people who remind me that there’s a few good eggs out there. If only they weren’t the 0.1 percent.
But not all is depressing, because life is full of fleeting absurd moments that really make living what it’s worth. I will never forget walking out of the DC9 as it transformed for the wee hours of the night from a punk club to, supposedly, a dance club for rich kids. Judging by the incredible lines outside other buildings we saw later as we drove away, this was not too uncommon. As we made our way down the stairs from the showroom to the small ground level tavern, a vaguely familiar synth melody came on over the speakers. I tried to put my finger on what it was, but soon enough the lyrics answered my question and a wave of pure confusion dawned on me: “Dog goes ‘woof;’ cat goes ‘meow.’” In the year 2021, a club was playing “WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY.” A million times better than Whamageddon.
The more I hear talk of “societal progress” and the like, the more numb I become when I see heaping piles of evidence of societal regress. It feels as if there’s no logic in the world we live in, a world where killers walk free while the kindhearted are rendered powerless. “Disappointed, but not surprised” is a sentiment I’ve been seeing around a lot lately, and it’s not hard to get disappointed at how cruel humans are towards each other. Why is it that, when the public good needs protection, the only response is the enforced individualism of useless culture wars? I thought we were supposed to judge each other on a moral basis, not on arbitrary factors like the relative pastiness of our skin. Or maybe we are judging each other on our morality: the ones least interested in protecting human life get put at the top while the bottom of the chain belongs to the people who just want us to all get along. There’s nothing more frustrating than seeing how blatant this display has become.
It’s easy to forget the things that bring joy to life when such emotions and chaos are swirling all around you. Yet I’m still reeling from DEVOtional two weeks ago, and it’s painful knowing that it’s going to be five months until I get the chance to congregate with all those beautiful mutants again when DEVO hits New York. But that weekend also gave me a renewed vitality and sense of worth in a world where I constantly feel shoved to the background in favor of the usual army of apathetic conformists. Being my true self was an advantage for once.
If you can stretch that definition like a rubber band, you can squeeze DEVOtional within the resulting lasso. It makes the gathering sound not very exhilarating. DEVOtional 2021 was not that. I had been awaiting the weekend for over two years, since COVID-19 turned 2020’s event virtual. I was excited to once again witness a disparate gaggle of hipsters, super freaks, and disco dancers celebrating the existence of DEVO, the De-Evolution Band, over two days of de-evolved joyful noise. After months of slump, we were vaccinated and recharged, and the rubber band was about to snap from the pressure. It had been too long.
It took five and a half hours of highwaying it to Ohio Friday morning to make it to the hotel, where the fall foliage and afternoon sun greeted us warmly against the frigid wind. The refuge of our hotel room was crucial for primping and resting up between days.
As the sun began to sink and the chills intensified, we drove to the Beachland Ballroom some twenty minutes away on the outskirts of Cleveland. The small side tavern was intimate, granting me the chance to connect with friends who I had, for the most part, either not seen in over two years or only knew from the internet. Everyone was jittery to get back into the groove of socialization, taking photos fervently in attempts to preserve each moment.
As the night rolled on, the stage, which was almost the same level as the floor, became a showcase of some of the most interesting arrangements of DEVO songs to grace anyone’s ears. One man band Eric Nassau brought loop pedal preciseness to his passionate acoustic guitar, pulling eyes as his tongue clicks, “la-la”s, and whistles were looped and sampled on the fly with the press of his feet. Listening to an audio recording, one may assume he had at least two other guitar players and a beat boxer accompanying him. He was a man-machine with a heart full of soul.
Poopy Necroponde and the Louisiana Fudge Patch Kids followed, subjecting the crowd to a hypnotizing mutant drone-groove that hit like spiked psychedelics. I was entranced by the motley gang on performers: two drummers, women in dashing white hoods and sunglasses looking like vagrants of a post-apocalyptic desert wasteland, a masked drag queen, a tiger print tracksuit bro, a helmeted scrub mutant in heels, and, most normally, Poopy looking like your average indie rocker in a backwards cap and jeans. They were the ones who were kicked out of the circus for suggesting they incorporate more brown notes. As they brought their seemingly endless blast of sonic terrorism to a close, I looked around me to realize they had cut the population of the room down by about half. I stayed. In fact, I wished their set had gone on longer. I was left fascinated and without words. All I knew was that nothing was going to beat Poopy’s platter that night. The crowded bodies slowly refilled the room, a warm refuge from the November weather—until a subtle chill took residence in the air and never dissipated, presumably because someone turned on the AC. After a peek into the Beachland’s basement shop, I departed as the hyperactive Fantastic Plastics live streamed their neon-embodying performance. I needed to rest up for the real big day to follow.
The night’s sleep then gave way to Saturday. Food, shopping at the plaza outside the hotel, food, primping, then back to the Ballroom. The main floor was open, and despite its recent renovations, the place still looked and felt the same as I remembered it. Rows of folding chairs filled the center of the room; merch tables lined the walls; DEVO posters hung high juxtaposed with polka paintings and musty curtains. Assorted freaks and geeks milled around examining the purchasable wares and chatting amongst each other. It was good to be back.
The Jimmy Psycho Experiment kicked off the event about a half hour after I arrived with techie-lounge instrumental arrangements of classic DEVO tracks. The lack of words didn’t keep the crowd from singing along to the ones they remembered—I remember the chorus to “Freedom of Choice” getting a particularly intense treatment. Everyone seemed happier than ever to be uniting once more in that little room.
The event’s special guests also helped provide support. I said hello one time to David Kendrick, who drummed for DEVO in the late 1980s, and I did not get to speak at all to comedian Fred Armisen, who took up drum duty for the band once in 2018, but many others enjoyed getting to speak with them. More power to them.
The most well known guest of the weekend, bassist and ‘chief strategist’ Jerry Casale, was accompanied by his trusty wranglers: manager and friend Jeff Winner manned the merch table for the recent reissue of Jerry’s 2006 album while Jerry’s wife, the kindhearted Krista Napp, was also reuniting with friends and places she hadn’t seen in person in years. Knowing both from the internet, I was glad to finally say hello in person. Jeff, a hep cat who had never attended DEVOtional previously, was great to hang around and joke with throughout the night. Krista proved herself to be the older and cooler version of myself that I always assumed she was, never faltering in her friendliness. We stood together with shared friend Kati to watch Jackson Leavitt’s hyperactive Fight Milk set, chatting between songs [get “Wiggly World” back in your setlist, DEVO!]. As the video projection screen screamed with color and Jackson bopped around the stage, we were given a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a new breed of DEVO fan—the Generation Z strain. There were more younger folk in the room than I remembered in previous years, from very small children to teenagers. Having practically grown up at the DEVOtional—I first attended before I had even entered high school—it was interesting seeing the littluns and the bigguns both have their fun. Then again, I was the one receiving mutual respect from Krista, Jeff, and others I looked up to despite age disparities. It was as if we were all old friends. There were no generation gaps, but we were all DEVO.
And who is more DEVO than Jerry Casale? I met him face to face once at my first DEVOtional over three years prior, and he might as well have been meeting an entirely different person. On Saturday, I was granted the chance to meet him as the person I have become since then. The times I got to speak with him across Saturday and Sunday were the most soaring highs of the weekend. We talked in truth, and he responded to me with genuine appreciation and interest. I got to see firsthand the humility he maintains while retaining passion and pride for the work he’s done. Considering my previous positive experience, I wasn’t not expecting it, but it was gratifying to be on the receiving end after such a long wait. I don’t listen to interviews with Jerry as much as I used to—his frequent devolutionist doom-and-gloom zeal, while truthful, is best ingested in moderation, especially when college applications and other investments for the future are being made. But in a few of the more recent ones I’ve heard, he’s cited the enthusiasm of the youth, that new generation, as a vital source of encouragement. It was fitting, then, that he showed someone like me respect. He seemed delighted when I told him I had my target set on his and Krista’s alma mater, Kent State—my own duty now for the future. I felt as if, finally, someone outside of my isolated small town bubble thought I was worth talking to. He had no obligation to be in that room, but he showed up anyway. He treated the people he met with respect and dignity. It was a true honor to feel so valued.
Jerry disappeared after a riveting performance of “Girl U Want” with local teen punk group Detention; their female lead singer Elliott sang the lyrics in first person right beside Jerry, who sang in third person. The group surged with youthful energy, knocking the performance of theirs I’d seen at 2019’s 5KDEVO out of the water. They were noticeably more comfortable with their position as local rock stars than they had been two years ago. They were also even better at physicalizing the raw emotions that come with teen angst, yet that clearly didn’t stop the oldsters from having a ball right along with them. The aforementioned Fred Armisen even joined in their final song, a ditty entitled “Fist Fight In The Parking Lot.” TEEN ANGST!
The explosion of energy that Detention brought was hard to follow up. Al Mothersbaugh’s Massive Hotdog Recall—Mark and Bobby’s cousin—did a damn good job of doing so, injecting classic DEVO tunes with horns, green visors, and one face plant. My initial disappointment of not being able to give Jerry a formal goodbye was washed away in a flash as I couldn’t help but let myself loose.
DEVOmatix, an Atlanta based tribute group who have been an end-of-the-night staple for the past few years, were next, serving a mixture of fun DEVO covers and entirely original songs, a daring move for a DEVO tribute band to make. Nonetheless, not shabby.
The rest of the night after Al’s band was more low-key on my end, though that could not be said for the more rowdy attendees. The final group, The Super Thing, was a lighthearted super group of members of bands who had played earlier. This was apparently a signal for everyone who had been drinking throughout the night to let loose like there was no 5K in the morning—not that most of them were running it, anyway. A football playing spaceman in a long matted black wig had been running around since early on in the day, and he was still filled with energy despite being stripped of his wig and subject to runners in his uniform. A green-bobbed Holly Hobbie was also bopping around, sometimes shielding her face from boy cooties with a reflective visor; she wore red hair and a J-Pop Strawberry Shortcake getup the previous night. A relatively normally dressed man who had been getting visibly more and more jittery as the night wore on made it known that he wasn’t just a new waver: “PLAY ‘IRON MAN!’ PLAY ‘IRON MAN!’” No Black Sabbath songs were performed. The playful drunken mayhem was extremely amusing to watch from my folding chair. By the end of the night, a strange monument to the insanity I had just witnessed was installed in the corner of the room—a puffy rainbow coat decorated with the spaceman’s armor and hat wrapped on some sort of mannequin. It was a beautiful sight.
Eventually the super group performed their last song and the lights switched on. Party people said their goodbyes and organizers began to clean up. We parted ways with friends old and newer for the night. Jeff the rookie admitted he was glad he had stuck out for the long haul; he ended up really enjoying himself. I couldn’t see why anyone wouldn’t have.
The next morning, I got up, donned my running gear, waved goodbye to the hotel, and headed down to Akron, the site of the weekend’s grand finale: the 5KDEVO. Most of the others who attended the previous night didn’t follow suit. I could see why. I still had energy within me to run three miles; I had been training for over a year at that point, and I wasn’t going to let the opportunity to show my stuff go to waste. I didn’t. I earned the third place trophy in my age group and set a personal record.
The race’s aftermath was forced to bend to that force that humans have been bending to more and more in recent years: the weather. The efforts made to defy the cold, including taking refuge in a cheesesteak parlor, were understandable, but the event in turn lacked the fanfare of the sunny late July installment of the race I had ran two years prior. A strings and flute performance of DEVO songs by a chamber quartet was worth running the race to watch, yet the low-key nature of the post-race in general, in no intended offense to the race’s organizers, felt a little anticlimactic. Maybe everyone just wanted to get it over with as the cold took hold of them. Maybe some of them wanted the overwhelming weekend to end quickly and painlessly. Yet even being left in the cold as the scene winded down couldn’t damper the warmth I was still feeling from earlier.
We moseyed to the parking garage where our car was waiting to take us back to the real world. One thing was certain: I had a new standard of living.
[Photo by Tim Nolan. Thanks again, Jerry!]
Thanks Nick, Michael, Tim, Jeff, and everyone else who helped make DEVOtional 2021 happen!
I apologize for the long posting break I’ve been on. I haven’t written anything in a few weeks due to a combination of business and self-preparation for this very weekend.
I’ll be attending the DEVOtional in Ohio and the coinciding 5KDEVO for the next few days. The in-person event last year was replaced by a live stream thanks to our lovely friend COVID-19, so I expect a triumphant and exhilarating return. Having attended the last two gatherings before COVID put the kibosh on them, my head and my hopes are high for my third. Expect many recollections and photos after the weekend has wrapped up.
It really does feel like time is a human construct sometimes. A month ago I was navigating train lines, electronic refrigerator doors in drugstores, and music festival crowds in Chicago, yet it feels like a lifetime ago. I have a long awaited trip to Cleveland and Akron in less than a month, and the wait feels like double that. In the meantime my schedule has been fuller than ever. It is as exhausting as it is worthwhile, and it feels like everything now is in preparation for the future. Whether that future is near or far depends on the situation.
A big part of my busy day, as always, is observing other humans, which is hands down one of my favorite hobbies. There’s nothing more fascinating than examining the personas people form in both real life and the digital world. There’s a lot of dichotomy involved with reacting to what others do. Example: knowing that there are couples whose supposed ultimate fairytale courtship moment of Luv included the phrase “I AM WEED” makes me simultaneously lose all faith in humanity and gain hope that I’ll someday find a boyfriend. It’s all about trying to maintain a positive mindset in depressing times. If even the most delirious, vapid, overindulged humans can find mates, that opens up a lot of doors for the rest of us. And you’re going to have to make judgments if you’re going to get anywhere. Too many people act as if they aren’t “judgmental” as if judgment isn’t an innate component of human/animal nature. Deciding that funky smelling milk isn’t safe to drink is as much a judgment as choosing the people you choose to surround yourself with. Some people are entranced by the stench of that rancid milk. If observation has taught me anything, humans are often very flawed creatures.
Asserting yourself and the things you associate with opens the door for others to make judgments about you. Too many people hide their best traits out of fear; too many people cover up their flaws to pass under societal radars. It makes you feel almost grateful that there are people so proud of declaring that they are, in fact, weed, because at least they’re being honest. This makes it easier for the rest of us to make correct judgments and stay as far away from them as possible. It’s going to be refreshing to indulge in some freedom of expression with people who aren’t afraid to be themselves and aren’t marijuana courtship string bean swamp creatures in the process.
My time in COVID-19 induced quarantine has had me reflecting on the things that I crave or look forward to in life that remain perpetually out of reach. Like a nice dinner outside in my general area without the party being crashed by invasive insects. Multiple times, the dinner I had with my family the other weekend was interrupted by spotted lantern flies landing on our table or dive bombing us. You could barely walk anywhere without seeing one of them flattened on the pavement. It was disgusting to experience. Spotted lantern flies, like all insects, are fascinating creatures. That does not subtract from the damage they have been doing to local ecosystems since they arrived in America a few years ago. They did not completely ruin my dinner, a genuinely good meal on its own, but they were a nuisance.
Recently, it seems like life has been filled with nuisances, and they accompany everything otherwise worth living for. All of them point towards the path of one of life’s cruelest, most disabling nuisances—DOUBT. Seeing those harmful insects polluting the air makes the restoration of the world you once knew seem more and more unlikely. Seeing people’s conversations de-evolve into mindless sloganeering and virtue signaling makes you question anyone’s ability to think critically. Having your view of the world ignored and shot down makes you question if your words even have meaning. You get overwhelmed by a gaslighting world, you lose grip on your motives and sense of self, you become complacent. You are crippled when the spotted lantern fly that just landed in your hair should have been the one to take the boot.
I know from personal experience what it is like to be overcome with dutiful, certain passion. Ninety percent of the time, that passion feels one sided. Life becomes an uphill battle to defeat the monster assembled from the tangled wires of consciousness and unconsciousness, decisiveness and anxiety, love and hatred—and nothing is right until the mission is completed. The rewards are usually temporary and unsatisfying, and true fulfillment has a waiting list. Now that’s what I call a nuisance.
At least I’m lucky that a few of the waiting lists I’ve found myself on have been growing shorter. That’s not always the case.
I won the lottery last week. Despite two vaccinations last spring and what feels like an eternity of relentless caution, I tested positive for COVID-19. Whoopee.
At least I pulled the luck of the draw in terms of symptom severity. Nothing surpassed the level of a particularly wicked cold, and I recovered very quickly. Judging by the time frame, I wouldn’t have been contagious for my comrades in Chicago, and when I learned of my ailment I was already back from my glorious weekend of concert attending there and keeping my mask up full time for school. My school hasn’t experienced any COVID case spike since my return as well. Not all is bad under quarantine.
In the meantime, I was forced to do my schoolwork online, giving me unwelcome flashbacks to last year. While getting back into the groove was easier than I expected, it was hard being separated from my other activities. As horrible as communicating with other people can be, once you’ve assimilated into society to some degree, you can’t take it out of you easily. Having human interaction stripped from you after getting used to it—and sometimes even enjoying it—does absolute wonders for one’s mental health. The friendships I forged over the past year or so have become invaluable to my current experience. There’s something strangely special about knowing you’ve left reverberations in other people’s lives. When those people make your own life worth living, stepping away bores a hole in you. It’s strange being aware of your own existence in this way, but it’s also eye opening. And ache inducing.
But at least I get to go back to what’s as close as I can get to the life I want to live. It could have been worse. I could have not believed that COVID-19 was a serious threat at all. I could have been without a vaccination and open to a world of pain worthy of a primetime-traumatize shock story. I could have signed my life over to some bile-spewing pundit and brainlessly ingested discredited animal medication as “protection” because he told me to. I could have been an idiot. At least I’m not that.
The Straight Facts On DEVOtional 2021
Saturday, November 13th, 2021“A bunch of nerds in a room.”
If you can stretch that definition like a rubber band, you can squeeze DEVOtional within the resulting lasso. It makes the gathering sound not very exhilarating. DEVOtional 2021 was not that. I had been awaiting the weekend for over two years, since COVID-19 turned 2020’s event virtual. I was excited to once again witness a disparate gaggle of hipsters, super freaks, and disco dancers celebrating the existence of DEVO, the De-Evolution Band, over two days of de-evolved joyful noise. After months of slump, we were vaccinated and recharged, and the rubber band was about to snap from the pressure. It had been too long.
It took five and a half hours of highwaying it to Ohio Friday morning to make it to the hotel, where the fall foliage and afternoon sun greeted us warmly against the frigid wind. The refuge of our hotel room was crucial for primping and resting up between days.
As the sun began to sink and the chills intensified, we drove to the Beachland Ballroom some twenty minutes away on the outskirts of Cleveland. The small side tavern was intimate, granting me the chance to connect with friends who I had, for the most part, either not seen in over two years or only knew from the internet. Everyone was jittery to get back into the groove of socialization, taking photos fervently in attempts to preserve each moment.
As the night rolled on, the stage, which was almost the same level as the floor, became a showcase of some of the most interesting arrangements of DEVO songs to grace anyone’s ears. One man band Eric Nassau brought loop pedal preciseness to his passionate acoustic guitar, pulling eyes as his tongue clicks, “la-la”s, and whistles were looped and sampled on the fly with the press of his feet. Listening to an audio recording, one may assume he had at least two other guitar players and a beat boxer accompanying him. He was a man-machine with a heart full of soul.
Poopy Necroponde and the Louisiana Fudge Patch Kids followed, subjecting the crowd to a hypnotizing mutant drone-groove that hit like spiked psychedelics. I was entranced by the motley gang on performers: two drummers, women in dashing white hoods and sunglasses looking like vagrants of a post-apocalyptic desert wasteland, a masked drag queen, a tiger print tracksuit bro, a helmeted scrub mutant in heels, and, most normally, Poopy looking like your average indie rocker in a backwards cap and jeans. They were the ones who were kicked out of the circus for suggesting they incorporate more brown notes. As they brought their seemingly endless blast of sonic terrorism to a close, I looked around me to realize they had cut the population of the room down by about half. I stayed. In fact, I wished their set had gone on longer. I was left fascinated and without words. All I knew was that nothing was going to beat Poopy’s platter that night. The crowded bodies slowly refilled the room, a warm refuge from the November weather—until a subtle chill took residence in the air and never dissipated, presumably because someone turned on the AC. After a peek into the Beachland’s basement shop, I departed as the hyperactive Fantastic Plastics live streamed their neon-embodying performance. I needed to rest up for the real big day to follow.
The night’s sleep then gave way to Saturday. Food, shopping at the plaza outside the hotel, food, primping, then back to the Ballroom. The main floor was open, and despite its recent renovations, the place still looked and felt the same as I remembered it. Rows of folding chairs filled the center of the room; merch tables lined the walls; DEVO posters hung high juxtaposed with polka paintings and musty curtains. Assorted freaks and geeks milled around examining the purchasable wares and chatting amongst each other. It was good to be back.
The Jimmy Psycho Experiment kicked off the event about a half hour after I arrived with techie-lounge instrumental arrangements of classic DEVO tracks. The lack of words didn’t keep the crowd from singing along to the ones they remembered—I remember the chorus to “Freedom of Choice” getting a particularly intense treatment. Everyone seemed happier than ever to be uniting once more in that little room.
The event’s special guests also helped provide support. I said hello one time to David Kendrick, who drummed for DEVO in the late 1980s, and I did not get to speak at all to comedian Fred Armisen, who took up drum duty for the band once in 2018, but many others enjoyed getting to speak with them. More power to them.
The most well known guest of the weekend, bassist and ‘chief strategist’ Jerry Casale, was accompanied by his trusty wranglers: manager and friend Jeff Winner manned the merch table for the recent reissue of Jerry’s 2006 album while Jerry’s wife, the kindhearted Krista Napp, was also reuniting with friends and places she hadn’t seen in person in years. Knowing both from the internet, I was glad to finally say hello in person. Jeff, a hep cat who had never attended DEVOtional previously, was great to hang around and joke with throughout the night. Krista proved herself to be the older and cooler version of myself that I always assumed she was, never faltering in her friendliness. We stood together with shared friend Kati to watch Jackson Leavitt’s hyperactive Fight Milk set, chatting between songs [get “Wiggly World” back in your setlist, DEVO!]. As the video projection screen screamed with color and Jackson bopped around the stage, we were given a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a new breed of DEVO fan—the Generation Z strain. There were more younger folk in the room than I remembered in previous years, from very small children to teenagers. Having practically grown up at the DEVOtional—I first attended before I had even entered high school—it was interesting seeing the littluns and the bigguns both have their fun. Then again, I was the one receiving mutual respect from Krista, Jeff, and others I looked up to despite age disparities. It was as if we were all old friends. There were no generation gaps, but we were all DEVO.
And who is more DEVO than Jerry Casale? I met him face to face once at my first DEVOtional over three years prior, and he might as well have been meeting an entirely different person. On Saturday, I was granted the chance to meet him as the person I have become since then. The times I got to speak with him across Saturday and Sunday were the most soaring highs of the weekend. We talked in truth, and he responded to me with genuine appreciation and interest. I got to see firsthand the humility he maintains while retaining passion and pride for the work he’s done. Considering my previous positive experience, I wasn’t not expecting it, but it was gratifying to be on the receiving end after such a long wait. I don’t listen to interviews with Jerry as much as I used to—his frequent devolutionist doom-and-gloom zeal, while truthful, is best ingested in moderation, especially when college applications and other investments for the future are being made. But in a few of the more recent ones I’ve heard, he’s cited the enthusiasm of the youth, that new generation, as a vital source of encouragement. It was fitting, then, that he showed someone like me respect. He seemed delighted when I told him I had my target set on his and Krista’s alma mater, Kent State—my own duty now for the future. I felt as if, finally, someone outside of my isolated small town bubble thought I was worth talking to. He had no obligation to be in that room, but he showed up anyway. He treated the people he met with respect and dignity. It was a true honor to feel so valued.
Jerry disappeared after a riveting performance of “Girl U Want” with local teen punk group Detention; their female lead singer Elliott sang the lyrics in first person right beside Jerry, who sang in third person. The group surged with youthful energy, knocking the performance of theirs I’d seen at 2019’s 5KDEVO out of the water. They were noticeably more comfortable with their position as local rock stars than they had been two years ago. They were also even better at physicalizing the raw emotions that come with teen angst, yet that clearly didn’t stop the oldsters from having a ball right along with them. The aforementioned Fred Armisen even joined in their final song, a ditty entitled “Fist Fight In The Parking Lot.” TEEN ANGST!
The explosion of energy that Detention brought was hard to follow up. Al Mothersbaugh’s Massive Hotdog Recall—Mark and Bobby’s cousin—did a damn good job of doing so, injecting classic DEVO tunes with horns, green visors, and one face plant. My initial disappointment of not being able to give Jerry a formal goodbye was washed away in a flash as I couldn’t help but let myself loose.
DEVOmatix, an Atlanta based tribute group who have been an end-of-the-night staple for the past few years, were next, serving a mixture of fun DEVO covers and entirely original songs, a daring move for a DEVO tribute band to make. Nonetheless, not shabby.
The rest of the night after Al’s band was more low-key on my end, though that could not be said for the more rowdy attendees. The final group, The Super Thing, was a lighthearted super group of members of bands who had played earlier. This was apparently a signal for everyone who had been drinking throughout the night to let loose like there was no 5K in the morning—not that most of them were running it, anyway. A football playing spaceman in a long matted black wig had been running around since early on in the day, and he was still filled with energy despite being stripped of his wig and subject to runners in his uniform. A green-bobbed Holly Hobbie was also bopping around, sometimes shielding her face from boy cooties with a reflective visor; she wore red hair and a J-Pop Strawberry Shortcake getup the previous night. A relatively normally dressed man who had been getting visibly more and more jittery as the night wore on made it known that he wasn’t just a new waver: “PLAY ‘IRON MAN!’ PLAY ‘IRON MAN!’” No Black Sabbath songs were performed. The playful drunken mayhem was extremely amusing to watch from my folding chair. By the end of the night, a strange monument to the insanity I had just witnessed was installed in the corner of the room—a puffy rainbow coat decorated with the spaceman’s armor and hat wrapped on some sort of mannequin. It was a beautiful sight.
Eventually the super group performed their last song and the lights switched on. Party people said their goodbyes and organizers began to clean up. We parted ways with friends old and newer for the night. Jeff the rookie admitted he was glad he had stuck out for the long haul; he ended up really enjoying himself. I couldn’t see why anyone wouldn’t have.
The next morning, I got up, donned my running gear, waved goodbye to the hotel, and headed down to Akron, the site of the weekend’s grand finale: the 5KDEVO. Most of the others who attended the previous night didn’t follow suit. I could see why. I still had energy within me to run three miles; I had been training for over a year at that point, and I wasn’t going to let the opportunity to show my stuff go to waste. I didn’t. I earned the third place trophy in my age group and set a personal record.
The race’s aftermath was forced to bend to that force that humans have been bending to more and more in recent years: the weather. The efforts made to defy the cold, including taking refuge in a cheesesteak parlor, were understandable, but the event in turn lacked the fanfare of the sunny late July installment of the race I had ran two years prior. A strings and flute performance of DEVO songs by a chamber quartet was worth running the race to watch, yet the low-key nature of the post-race in general, in no intended offense to the race’s organizers, felt a little anticlimactic. Maybe everyone just wanted to get it over with as the cold took hold of them. Maybe some of them wanted the overwhelming weekend to end quickly and painlessly. Yet even being left in the cold as the scene winded down couldn’t damper the warmth I was still feeling from earlier.
We moseyed to the parking garage where our car was waiting to take us back to the real world. One thing was certain: I had a new standard of living.
Thanks Nick, Michael, Tim, Jeff, and everyone else who helped make DEVOtional 2021 happen!
Tags:5KDEVO, adolescence, college, concerts, Detention, DEVO, DEVOmatix, DEVOtional, DEVOtional 2021, Eric Nassau, Fight Milk, human interaction, Kent State, Massive Hotdog Recall, music, personal experiences, Poopy Necroponde, reviews, running, The Fantastic Plastics, The Jimmy Psycho Experiment, The Super Thing, things I enjoy
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