Facebook shot me this article a few days ago and I’ve been thinking about it. “Kidult.”
When I crossed the threshold into glorious, glorious adulthood and shipped off to college, I was excited about my newfound independence and the ability to move past a lot of the trappings that I felt as a lowly high schooler. What this article refers to as a seemingly traditional view of adulthood—being “a very upstanding, serious member of society…intellectually, emotionally, in every other single way”—was very appealing to me. I wanted to go out and try new things and be taken seriously (not that I wasn’t taken seriously in many respects previously).
Now I go to college and there’s student organized group viewings of, like, Hocus Pocus. I have never seen Hocus Pocus and have no interest in doing so, and from what I’ve heard it’s not too great, so I’m not sure why it’s being brought up again besides nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. And nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake is just not something I’ve ever reveled in. My parents just didn’t raise me on Disney films, and none of the TV shows I watched or toys I played with as a kid really stuck with me in a connected or personal manner. I’ve never even seen a Star Wars movie.
A wide scale shift towards multimedia franchises aimed at children is mentioned in that article, and it seems like getting ‘em while they’re young has worked in some respects. In fact, it is so entrenched in our society that the “Disney adult” is an easily recognizable archetype. We make fun of Disney adults and made fun of all that Ready Player One manchild crap a few years ago. But we also lap up whatever new wave of popular nostalgia comes our way. We look to the past for comfort, even though we would never be able to survive a day with only a flip phone or, alternatively, no phone at all. We are told that the past was great, back when we didn’t have brains developed enough to make informed decisions about what was shoved down our throats. So we use current day, dumbed down tech to recapture the times we thought were simple because we could barely think in the first place. I had a really happy childhood and learned later that my parents were dealing with the recession and (successfully) trying their hardest to keep the associated anxiety from rubbing off on me simultaneously. Ignorance is truly bliss.
Today, I go to the dollar store, where a good amount of the items are more than a dollar thanks to good ol’ inflation, and there’s licensed Barbie dolls alongside the wonky off-brand ones. Then I walk past the toy aisle when I’m running errands, and I see shiny new toy lines that emphasize copy-paste blind box “surprises” and literally theming characters after every color of the rainbow for collect-’em-all domination. I’m not quite sure if I understand it, but it’s strangely fascinating to see. It’s weird how seemingly disposable they seem, because they seem like they were produced solely to be bought and discarded. They seem algorithmically generated and kind of crappy. They still make the old ones, or at least updated versions of the old ones, most of the time. Time will tell if these new toys, tailor made for the current ADHD social media generation, have any staying power. Or maybe we’ll all just move onto another “next big thing” before we take the time to remember them.
Before my mom got married, she actually dyed her hair because she didn’t want her highlights to make every photo from her big day scream “early 2000s.” If I were to raise a kid in this day and age, I’d follow a similar philosophy: curiously observing and playing around with whatever trends life throws at us, but never forgetting the value of timelessness.
Over the weekend, I got my first true taste at college life. Kent State freshman orientation. Verdict: not too shabby. It was the fourth time I’d been to Kent, and it might have been the most satisfying visit there yet. Today actually marks one year since I first stepped foot in the college town, which I still find hard to believe. When four nebulous years lie ahead of me, it feels even more surreal. But that strangeness has never felt negative.
We rolled into town last Thursday afternoon, with my orientation beginning the next morning. I got to visit North Water Street, an old part of town I had never been to before. It’s the site of the old JB’s club, a regionally legendary venue that hosted the likes of 15-60-75 (The Numbers Band) and DEVO. It’s called the Brew Down now, but the outlines of its sign and door awning remain the same, albeit in a more garish KSU blue and gold. The buildings beside it, featured in DEVO’s pioneering 1976 short film The Truth About De-Evolution, are worn and boarded up, and one has been demolished. It was interesting to see that not all of the city has succumbed to the cutesy college town ‘vibes’ that seemingly define the ideal 2020s campus.
They also sell Numbers Band shirts at one of the local school shirt shops, which are sick, though I kept myself from buying one due to my current unfamiliarity with their material. I ain’t no poser, yuh see.
In seeing the campus itself across the three days I was in town, it was probably the most gorgeous I’d ever seen it. The weather was pristine the entire weekend, and the campus was seemingly made for sunsets. Buildings such as Franklin Hall, which I’ll be spending some time in as a journalism major, looked more dignified than ever. Spring in Kent is incredible for more reasons than just the history, even as it was rolling into a sweltering summer.
The orientation itself went down easily. There was quite a bit of sitting through informational presentations that could have just been read online, but the rest of the time let me connect with and adapt to my new surroundings and traditions hands-on. The process felt effortless. I stayed overnight in a dorm for the first time, and while honors college housing will be supplying me with much more living space than I experienced Friday night, I thought my room’s compactness was pretty charming. As long as I don’t have to bunk my bed, I’m good. The communal bathroom situation went easier than I expected, and the dining hall food wasn’t too shabby. I also did the Electric Slide for the first time. I wish I regretted doing that.
The climax of the event was working out my fall semester schedule, which went very smoothly. Afterwards I had over an hour until my next scheduled activity, so I took the opportunity to wander around campus some more, figuring out how much time I would need to get between classes. I revisited the site of the May 4 shootings, my first time as an official student. And in knowing that my choice was official, that I had successfully taken my life into my own hands in some way, that I had my own footsteps to make both following in and alongside those who came before me—I felt more secure than I ever had before standing on those hallowed grounds.
I got my university ID card shortly afterwards in the student center, which was satisfying to say the least, even though I almost lost it by letting it fall onto the floor minutes after receiving it. I left high school with a doi; I entered college with one. Some things never change. But I expect better behavior from myself during my tenure at Kent.
For my senior year, my first class every day was AP Physics, and my teacher had a small poster located in very close proximity to his classroom flag. The poster had a stock image of a velociraptor above text reading “Velociraptor = Distraptor / Timeraptor.” Classic physics joke. I always stood there silently with my hands by my sides looking at that poster during the daily pledge. When we were told to rise for the national anthem at my graduation ceremony last night, I thought about that poster.
It felt like any other pledge, and the majority of my preparations for the end of my senior year of high school felt like any other day. Final assignments, papers, and tests all felt like nothing I wasn’t used to. Sitting through my peers’ speeches was different that usual, but it was easy. I felt a few butterflies flitting around in my stomach shortly before rising to join the line of students waiting to receive their diplomas, and that was it. It was like I was a complete natural at the experience of high school, and in many ways, I guess I was. I wasn’t walking across that stage with three cords, two stoles, one medal and, lest we forget, a cap and gown for no reason. In some way or another, I think I won high school.
When I got home, I got to read updates about a horrific school shooting in Uvalde, Texas. I had first read about it sometime before the ceremony when only a few children were confirmed dead from the massacre. The number had reached the teens and included teachers by the time I had gotten home after the ceremony. Today I got to read pleas from political pundits suggesting turning schools into heavily guarded, logistically nonsensical obstacle courses to prevent shootings instead of actually doing anything that would keep the weapons perpetrating said shootings out of the hands of the cruel and unstable. In August I’ll be moving into a dorm at Kent State University, known across the country as ‘that school where kids got shot’ if Star Wars doesn’t completely overtake your mental function every May 4.
Some things don’t change. But some things do, in small and subtle ways that will soon spread and explode into something much bigger than itself.
Graduation practice was held this morning. I couldn’t find specifically where I was supposed to go, so I naturally ended up going to the track field where the ceremony is to be held should the weather cooperate. Chairs were being set up, and despite the fact that I didn’t recognize anyone walking the track or throwing assorted sports balls around, I’m used to not recognizing most of the people in my school’s halls, so I figured they were just some unfamiliar fellow seniors killing time. I walked the track, wondering if I should’ve brought a jacket.
The kids were herded back into the gym shortly afterwards. I sat on the bleachers, waiting for instructions. I and a few others were then reprimanded by one of the gym teachers for sitting on the bleachers when they were supposed to be kept clean.
Confused about why barely anyone was there despite having arrived on time, I went up to one of the teachers—another gym teacher—at the front of the gym and asked her about exactly what was happening. It turns out I had walked into a gym class and completely, perfectly assimilated myself.
What a way to end my high school career: a big, fat doi.
I’m not angry or disappointed; I just find it hilarious.
I did make my way to where I was supposed to be, the humid auxiliary gym right beside where my misguided assumptions had led me, and settled myself in my assigned folding chair. I gazed across the rows as the principal read out the ceremony procedure, and a peculiar feeling welled up inside of me. Despite all the effort I had put in to get to this point, the effort that gifted me the assorted cords and stoles I’ll be wearing, the act of sitting there felt terrifyingly effortless.
On Wednesday night, the seaport district of New York City was overtaken by hordes of beautiful mutants. It would have been my third to last day of high school had I not taken two days off to throw down with some enlightened brethren to see DEVO, that de-evolution band who have been soldering on for forty-nine years now. The show they put on did nothing to dent the reputation they’ve built up for themselves.
We arrived in NYC a few hours before the show started and ushered our way down to the waterfront as quickly as we could to mingle with spuds. Energy domes of many colors and persuasions—classic red, blue, black, mirror ball—sat on many heads. (I wore mine on the way to New York, getting many compliments and side eyes in the process, but ended up leaving it in the hotel room due to its bulkiness.) I spoke to many friends I hadn’t seen in months and others that I had long anticipated meeting in person.
The show marked the first time I had ever taken an escalator to a concert. The herd was guided up a good three or four of them to the roof of the complex where the stage was located. The entire scene was very swanky, something DEVO deserve after years of toil and the steaming hot weather of the festival they played in California last weekend, which was a talking point among its attendees. The buildings of New York City towered in the distance. The noise they made probably echoed out over the water and over the city like the ring of a gun.
Thanks to my bodyguard duo of friends Chaim and Rachel, I was easily able to assume my usual DEVO position: right up against the guard rail. Much like my last fling in Chicago, I found myself directly in front of Jerry’s synth bass setup.
Rod Rooter’s sardonic address, familiar to us from Chicago, opened the show once more. And to quote the New York Dolls, something must’ve happened over Manhattan, because the sheer energy that DEVO brought was monstrous. Every member was absolutely in their fullest de-evolved element. I would have never expected to see Jerry smile so much during a DEVO show. He was clearly having the time of his life up there, especially during my favorite live offering of theirs, “Secret Agent Man,” when he let his tongue wag around like he was in autopilot ecstasy.
The guitars were sharp as usual—Bob 1’s sonic attacks at the audience came out very nicely, especially as he snapped his strings during his frazzled “Mr. DNA” solo. The stoic Josh 2 wielded a brand new custom axe that blended in well with his radiation suit while Josh 1 slammed the skins with alien precision from stage right.
And of course, Mark Mothersbaugh, certified birthday boy, gave a fittingly good show, even if the large speaker box in the way of my view reduced him to a disembodied head and sometimes obscured him entirely many a time throughout the night. The rest of the time, he came out far enough for my part of the audience to bask in his de-evolved glory.
And even when DEVO wasn’t singing, they had the crowd by the collar. Jerry gave a bitter, all-too relevant monologue to the “spuds, spudesses, and everyone in between on the spectrum” in the audience before “Jocko Homo,” lamenting the sad worldwide spread of de-evolution—when it comes to good ol’ DEVO, politic and stage presence are not mutually exclusive. Later, the certified birthday Booji Boy of the night came out at the encore to throw energy dome shaped cookies—wrapped in COVID-safe prophylactic baggies—at the crowd. He monologued about DEVO’s dead cool friends rising from their graves and crawling to the venue while Jerry looked on with the most glorious, bug-eyed face I’ve ever seen. And then it was over.
But not yet for me.
Shortly after arrival I learned that I alongside a few other young alien types were not only invited to meet the band in the dressing room but also to the after party (thanks, Michael!). The “dressing room” was a vast little room that everyone was crowded into one third of, by the door. It was in this space where I found myself face to face with Mark Mothersbaugh himself. Scared and intimidated by his form, I had to put my oft-neglected self defense skills to use before he could pounce first.
Not too rusty. After this photo he wanted to make sure it turned out well for the memories. That rascal.
I also got to remeet Bob Mothersbaugh, who remembered me from DEVOtional 2019, and talk to Josh Hager, who proved to be just as kind in person as he’s been to me via Fakebook. Jerry was in a rush—with “a lot of crap to deal with”—and I barely caught him.
After the room had cleared out, the after party was next in our targets. Set in a even smaller but equally swanky restaurant on the first floor, the room was packed with people, many of whom I didn’t recognize. I had never encountered such a busy, socialite, adult event, but I was able to mingle my way around successfully, talking to old friends and even a few new faces.
I bumped into Mark again, mentioning my plans to attend Jerry and his alma mater, Kent State University. He gave me a sticker of DEVO’s newest logo, a golden compass with energy dome accents that the band members wore on their chests during the show, as a sort of congrats cookie. I did the same when I caught back up with Jerry later in the night. By that time he had relaxed from whatever had been going on in the dressing room. He seemed very happy to hear about my plans!
As the night went on, much of the party became a delirious and beautiful blur to me, the result of a positive disorientation. More and more delicious looking food was placed on a sleek, long white table throughout the night, and numerous times servers with swanky snack foods asked me and whoever I was speaking to if we wanted to try. The cake for the birthday Booji Boy, adorned in energy domes that were apparently marshmallow, came out some time during the night as Jerry serenaded Mark very enthusiastically. I ate a slice, even though I wasn’t hungry. There was talking, talking, and more talking. And it was amazing.
And then I rode home the next day and attended my final day of high school the day after that, an undercover agent as my peers remained totally unaware of the events I had witnessed just hours earlier.
Last week was technically the last ‘normal’ week of classes before AP and state testing wreck havoc across the land. For me, it was the busiest week of my high school career. I had my final Model UN conference, which ended with a joke motion to “get rid of Ohio (via bulldozer boats)” (don’t ask). Guess I won’t be off to Kent State in August, for it had to be sacrificed to save America from the rapidly expanding, parasitic Buckeye State. On other days of the week, I found myself in parts of my school I had never seen in my entire four years of attendance there. The secret agent lurking inside of me adored that, though I still question why my school doesn’t use its perfectly preserved time capsule pool for more than the swim team and physics class boat races, or why I didn’t know they have a room full of iMacs.
All that aside, it gives me mixed emotions to know that the public school system I’ve been tethered to for the last twelve years will be soon be behind me.
It’s even odder placing my role as a freethinking high schooler in the context of our current culture. More and more attacks on critical thinking have been entering schools across the country thanks to concerned parents who would prefer their children remain ignorant to history and the world at large. Reading about book bans and threats towards teachers who teach the truth is disheartening and, frankly, terrifying. It’s a shame that we as humans, instead of encouraging nuance and intelligent analysis, have allowed for those actively promoting ignorance to have an increasingly large platform. Society is being rapidly dumbed down at the hands of these types, the ones who let their favorite political pundits and reality show stars—what’s the difference nowadays?—determine their every opinion instead of stopping to think about what they are consuming. They may be puppets, but they have power.
We live in a world of ever-increasing absurdity, plain and simple, and humans are basically just strange little animals trapped in an overcrowded cage. They do weird things and can seem very kind one moment and then be seen brutally mauling each other the next. Recognizing these truths is the only way to see the world for what it is. And when logical thought and critical thinking are placed at the forefront of this observation and emotions don’t blind us, work can be done and change can be made for the better—for all of us. When education devalues these qualities and promotes homogeny and close-mindedness in their place, you are learning nothing but a lie.
I’m genuinely grateful that I was able to receive a quality education throughout my high school career. And I’m miffed that the things that made those four years so valuable to me—the discussions I’ve had in my English and social studies classes, the documentaries I’ve watched and dissections I’ve done in anatomy class, the support I’ve received from my teachers—are being disparaged across the country. But then again, people still think that the Kent students protesting the Vietnam War on that crisp spring day in 1970—the anniversary of which is coming up rapidly—were the true agitators when the National Guard came to town. And that’s not stopping me any time soon.
As I enter the next phase of my life, I will continue to seek the truth.
Last weekend was my second excursion to Fugaziland, otherwise known as Washington, D.C. Instead of engaging in punk rock rambunctiousness like last time, I had a much more formal mission: my first Model UN conference, the North American Invitational Model United Nations. I had always been interested in Model UN, but I never embarked on it until the beginning of the current school year. I’m very glad I did. Never would I have thought I would have an experience like I did at this past conference before I started college.
I wasn’t used to being around people my age who weren’t the same people I saw every day at school, and it was a little strange how everyone looked so familiar yet so unfamiliar. But I got used to my surroundings quickly. I joined the crowd of gussied up teenagers checking their notes and crossing their fingers, and I fit right in. Transplanted from my usual surroundings into a swanky Hilton hotel, I found myself representing Hong Kong in the C40 Cities Climate Leadership Group, working with other high schoolers to tackle the problem of urban greenhouse gas emissions. It was a lot less nerve-racking than it sounds, especially considering that the real world implications of those decisions weren’t actually weighing on us. It was a fascinating and enriching time hearing the stances of everyone else’s assigned city, which resulted in some heated debate despite the general consensus that climate change equals bad, and working out alliances and plans. Many sixty-second speeches were given and many notes were passed.
Our committee meetings were spread across four days with plenty of time to explore the hotel and the surrounding city (within the radius designated by our advisors) in between. On Friday my school’s delegation took the metro to see the Capitol building (from a distance) and the Washington Monument (which I got to lean against). It was slightly surreal being where a homegrown coup against democracy had been attempted, even if it was from afar. When you spend so much of your life picking up on worldly events from afar it’s interesting to find yourself at Ground Zero, even after everything seems to have settled. I felt similarly watching the news about Russian escalation in Ukraine on the flatscreen in my hotel floor’s lobby while waiting for the extremely congested elevators. So many monumental changes happening while everything else in life seems to remain just as it was…I read a good Tumblr post about this phenomenon the other day—diary entries from the past casually mentioning the beginnings of large-scale wars and man’s landing on the moon beside daily routines and boy gossip. There’s more than two sides to every story, I guess.
At least, the metro looked gorgeous.
But at the conference I didn’t feel like I was just sitting idly by while everything happened around me all at once. I had a role to fulfill and duties to undertake, and I engaged in them successfully. On top of that, socializing was easy considering that almost everyone else was a stranger. I met people from New Jersey, California, Mexico, and Puerto Rico to name a few, and everyone was friendly and open. No matter where we came from or what our committees were, we were all united by the same purpose: to solve some problems and flex some mental muscles. That uniting factor really opened up my horizons much more than being trapped in a high school I never made where everyone else has been BFFs since their elementary years. And in the end, through these alliances and plenty of teamwork, it did really feel as if we had gotten something done when our draft resolutions passed. We had shown our ability to take responsibility and work together. It was a truly liberating experience in every sense, and I almost wished it didn’t have to end.
The day after I got home, it was abnormally nice out, nice enough to take a walk through the neighborhood in a three-quarter sleeve cardigan and my favorite leather-y jeans. If only the weather had been so agreeable down in D.C. It was brisk the entire time we were there, and the winds almost bowled me over as I stalked the street down from the hotel for Thai food that Saturday. I didn’t actually think my group would be leaving the hotel throughout the weekend, so I didn’t pack a coat or gloves. I made do by layering the three blazers I’d brought along. I think it’s going to be a hip winter fashion trend next year for those who follow the philosophy that “beauty is pain.”
The attire of champions.
But upon returning home, I got to crack open my bedroom window (in February!) and let the fresh air float in without freezing to death. There’s something about the spring air that stirs something inside of me, that end of seasonal dormancy. It makes me feel as if things are happening as opposed to having to wait for the world to unthaw. I know things are happening for me, no matter how frustrating life may be at times. In the next few months, my concept of normalcy will be changing, and it will resemble the freedom I experienced last weekend more than what I’m going through now. I couldn’t be more jittery—in the best way possible, that is.
The Kent State Honors College finally decided to cut out my anxiety and send me the fateful email.
I’m accepted!
Actually, they sent it to me six days before I actually saw it, so it’s on me that I let the uncertainty persist for that long. I thought my radar scanner was in perfect condition—I guess not!
Despite that error, my hard work has paid off, and all my fantasies of exploring Kent’s annals on weekends and participating in the May 4th Task Force feel more concrete. I’m well aware that unexpected roadblocks will appear and unexpected opportunities will arise, but those uncertainties haven’t taken away any of my anticipation. It’s exciting to know that I’m considered a worthy candidate.
I’m still reeling from getting accepted, and I’m finding it genuinely hard to put into words all my pent up ecstasy. All I can say right now is that I’m truly honored to have the opportunity to attend a school with such history and contribute to its community.
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.
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!
On The Inside
Saturday, May 21st, 2022“…are we not MEEEEEEEN?!”
“WE ARE DEEEVOOO!”
“DAMN right.”
On Wednesday night, the seaport district of New York City was overtaken by hordes of beautiful mutants. It would have been my third to last day of high school had I not taken two days off to throw down with some enlightened brethren to see DEVO, that de-evolution band who have been soldering on for forty-nine years now. The show they put on did nothing to dent the reputation they’ve built up for themselves.
We arrived in NYC a few hours before the show started and ushered our way down to the waterfront as quickly as we could to mingle with spuds. Energy domes of many colors and persuasions—classic red, blue, black, mirror ball—sat on many heads. (I wore mine on the way to New York, getting many compliments and side eyes in the process, but ended up leaving it in the hotel room due to its bulkiness.) I spoke to many friends I hadn’t seen in months and others that I had long anticipated meeting in person.
The show marked the first time I had ever taken an escalator to a concert. The herd was guided up a good three or four of them to the roof of the complex where the stage was located. The entire scene was very swanky, something DEVO deserve after years of toil and the steaming hot weather of the festival they played in California last weekend, which was a talking point among its attendees. The buildings of New York City towered in the distance. The noise they made probably echoed out over the water and over the city like the ring of a gun.
Thanks to my bodyguard duo of friends Chaim and Rachel, I was easily able to assume my usual DEVO position: right up against the guard rail. Much like my last fling in Chicago, I found myself directly in front of Jerry’s synth bass setup.
Rod Rooter’s sardonic address, familiar to us from Chicago, opened the show once more. And to quote the New York Dolls, something must’ve happened over Manhattan, because the sheer energy that DEVO brought was monstrous. Every member was absolutely in their fullest de-evolved element. I would have never expected to see Jerry smile so much during a DEVO show. He was clearly having the time of his life up there, especially during my favorite live offering of theirs, “Secret Agent Man,” when he let his tongue wag around like he was in autopilot ecstasy.
The guitars were sharp as usual—Bob 1’s sonic attacks at the audience came out very nicely, especially as he snapped his strings during his frazzled “Mr. DNA” solo. The stoic Josh 2 wielded a brand new custom axe that blended in well with his radiation suit while Josh 1 slammed the skins with alien precision from stage right.
And of course, Mark Mothersbaugh, certified birthday boy, gave a fittingly good show, even if the large speaker box in the way of my view reduced him to a disembodied head and sometimes obscured him entirely many a time throughout the night. The rest of the time, he came out far enough for my part of the audience to bask in his de-evolved glory.
And even when DEVO wasn’t singing, they had the crowd by the collar. Jerry gave a bitter, all-too relevant monologue to the “spuds, spudesses, and everyone in between on the spectrum” in the audience before “Jocko Homo,” lamenting the sad worldwide spread of de-evolution—when it comes to good ol’ DEVO, politic and stage presence are not mutually exclusive. Later, the certified birthday Booji Boy of the night came out at the encore to throw energy dome shaped cookies—wrapped in COVID-safe prophylactic baggies—at the crowd. He monologued about DEVO’s dead cool friends rising from their graves and crawling to the venue while Jerry looked on with the most glorious, bug-eyed face I’ve ever seen. And then it was over.
But not yet for me.
Shortly after arrival I learned that I alongside a few other young alien types were not only invited to meet the band in the dressing room but also to the after party (thanks, Michael!). The “dressing room” was a vast little room that everyone was crowded into one third of, by the door. It was in this space where I found myself face to face with Mark Mothersbaugh himself. Scared and intimidated by his form, I had to put my oft-neglected self defense skills to use before he could pounce first.
Not too rusty. After this photo he wanted to make sure it turned out well for the memories. That rascal.
I also got to remeet Bob Mothersbaugh, who remembered me from DEVOtional 2019, and talk to Josh Hager, who proved to be just as kind in person as he’s been to me via Fakebook. Jerry was in a rush—with “a lot of crap to deal with”—and I barely caught him.
After the room had cleared out, the after party was next in our targets. Set in a even smaller but equally swanky restaurant on the first floor, the room was packed with people, many of whom I didn’t recognize. I had never encountered such a busy, socialite, adult event, but I was able to mingle my way around successfully, talking to old friends and even a few new faces.
I bumped into Mark again, mentioning my plans to attend Jerry and his alma mater, Kent State University. He gave me a sticker of DEVO’s newest logo, a golden compass with energy dome accents that the band members wore on their chests during the show, as a sort of congrats cookie. I did the same when I caught back up with Jerry later in the night. By that time he had relaxed from whatever had been going on in the dressing room. He seemed very happy to hear about my plans!
As the night went on, much of the party became a delirious and beautiful blur to me, the result of a positive disorientation. More and more delicious looking food was placed on a sleek, long white table throughout the night, and numerous times servers with swanky snack foods asked me and whoever I was speaking to if we wanted to try. The cake for the birthday Booji Boy, adorned in energy domes that were apparently marshmallow, came out some time during the night as Jerry serenaded Mark very enthusiastically. I ate a slice, even though I wasn’t hungry. There was talking, talking, and more talking. And it was amazing.
And then I rode home the next day and attended my final day of high school the day after that, an undercover agent as my peers remained totally unaware of the events I had witnessed just hours earlier.
Best graduation party ever.
Tags:adolescence, after party, concerts, DEVO, human interaction, music, new experiences, New York City, partying, personal experiences, photos, Pier 17, punching Mark Mothersbaugh, things I enjoy, travel
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