All this Taylor Swift blahblahblah that I don’t care about made me think about how I haven’t been subjected to any news about what Billie Eilish or Olivia Rodrigo have been up to for, like, a year.
I’d say that’s a good thing, but they’re probably going under some dramatic image transformation for their next “era” right now and then I’ll have to hear about them again. Ah, pop music.
I’m leaving for college Friday. All the finishing touches are being put on my departure, and the gravity is only now truly setting in. It’s overwhelming to think about sometimes. Not really terrifying, just overwhelming. Overwhelming in the way that thinking too much about something makes you feel, until you think too much some more and realize the workload is totally tolerable. It’s kind of annoying.
The Melvins have been the soundtrack to this pre-collegiate angst ever since I saw them over a month ago, and I assume they’ll still be there to help me through my post-pre-collegiate angst. Looking back, that show feels like it was the equivalent of stumbling into a church only to encounter a fire-and-brimstone preacher’s most imposing sermon and becoming a hardcore Christian on the spot out of fear and awe. To put it lightly, I’m hooked. It’s simple, really: I like things that go against things I don’t like, the list of which includes genre trappings, banality, the lack of a sense of humor, hypersensitivity, and stupidity. All of these things are incredibly overbearing, which makes it all the more satisfying to find a driving force of subversive defiance to those norms. Like the Melvins.
Looking at groups like DEVO and the Melvins feels like looking at a beacon calling forth all the boys and girls who are fed up with straight society and crave more than what it gives. Call me a moth to a flame, then—a calculated moth to a calculated flame, that is. I’m a freethinker, and I’m not into pledging blind allegiance. Following things mindlessly sets people up for failure. I say follow things that make you think. The Melvins make you think because one’s brain is constantly trying to decipher what the hell King Buzzo is singing whenever you listen to ‘em. Or sometimes I’ll find myself listening to a song (sometimes by the Melvins, sometimes by someone else) and questioning how their label let them release it in the first place or how it is even permitted to exist. Who green lights “Skin Horse”? Who? Seriously. This is no diss; I love that song. But on every listen, the perfection of its warped, tragic, alienating strain of insanity seems too good to be true. But it is true, and it’s concrete, and it feels very special to see.
Looking at the big picture, I don’t think that yesterday’s and today’s…what’s a good term…creative terrorists get the credit they deserve for their sheer bravery. Thanks to efforts like theirs, people like me get to hear things that tap into a very vital, rare, primal vein that satisfies many good, weird criteria. People are more pent up and frustrated than ever. And the things many of these people have always wanted to express but were too scared to, might just get belted into microphones by punk rock priests at sold out shows. Things like this encourage me to keep on marching. I wouldn’t be setting up for the real world with confidence without taking those influences with me.
In the span of three days, I
Jeez.
My first log as a legal adult. Who would’ve thought! Yeah, I’m pretty hardcore. It’s definitely an interesting time to be going through so many rites of passage, from graduating to reaching adulthood last Sunday. It’s also pretty interesting how all these rites of passage seem to coincide with similarly wonderful concerts. I got an incredible DEVO show as a graduation party, which I’m still not quite over. This time around, it was the Melvins who brought me into adulthood on Friday, two days before my gestation completion anniversary. I wanted special for my birthday, dammit, and I ended up getting much, much more than I could have ever asked for. At the very least, I can check off my list seeing the mighty King Buzzo’s hair in person.
The concert also coincided with my first time to what was once a steel capital of the world, good ol’ Bethlehem, PA. Sounds quaint, doesn’t it? The town surrounding the venue and extending across the river itself is nice and quaint. The venue is located right by the old Bethlehem Steel plant, which was operational until, somehow, the mid-nineties. It now looms over a bustling little cultural spot, towering as a series of antiquated pagodas of rust and dead industry. (The morning after the Melvins my family checked out the self guided walking tour along the plant’s old material transport trestle, which allows for some incredible up-close action. It’s truly an incredible and fascinating sight to experience.) The venue itself also houses a movie theater and boasts an orange spiral staircase adorned with intricate blown glass art where we waited to get our tickets checked. Within the ballroom, concertgoers could’ve gotten a table at the also orange balcony looking out on the crowd and stage. The steel plant loomed behind the stage through the large glass windows and would later be illuminated in neon light when the sun set. All in all, it was very atmospheric.
I was initially positioned directly stage right, up against the security gate as I’ve gotten used to at shows that feature them, for openers Harsh Mellow (excellent name). I was impressed at their energetic, intense brand of noise rock, and I’m really excited to see what they do in the future. I had drifted back slightly and more towards the front of the stage to talk with some of my dad’s friends by the time the second band, Helms Alee, took the stage and proceeded to turn everyone’s minds to sluuudge. I actually wouldn’t be surprised if their set went on for longer than the Melvins’. I had a good view of their drummer, who was a total powerhouse in her own right and also very sweet at the merch booth before and after the show. Fun times.
And then, promptly as the headliners took the stage, I was shoved—or maybe something in my consciousness pulled me a little bit—right up against the gate, just slightly off-center from Buzz Osbourne’s microphone stand. What followed was something akin to my mind being blown—or maybe it’s more like my mind being unfolded and refolded, like origami. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure the triple threat of “Oven”, “Lovely Butterflies”, and “It’s Shoved” that opened the show flipped some sort of weird, hidden, primal switch in my brain. I feel like a reformed young woman now after having seen the Melvins. As a result of the weekend’s sonic therapy, I feel respectable and healthy urges to put myself out there more, engage myself more creatively, and try different styling techniques that would increase the volume of my hair. Well, maybe the latter is just the aftershock of getting to see Buzz’s incredible hairdo in person. I am being completely serious when I say that no photograph or video can truly replicate how absolutely incredible it is to see with one’s own eyes.
But I digress.
To put it simply, the band was relentless. Songs launched into each other with the beat of Dale Crover’s pounding, primal drums with barely any time to spare, blending the night’s sequence of events together like a syrupy sweet molotov cocktail. Yet sonic blasts of pent up punk rock fury still played ping pong with sublime, smirking moments of teasing quiet throughout the night—thanks, complex and diverse song structures. “Bob” bless their current bass player, Steve McDonald, who wore what I initially thought was an ironically awful white disco suit before realizing it was some sort of fancy kung-fu jacket accented with gold, elevated from it’s previous Halloween costume status. He was clearly having the time of his life up there, hopping around, crouching, and striking many an audacious pose throughout the night. And then there was Buzz, the one perhaps most appropriately dressed up for Halloween in July in his iconic skeleton robes. I can safely say I’ve never been more intimidated by a man than I was there in my spot in front of the vicious King Buzzo himself, and that’s a good thing. I was even too intimidated to take photos when he got probably as close to my part of the audience as he could’ve gotten as he hammered on his transparent-body guitar. I was that in awe. He and Steve thrashed surprisingly precisely around the place, making good use of the stage’s expansive floor area due to Dale’s drum kit being placed so far back. Dale emerged from behind his instrument of choice at one point to use one of his sticks as a sword in a brief fencing match against the neck of Steve’s bass, which was extremely entertaining. The same goes for Buzz’s liberal use of hand gestures during breaks in songs where he didn’t play guitar, which I will always find very, very amusing no matter who is doing it (and no matter whether or not their hands should actually be strumming those strings at that place in the song). Yes. I dare say the whole band took it to twelve.
I got more used to my surroundings as the night went on. I was marked safe from the inevitable pit the entire time, though I briefly considered joining it before remembering how lucky I was to have acquired the best view of Buzz in the house. Besides which, it was really funny glancing over periodically at the antsy, stingy looking security guy at the front of the stage, who was jerking back and forth as he watched the pit with much concern. It was pretty great to glance back at, too—imagine “Honey Bucket” tearing up such a clean, modern, composed establishment! At the beginning of the show there was some sort of country band playing on one of the complex’s outdoor stages, visible through the glass wall from my initial standing position. I wonder how those guys would’ve reacted to what went on inside. In terms of my reaction, I was mesmerized, pulverized, and totally hooked even after the band left the stage. They could’ve gone on another hour and I still would’ve been wanting more.
But hey, the band is pretty well known for their tour grind, so it’ll presumably be easy to see them again down the road. I slept contently that night knowing that.
Two days later I turned eighteen. If it were 1970 I’d be old enough to kill, but not for votin’. I’ll probably be woman enough to not be able to kill or vote at all soon if this country keeps going the way it is. 246 years this week, huh? I see so many people nowadays wondering how many years it’s got left with the way things are.
Based on their hypotheses, it’s probably less than the Melvins still have in them.
(I posted some more photos here, by the way.)
I was bag shopping at the mall yesterday, and the song “The Way” by Fastball came on the radio. It’s one of those songs that I feel has been ingrained into my consciousness purely from radio play in places of commerce. Something about the chorus stuck out to my ears, and I took the liberty to look the song up only to learn that it was inspired by a news blurb about an aging couple who took off in their car only to be found dead at the bottom of a ravine weeks later. Anyone in the mall could’ve done the same as me with the ease of their phones, but they didn’t. It was just pure white noise to the rest of them. Nothing was offbeat or sinister; life was happening as usual.
Just a regular day at the dying Boscovs anchor whose facade hasn’t been updated since 1989.
METAL. In terms of the material, I was always a big fan of it. Shiny, industrial, dignified—METAL. It’s pretty great. In terms of the music genre, I’m not really a metal person, despite my frequent punk persuasions. Between the two genres, metal is more known for long hair and being a bro and stuff, which isn’t my scene at all. But, alas, everyone has to go through certain rites of passage in their lives, including that of one’s first metal show. I got to go through that on Saturday.
I was kind of dragged (no offense) to see Voivod in Baltimore by my father, who is a big fan. He is so much of a big fan, in fact, that we ended up getting to meet the band before the show, and I am happy to know that they are all really nice people! I spent most of that time talking to their drummer, Away, who, as someone not very familiar with the band and its members, I did not expect to be a spry little dude with a heavy French accent named Michel. He also does all of the band’s dark, dystopian artwork (which is pretty awesome, by the way). He’s great. They all are!
I actually rarely listen to Voivod, but I’ve always respected them. Their lyrics are heavily influenced by science fiction and are a lot more intelligent and conscious than your average “I wanna rock n’ roll all night” metal group (no offense times-2). They also don’t succumb to the screamy or guttural vocals that I never cared for yet always associated with the genre (no offense times-3), and they did a great version of “Astronomy Domine” at the end of the show, proving their range of influences. And most metal shows do not involve a spontaneous snippet of “Stayin’ Alive,” which is probably the only time I’d be able to take that song.
They clearly put a lot of octane into their performance, taking on sped up punk with the same intensity as their more experimental, droning numbers. Most may not call them “punk” out of metalhead instinct, but they maintain that sensibility. They’re still out there, soldering on, and the crowd was visibly very grateful. I actually spent a good amount of the show monitoring the pit, which inevitably formed. With my beloved camera in my hand, my beloved purse stuffed with all my crap, and my beloved cellphone in my back pocket, I wasn’t going to risk joining it, but it was fun to observe. Luckily I was only ran into once during the one moment during the show where I looked down at my camera away from the action. Otherwise I was able to jerk and flinch my way out of contact’s way whenever someone would get too close, though others inadvertently shielded me from the pit at various times throughout the night. The no crowd surfing rule was broken six times.
And, all in all, despite being displaced from my comfort zone for a night, it was a fun one. I’m glad I went!
One of the most recent comments on Voivod’s last.fm page reads as follows:
voivod restored my faith in humanity, watered all my crops, paid off all my cars and mortgages, cured all my ailments, fed my family and pets, kept the heater running during winter nights, attended my wedding AND my funeral all in the same day this is amazing. love them
which I think is a much better way of summing up the group than I ever could.
Those Canadians!
“…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.
As you have heard me say on this blog too many times already to count, DEVO holds a continuously relevant presence in our society whether you want it to or not. And while the majority of the world still sees them as just some harmless, kooky one-hit-wonder from the 80s, their philosophy runs much deeper and darker than wiggly lines and bright colors suggest, and it dates back to the seediest early seventies basements of Kent, Ohio, places where new wave sheen would never dare to shine. DEVO were in the trenches, residents of Ground Zero, witnesses to de-evolution in action.
It just so happens that their second ever public musical communication of their de-evolutionary theory happened 48 years ago today. (Can you believe it’ll be 50 years since their first show next year?) As a partial live recording of the concert surfaced last year, current de-evolutionary scholars have a better idea than ever of what that early gestational period was like before Akron catalyzed DEVO’s big break, overshadowing Kent’s undeniable birth of the band.
One such scholar, my good friend and collaborator Max Devo (AKA Zhir Vengersky) has summed up the events in a brilliant little essay he wished to have me expose to the world. I was more than willing to handle the job. I’ll stop my spiel now and turn the microphone to him.
Read on below:
(more…)
https://www.geraldvcasale.com/pages/the-first-devo-concert
Gerald V. Casale wants U to know your history!
Happy 49 years, DEV-O.
DEVOtion, Day Two
Tuesday, September 27th, 2022And then the nerds re-congregated, and DEVOtional Saturday happened.
And what a de-evolved time it was.
The Jimmy Psycho Experiment, who have been DEVOtional openers for a few years now, set a relaxed mood well with their tiki-loungey versions of everyone’s favorite DEVO hits. Attention soon shifted towards the many special guests, whose Q&A sessions took up a good chunk of the night. Good old Mark was back for round 2, though he was slightly more subdued when compared to his misdemeanor on Friday. DEVOtional old timer Jerry Casale, who almost always comes out to support the fans, brought with him the music video premier of his next single, “The Invisible Man.” Without spoiling too much for everyone who wasn’t there, it was hands-down one of the most amusing things I’ve ever witnessed, and it only makes me more fascinated about what exactly goes on within Jerry’s mind that could make him conjure up something so perfectly, undeniably wack. But you’ll all see it in a few months.
Steve Bartek, the guitarist on Jerry’s recent music who is best known for his work with Oingo Boingo, joined Jerry in looking very smart and answering questions. I didn’t get to talk with him at all, but he seemed like a really genuine guy. The dark horse of the program, however, was one Michael Schwartz, better known as Rod Rooter, DEVO’s evil manager from way back. Throughout the night, Mike seamlessly incorporated his character into his talk-talk to the point where I initially genuinely wasn’t sure if he was joking or not when he discussed being the first white guy on King Records with a song produced by James Brown. (Spoiler alert: he WASN’T).
Sometime before DEVOtional started, Max had the brilliant idea of making Rod an entire election campaign which proceeded to snowball from a joke to people on Facebook actually buying made-to-order polo shirts emblazoned with the phrase “America’s Begging For The Barrel Room.” The virus had spread so far that Max didn’t even have to give Mark one of the campaign buttons he was handing out; he had already been given one by someone else. With Mike’s charisma and wit, I wouldn’t hesitate to vote in his favor, and I can’t help but hope he becomes a mainstay. (“The Man” did approve of Max’s effort, by the way.)
Max signed one of his posters for him while I stood by, causing him to ask Max in character, “Is THIS your GIRLFRIEND?” Max would go on to be very fixated on the fact that Mike was a few hours early to the punch on that.
Jerry, Mark, and the rest were signing items for hours. I heard someone say their autograph session clocked in at over three hours, which blows my mind and makes me want to pray atheist style for their dominant wrists. Max used the opportunity to gift Mark and Jerry bags containing some of his original music and hand decorated lab coats, with airbrush art for Marky and colorful tampons for Jer-Jer, while I stood by as photojournalist and emotional support.
(Jerry sadly didn’t try it on for us in person, but the photo he uploaded later more than makes up for that.)
I wasn’t immune to the photo opportunities, either.
All the while, Al Mothersbaugh’s band, Massive Hotdog Recall, brought the party as usual, proving that “Shout” can be a good song if you add some non-synthetic, whip-spankin’ horns to it. New Devolution, an energetic tribute band who came all the way from Chile to perform, followed by plowing through high-power early 80s DEVO tracks. The fun factor was through the roof as the spontaneously generated giant helium balls the crowd was serving around threatened to make a dent in it.
After the raffle, which I did not win anything at, the highly anticipated Fight Milk, who were not balls, took the stage. They exemplified the fun factor just like last year, but having more than one guy on the stage again (while retaining last year’s cardboard cutouts) totally elevated their energy. Alongside Jackson, the band’s creative mastermind and sole constant, it was great having Tavi from Finland back onstage, whether he was flashing a creepy smile at the audience with down pitched vocals or scurrying around the stage wrecking his guitar strings. Those boys be DEVO.
Max was also making his live performance debut, and he absolutely killed it. Not many other DEVOtional performances would both perform a song that hadn’t been performed since 1974 and make the live debut of Jerry’s latest single. (TAKE THAT, OLD MAN! Just kiddin’.) Max took lead on both, and it was so great seeing him in his element. It truly wouldn’t have been the same without him up there in that goddamn tampon coat hurling his Rod Rooter buttons at the crowd. I even caught a photo of one in mid air! I love blinding everyone with the flash from my camera.
Detention finished off the night, though I sadly didn’t get to see most of their set because, deja vu, I was too busy having a conversation in the Ballroom’s bar the room over. (I got to hear their Steve-tribute cover of Oingo Boingo’s “Little Girls” in muffled format, though!) At least I did get to chat with their singer Elliott, who I’ve bumped into a few times on the Kent campus, beforehand. Us Kent chicks gotta stick together.
And then, just like that, the night had winded down. Everyone packed up, stumbled out of the ballroom, and hit up Ubers back to their hotels. And then it was over.
Did it beat last year’s for me? No. That year was too special! But I’ll gladly let it be the first loser.
And hey, I got a boyfriend out of this one, so I guess that’s a plus.
Tags:concerts, Detention, DEVO, DEVOtional, DEVOtional 2022, Fight Milk, Jerry Casale, Mark Mothersbaugh, Massive Hotdog Recall, Michael Schwartz, music, my boyfriend, New Devolution, Oingo Boingo, photo opportunities, Rod Rooter, Steve Bartek, tampon coat, The Jimmy Psycho Experiment, things I enjoy, Zhir Vengersky
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