Just as I’ve gotten used to live concerts being resurrected in the past year or so, I’ve gotten used to them being called off, with the still relevant Miss Rona being the most common culprit. It’s become a surprise for a show I have tickets for to get cancelled for a reason that isn’t her persistent, lingering death dance. From Ticketmaster royally screwing over DEVO’s Radio City Music Hall date last year (which I’ll be making up for in May) to a band Melt-Banana was to play with postponing the whole tour due to visa problems, I guess I’ve just gotten used to shows getting cancelled in general. Most absurdly of all was definitely the reason why I had to wait until Tuesday to see indie rock outfit Snail Mail; the group’s tour was supposed to begin months ago, and we had tickets (at the behest of my dad). It was called off not because of a COVID case or travel visa problem but because lead singer Lindsey Jordan got polyps on her throat that kept her from singing, because life is just like that.
Luckily, her voice has healed and the band is back on the road. Tuesday’s show at Union Transfer was the first date of the tour, and the attendees of its upcoming dates surely have something to look forward to.
It was actually my first time in the City of Brotherly Love, good old Philadelphia, which greeted us with a law firm’s billboard that had the word “jawn” on it to declare that, yes, this is Philadelphia. To keep from straying too far from the venue, we sat down at the neighboring La Chinesca restaurant, which serves an eclectic fusion of Chinese and Mexican food. The eats were delicious and extremely fun. Who else would’ve thought to dip fried wonton chips in cilantro dip? Even better was that, inside and out, the place looks like you’ve stepped into a Californian mid-mod time warp to a future where radioactive space mushroom structures support stucco buildings and people eat in bubble structures bulging up from fake grass. I would’ve stayed much longer if I didn’t have a show to see.
Walking into Union Transfer afterwards, it felt strange being in such a large venue after many shows in cramped little clubs. But I got comfortable quickly. What we saw of opening band Joy Again were okay, with the highlight being a boxed cake being crowdsurfed over to a friend of the band who was having a birthday. But Snail Mail’s set was the real sweet treat everyone was waiting for, with the stage decked out in ivy-wrapped cupid statues. You wouldn’t have realized Lindsey Jordan’s previous sickness had she not mentioned it between songs (“I feel like I’m a eunuch, I’m like, EEEEEEEE”). Her voice—and a very unique one at that—sounded in top shape throughout the night. The rest of the band followed suit instrumentally, with each song coming out tight and precise with an appropriate amount of love for the good old nineties (they covered “Tonight, Tonight” during the second half of their set, and apparently their stage set up is In Utero inspired). From far back in the crowd, the light show was simply fantastic, with color palette changes between each song and occasional psychedelic effects that really made me smile. The band definitely had an atmosphere in mind, and they communicated it perfectly. I may not listen to them too often, but it was great to see.
The show’s encore began with Lindsey alone with her guitar, singing a solemn and beautiful song bathed in light. Suddenly, I heard a commotion behind me. I turned around to see, in complete contrast, a flailing woman being pulled off of someone else by at least two other people. We learned later that somebody got punched. I’m not quite sure what could have stirred that considering the mood of the performance, but I guess Philadelphia is Philadelphia for a reason. Luckily, I was safely socially distanced. It was worrying in the moment, yet hilarious afterwards. A catfight at a show where most of the songs being played were about longing for love. Life is like that.
Two weekends ago I got the chance to see a show by three of today’s most eye-catching and intriguing bands at Baltimore’s Metro Gallery. In complete contrast, this past weekend, I got the chance to see a group entirely associated with the nineties at the same exact venue.
The former experience was eye opening and, holy crap, oozing fun from all its pores. It ultimately made me feel some solace for our world to see that there’s still people out there bringing fresh creative perspectives to the table. The latter was similarly affirming. Post-hardcore group Jawbox reunited in 2019 after twentysome years of dormancy, but the pandemic put their live schedule on hold. Now, they’re back, and they proved last weekend that they’re just as strong as ever.
Tickets to Jawbox. Sold out show. Let’s go.
I’m lucky I got to go at all, really. I had waken up that morning to discover that my house had been terrorized by about four inches of snow in the middle of March. Somehow, despite the weather’s continued divebombing of my town as the day went on, the roads were cleared up enough by the afternoon to facilitate the drive down to the Metro.
The night opened with an acoustic set by Ken Chambers of indie rock group Moving Targets, who were supposed to perform but had to compromise after a COVID case among their ranks. His set was solid and a welcome escape from the frigid cold outside, and overall it laid a nice primer for the heavier music that followed.
What followed next left me slightly speechless out of pure excitement that I was seeing the mighty Jawbox once and for all. In retrospect, I guess there isn’t too much for me to say about the torrent the Jawbs unleashed on their audience—their blistering performance spoke for itself. Every member of the band was in their full element. To my far right, vocalist and guitarist J. Robbins could have stepped out of a bootlegged video of one of their 90s peak performances with the raw intensity of his presence. Kim Coletta supplied the low end with a monstrous bass tone that rumbled the building as she romped across center stage. Behind her, drummer Zach Barocas’ metronomic skills were tight and powerful, providing the perfect backbone to their herky-jerky post-hardcore compositions. And the group’s most recent addition, rhythm guitarist Brooks Harlan, fit right in amongst the high energies of the rest of the gang.
Their collective sonic attack was very satisfying, to say the least. And had the show attracted a younger crowd—the room was mostly populated of people who I assumed listened to the band in their nineties youths—I’d bet the entire house would’ve been as rowdy as it got the previous week! It was clear they were good to be back.
I’m grateful I got that chance to see such powerful music in such an intimate setting. It goes to show how a group who last gave it their all twentysome years ago can still pack the same punch today. The sounds that they unleashed onto the world back then remain shocking, exciting, and fulfilling. Their relevancy never faded. It’s a shame the world still hasn’t caught up with them and so many others.
It’s a disappointing and grueling reality that groups as sharp as Jawbox’s gnashers constantly get overlooked in favor of much duller selections. But spreading the word and continuing to solder on as they do only helps their cause. Luckily, it looks like they’re keeping up just fine in that regard.
And, besides, it’s a nice escape from everyday banality to let yourself go crazy to “FF-66” from the front and center spot.
I headed down to Baltimore last weekend for yet another concert. The town treated me as well as it always does, even though I had never been in the part of town where the venue, the Metro Gallery, was located, lurking in the shadows of nearby University of Baltimore buildings. Right by the venue is a billboard currently displaying a Lizzo advertisement. Walking past it on the way to the club, I turned around to catch the heavy street graffiti on the back of the clandestine graphic. Once inside, the Gallery revealed itself to be a very efficient space with an intimate atmosphere and a modern sensibility. It’s clean, but not too clean, which kept it from becoming stuck up. It holds art shows as well as concerts, but the creativity of the bands I got to see blurred the line between the two.
The venue
The merch booth
First on stage was New York based collective CG8. I had never heard any of their cacophony before, but I was already familiar with their image: three leggy chicks in daring, D.I.Y. outfits tearing things up, rolling around in wires, and being as carefree as possible. I obviously expected some degree of a good time from them, but what I got ended up soaring beyond any of my expectations, not unlike Barbarella’s space ship. The speakers emitted sounds that were inexplicably alien, tensed-up, and fervorous. I had previously seen their drummer, Chase, at Man On Man’s Riot Fest performance, where her assault on her drum kit was a highlight of the festival weekend. She didn’t let up in Baltimore, either; she pounded away with heart shaking power and precision that has to be felt to be believed, making every song irresistibly infectious in the process. Bassist Lida’s lyrics, which I later read on the inner sleeve of the vinyl record they had for sale at the merch booth, are intelligent and poignant without sacrificing a strong and whacked-out sense of humor. They know that a smile is still essential for survival in today’s world. Their playfulness couldn’t have been better exemplified by their handmade getups: strategically cut neon leotards, boots made for walkin’, and straight-outta-Microsoft-Paint-pattern tights. It was as if the Powerpuff Girls got lost in the Forbidden Zone and emerged fifteen years later to teach the world what they had learned. They simply would not be the band they are without the emphasis on style—when they’re not touring, they keep a weirdo-techno-whack-out-chic fashion line that got featured in Vogue. But in all their visual tomfoolery they never once sacrificed their brains or their guts.
CG8
CG8
The set ended with the girls giving up their guitars and playing around with synthesizers, one of which looked like an orange cartoon cat. (I saw the same exact one while walking past the toy section at Target the next day.) Guitar player Veronika sang a little diddy about wanting to be things such as Paris Hilton and a calculator. And then, it was over. It was genuinely sad to see them have to step off stage; I could’ve taken an entire night of them I was so fascinated.
Luckily, the next set from Texas based hard rockers Pussy Gillette brought a similar spirit of raw and brazen intensity. From her appearance alone, frontwoman Masani Negloria, whose first name is a reference to the gap between her two front teeth, is potentially the most badass person in existence. She radiated supreme cool with an italicized capital C-O-O-L in her leather ensemble and awesome throwback afro. In a perfect world there would be a cult film where she and the CGs have an epic B-movie cacophony catfight battle of the bands, but alas, this is no perfect world. When she took the stage, she only doubly proved her C-O-O-L: her voice is a strikingly unique snarl that perfectly suited her in-between song banter, and she plucked the strings of her bass so fast her hand was constantly a blur. Each song in itself was an infectious blast of garage rock realness, with lyrics touching on everything from the cruelty of police brutality to a smorgasbord of bananas, hammers, and lettuce wraps. The Gillette set was a sonic burst of pure energy perfectly capable of obliterating the front door of your parents who are worrying where they went wrong when you started listening to bands that alienate the neighbors so with their awful racket. Yet I would bet that the band members wouldn’t be against sitting down with those frightened adults for a quick lunch and try to have a constructive conversation, bridging the cultural divide. It’s all about unity for them—unity under good music and good, not-so-clean fun. And extremely fresh H2O to swig between songs. Don’t we all deserve something fresh?
Pussy Gillette
Pussy Gillette
I had pretty much decided after Pussy Gillette wrapped up that there was no way that the rest of the night was going to match the two sets I had just witnessed. The rest of the crowd, however, had only just begun. Having stood right next to the dance pit the show of theirs I saw in D.C. last year, I knew that headliner Surfbort’s fans are quite the intense bunch. That spirit had seemingly only intensified in the three or so months since then. The moment Dani Miller stepped on stage, I physically felt a distinct shove as people started to crowd around, signaling that things were about to get wild. They did. I found myself getting jostled around by the overexcited crowd, caught in the outskirts of their mosh pit ritual to their rainbow-mulleted goddess. At one point I ended up against the stage right in front of the leftmost guitar player’s pedals—a very good spot—entirely due to getting practically shoved into it. I stayed there for a bit warring with my digital camera’s dying battery—pics or it didn’t happen—until I started getting jostled around over and over again. At that point I just stopped trying to keep up with the dancers and slipped away to a safer region of the crowd off to the side.
Surfbort
By that time in the night, I was less concerned with partying it up than I was with digesting the two acts that had just blown my mind. Despite seemingly existing on two opposite sides of a spectrum—the extravagant and the stripped down—both groups had important things to say, and they said them by inviting all spectators into the weird little curated tune worlds of their creation. Furthermore, these multimedia approaches aren’t restricted to their live shows. When you take a look at anything CG8, you’re falling head first into a psychedelic, digitally warped dimension to swim around in amongst the glitchy artifacts and cute girls. And when you watch a Pussy Gillette music video—they’re all filmed on old school VHS tape—you feel as if you’re watching a clip that has circulated for decades in the coolest sects of the revolution rock underground to much militant punk approval. And seeing these groups do their thing makes you feel as if the “classics,” all those bands that everyone loves decades later despite no one caring in their heyday, are here for you in full force.
And, suddenly, it’s as if there are groups that go against the grain of flash-in-the-pan trendiness to form their own multidimensional brands driven by progress, not stagnation or regression. It’s as if there are still true artists out there, brandishing their sonic weaponry as a guiding beacon for the outcasts, the delegated dregs, the perpetual aliens who are urging for something truly new. And as someone who happens to be one of those perpetual aliens, fed up with monotony and the systematic dumbing down of the mainstream, last Saturday’s event was one of the most satisfying things I’ve witnessed live in a while.
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!
Last weekend went by not like the rickety but effective trains that linked me from the airport to my hotel room to Douglass Park, home of the beloved Riot Festival. In hindsight, my time in Chicago feels like it passed me with the speed of a Japanese bullet train. Finally, life felt almost like it did before COVID-19 grounded planes and ravaged the live music industry. Simultaneously I was granted a rare time to let loose and release all my adolescent urges. I had been needing to do so for a while.
The zeitgeist was in full effect as we made our way inside the festival’s grounds on Saturday. Signs pointed towards COVID testing sites. I flashed my vaccination card alongside my ID to be let in. The first band of the day, Man On Man, was formed over lockdown by Faith No More’s keyboardist and his boyfriend out of quarantine boredom; it was their second live show. FNM would have been hitting the stage later that day had their seemingly impenetrable frontman not cancelled their tour to deal with a mental health crisis.
A fitting sign from the train station.
It quickly became evident that everyone was more than happy to be back. I try to socially distance myself from GWAR as much as possible due to cleanliness concerns, but I couldn’t help but spy on their performance. I ended up getting a clear view of their assorted liquids arcing over the heads of the hooded rain poncho clad security guards and into the untamed audience. (My friend Kati walked out with green stains splattered across her starch white mask and tote bag.) Later, as Les Savy Fav played, it was impossible to socially distance from frontman Tim Harrington, who frequently retreated into the crowd for a variety of antics. He rode an audience member down the aisle like a toddler receiving a pony ride from his dad; he took and wore on his head many pairs of sunglasses before redistributing the Ray-Ban wealth to an entirely different section of the crowd; he rolled out a roll of tarp across everyone’s heads, got on top of it, bore a hole in it, and reemerged among everyone else. It was truly a sight to behold.
The next day, I stood on my feet for over five hours. The first band I witnessed during this test of leg strength was Body Count. From the safety of the VIP section, I was protected from the mosh pit happening not very far away from me. Ice-T didn’t refrain from giving his commentary on the pit, which he found unsatisfactory. It even once transformed into my eyeballs’ first wall of death at Ice’s behest. If Ice-T tells you what to do, you do it. The band was tight and talented, and the songs were topical and pretty infectious. Add a hefty dose of Ice-T being extremely Ice-T and you’ve got one unforgettable performance. “I PLAY ONE ON TV!” the Law & Order actor reminded us as the band closed their set with “Cop Killer.” You love to see it!
DEVO do their thing.
After Body Count left the stage, I spent the next two and a half hours standing in front of the rail waiting for my main attraction, DEVO. I had been there for their final pre-COVID performance almost two years prior, and it seemed unbelievable that the wait was finally over. Their set began with a 70s film of the band tussling with their fictionalized pushover manager, Rod Rooter. It was followed by a recently shot clip of the same guy riding an exercise bike and wearing a tiger print tracksuit. Disappointed that the band he once managed wasn’t doing stadiums “like Kid Rock,” he sardonically reintroduced the band to the audience. (They aren’t your everyday boy band.) It was a reminder that, as much as you may want them to go away, DEVO never truly will. Even with two frontmen having recovered from COVID-19, the spud boys still carry force, talent, and an electrifying presence. In fact, they incited such a frenzy that I spent a good amount of the show ducking crowd surfers who got dangerously close to crushing me. Security guards cradled them like Booji Boy babies as they passed one by one over the rails before being shooed to the back of the crowd. Later I overheard that their forceful performance of “Secret Agent Man” incited a fist fight farther back in the mass of de-evolving dregs. If a mini-militia of costume changing, whip-smart punk scientists in or nearing their seventies can still hold it, don’t listen to Rod: they still shoot straight. See DEVO while you still can.
“Freedom of Choice” completed the band’s set; the group had apparently been under threat of getting the cord pulled due to going over their time limit, which would have been blasphemy. The next thing I knew I was sprinting across the sunset lit field as the Flaming Lips’ set opener—“Race For The Prize,” of all songs—echoed across the darkening park. I was able to blend into the crowd as the happy-sad hymn to medical progress came to a close. How else would they open a post-vax concert? I spent the majority of their awe inducing performance in a haze fueled by exhaustion, awe, and second hand smoke. Slightly hypnotized by the neon psychedelic video backdrop, assimilating with the seizure inducing swirl seemed much more preferable to walking to the train station.
The Flaming Lips feat. their giant inflatable pink robot.
Eventually, the lights on the Roots stage dimmed and Wayne Coyne’s virus proof giant bubble deflated for the last time. We worked our way through the darkness to reorient ourselves and ended up catching a portion of the night’s closing performance, the Slipknot spectacle, from afar. We reunited with a friend we had chatted with earlier in the day and took the opportunity to rib on the group. We all agreed that, while they were obviously dedicated to their presentation, their musical content couldn’t live up to it. At another stage out of our range, Machine Gun Kelly, the creepy rapper turned equally creepy pop punk poser, was also playing. Another example of when immaculately crafted style outweighs substance. Interesting that the two bands immediately behind them on the billing—the Lips and the VOs—were the ones who actually hit a successful combination of the two. Life is not fair.
But the pain of Machine Gun Kelly’s existence did not ruin the weekend, as weird as it was to witness such a large crowd once more. It was a time of strange euphoria and semi-reluctant indulgence. It was relieving that the long stretch of boredom that had made up life up until that point was finally interrupted by a brief blip of in person camaraderie. There’s no wonder why stepping out of those gates for the last time and taking that final train ride felt as if something was being lost. If only the fun could last forever.
I made a spur-of-the-moment post a few weeks ago upon the release of DEVO bassist Jerry Casale‘s new single, “I’m Gonna Pay U Back.” The song’s music video came out on the 8th, and upon watching it, I think I got a taste of the “positive brainwashing” I’ve been longing for recently. For the rest of that day, I was as excitable and positively charged as ever, coinciding with a period of creative stimulation in my own regard. Three days later, the wave of excitement, relief, and emotion that drenched my mind has (for the most part) subsided, allowing me to write about the matter at hand with more precision.
The music video coincides with the widespread reissue of Jerry’s 2006 solo album as the venerable “Jihad Jerry,” who wears turbans that match his suit coats and declares that “[his] is not a holy war.” The album itself supplies hard-hitting blues rock injected with an indie-electro twist, and Jerry is flanked by two soulful female backup singers to help him spit his de-evolutionary bars. Three DEVO rarities and a Yardbirds song receive updates for the twenty-first century.
Me discovering the album due to my exploration of the DEVO discography was cathartic. Jerry’s declaration of a “war against stupidity” instead of one against drugs or any specific religion was a refreshing statement for an angry, skeptical girl in a prejudiced, complacent world to hear. The project was satirically bent and just plain baffling at times, just like DEVO’s tactics of confusion and absurdity that made their medicinal messaging go down so tightly. It was bold and funny and refreshingly weird, and it spoke to me unlike much else had. (I touched on this here, too.)
With CD copies being scarce, I always hoped it would receive the reissue it deserved someday, though I did not entirely expect that to happen. I figured it would be too easy for a naive public to decontextualize Jerry’s tomfoolery and try to rip him a new hole for his alter ego, and part of me wondered if the project would get buried in the sands of time in the name of “playing it safe.” Cue the album getting reissued after all, with Jihad placed front and center, burning with passion and pride in woodblock effigy, on the album cover. Go figure.
It’s the perfect time to reissue it, too: nostalgia holds a fifteen year cycle, and fashion magazines seem to be plugging “Y2K” trends as the hottest thing a lot recently, though the low rise jeans and flip phones they promote seem more “mid-ohs excess” than “late 1990s techno fear.” Even I’m not completely immune: I ordered a brand new iPod for my birthday, as I still haven’t jumped the shark from MP3 collecting to streaming. (And now I can listen to remastered Jihad Jerry on it.) It seems like everyone is looking back on that dark and trashy time, trying to find refuge from an increasingly dire present. But is mindless indulgence and glamorization the best way to deal with thousands of faceless humans dying on the other side of the planet? Jihad Jerry asked this question back then, and now he asks it again.
In his new music video, Jerry confronts his alter ego in acknowledgement of his past and the mutinous multitudes he contains. It’s a daring example of self-expression, and Jerry is still bold and unapologetic in his seventies, despite various societal aggressions that the role of the elderly is to gripe about the youth from their high rocking chairs. (Not that he doesn’t look a good twenty years younger than he actually is without the video’s sci-fi Prisma filter.) He remains a spirited misfit and provocateur just as he was back in the day. But times have changed since then, and the future is even more uncertain than it was fifteen years ago. That also explains his urgency, his willingness to be so forward. Best to let yourself be heard while you still have the ability to speak.
Late Valentines
Thursday, April 7th, 2022Just as I’ve gotten used to live concerts being resurrected in the past year or so, I’ve gotten used to them being called off, with the still relevant Miss Rona being the most common culprit. It’s become a surprise for a show I have tickets for to get cancelled for a reason that isn’t her persistent, lingering death dance. From Ticketmaster royally screwing over DEVO’s Radio City Music Hall date last year (which I’ll be making up for in May) to a band Melt-Banana was to play with postponing the whole tour due to visa problems, I guess I’ve just gotten used to shows getting cancelled in general. Most absurdly of all was definitely the reason why I had to wait until Tuesday to see indie rock outfit Snail Mail; the group’s tour was supposed to begin months ago, and we had tickets (at the behest of my dad). It was called off not because of a COVID case or travel visa problem but because lead singer Lindsey Jordan got polyps on her throat that kept her from singing, because life is just like that.
Luckily, her voice has healed and the band is back on the road. Tuesday’s show at Union Transfer was the first date of the tour, and the attendees of its upcoming dates surely have something to look forward to.
It was actually my first time in the City of Brotherly Love, good old Philadelphia, which greeted us with a law firm’s billboard that had the word “jawn” on it to declare that, yes, this is Philadelphia. To keep from straying too far from the venue, we sat down at the neighboring La Chinesca restaurant, which serves an eclectic fusion of Chinese and Mexican food. The eats were delicious and extremely fun. Who else would’ve thought to dip fried wonton chips in cilantro dip? Even better was that, inside and out, the place looks like you’ve stepped into a Californian mid-mod time warp to a future where radioactive space mushroom structures support stucco buildings and people eat in bubble structures bulging up from fake grass. I would’ve stayed much longer if I didn’t have a show to see.
Walking into Union Transfer afterwards, it felt strange being in such a large venue after many shows in cramped little clubs. But I got comfortable quickly. What we saw of opening band Joy Again were okay, with the highlight being a boxed cake being crowdsurfed over to a friend of the band who was having a birthday. But Snail Mail’s set was the real sweet treat everyone was waiting for, with the stage decked out in ivy-wrapped cupid statues. You wouldn’t have realized Lindsey Jordan’s previous sickness had she not mentioned it between songs (“I feel like I’m a eunuch, I’m like, EEEEEEEE”). Her voice—and a very unique one at that—sounded in top shape throughout the night. The rest of the band followed suit instrumentally, with each song coming out tight and precise with an appropriate amount of love for the good old nineties (they covered “Tonight, Tonight” during the second half of their set, and apparently their stage set up is In Utero inspired). From far back in the crowd, the light show was simply fantastic, with color palette changes between each song and occasional psychedelic effects that really made me smile. The band definitely had an atmosphere in mind, and they communicated it perfectly. I may not listen to them too often, but it was great to see.
The show’s encore began with Lindsey alone with her guitar, singing a solemn and beautiful song bathed in light. Suddenly, I heard a commotion behind me. I turned around to see, in complete contrast, a flailing woman being pulled off of someone else by at least two other people. We learned later that somebody got punched. I’m not quite sure what could have stirred that considering the mood of the performance, but I guess Philadelphia is Philadelphia for a reason. Luckily, I was safely socially distanced. It was worrying in the moment, yet hilarious afterwards. A catfight at a show where most of the songs being played were about longing for love. Life is like that.
Tags:concerts, music, new experiences, new places, Philadelphia, reviews, Snail Mail, Union Transfer
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