Put aside Mark Mothersbaugh, Gerald Casale and Bob Mothersbaugh’s long-held conviction of devolution and its grand, defining thesis statement of going back to primordial ooze. Focus instead on the chorus of “Peek-A-Boo!,” from Devo’s 50th-anniversary tour starter at the Met Philadelphia.
Dressed in a sobering, form-fitting black suit rather than Devo’s usual yellow plastic-paper industrial jumpsuits or signature energy-dome helmets (both were saved for later), a white-and-silver-haired Mothersbaugh sang the quiet part loudly (rather than sound chicken choked and yelping) and calmly and clearly set the stage for what this evening was truly about.
“I know what you do/Because, I do it, too.”
I say this because the concert hall was packed to sell-out capacity, as was the outdoor pre-show in a pop-up block-party setting, based solely on the idea that those who know and love Devo are this lifelong, tight-knit community of nerds and noisemakers. I don’t mean this casually, as in the handsome Hollywood cast of Freaks And Geeks or The Big Bang Theory calling themselves nerds. When Devo first started and you witnessed its merry melee in intimate club settings, then small theaters, the crowds didn’t look anything like the other packed punk shows’ audiences at those same venues. Beyond art(rock)-damaged sorts (OK, me), Devotees had a hungry, wild-eyed look: of algebra majors, grad-student science heads and pre-med students after three days of meth-y no sleep, salty snacks and “Jocko Homo.”
They all looked like Devo, man and woman alike.
The present-day Devo fan base looks less fevered than that, mainly due to decades of its heroes’ saturation into the broader culture, to say nothing of the success of “Whip It” and Mothersbaugh as a soundtrack-music maker to similarly appointed goofballs such as Pee-wee Herman and Wes Anderson. Absorbed or not, you could sense a genuine, tactile passion in the air for the audience’s twitchy-robot Ohioans, a mass connection as holy as Nick Cave’s crowd felt for him at the same venue one week previous to the Devo show. (The Met is a one-time church that still holds occasional services, so … )
During what was probably the tightest (but not without its sonic mess) 80-minute show I’ve ever witnessed, Devo—still intensely frenetic without being frantic about it—started by running quickly through the un-sequenced (at least it sounded homemade and handsy), rubber-and-steel bounce of “Don’t Shoot (I’m A Man),” the aforementioned “Peek-A-Boo!,” “Going Under” and “That’s Good” before lurching into a propulsive one-two punch of “Girl U Want” and “Whip It.”
Three things became remarkably clear by this point in the show, then going forward:
1) Even at its most electronic or discordantly askew, Devo has forever benefited from powerhouse live drumming that’s always in the pocket. The band’s original stickman (Alan Myers), its ’90s drummer (Josh Freese, now in Foo Fighters) and its current 21st-century rhythm sticker (Jeff Friedl) are all, literally and figuratively, pivot-al to the force of Devo. The quick, whoopsy-daisy paradiddle that drives “Freedom Of Choice” after its industrial thudding and the thunder-rumbling “Gates Of Steel”—all Friedl, all the time.
2) After however many Devo shows I’ve witnessed going back to its start date (hello, Hot Club), Bob Mothersbaugh finally hit wonky guitar-hero status with his wiry, scratchy, messed-up leads on the jerky, dub-bass-heavy “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” cover and was most Bern Nix-like on the whirlwind “Smart Patrol”/“Mr. DNA” medley.
3) Mark Mothersbaugh sounds just as fervid now, in his softer, rounder approach to singing, as he has for ages as a robo-squawker.
It’s also worth noting that right around the same time that Devo kicked into Eno-album classics such as “Uncontrollable Urge” and “Jocko Homo” (the latter complete with its old-school “Ohio: round on the end and high in the middle” verse), there was a drastic issue with the sound. Bob Mothersbaugh’s most scrawling guitar tangles got caught in the web of brother Mark’s vocals. What’s funny here? Totally sounded great. Totally sounded like Devo.
The only things that I felt about this 50th-anniversary gig that may have missed a mark—not for true longtime fans, but maybe new army members—was that the band’s use of original onscreen graphics and VHS-based moments that once thrilled crowds (e.g. the “Devo Corporate Anthem” flick) drew little loud-enough attention. Also, Booji Boy (Devo’s genuinely creepy, baby-head mascot) singing the last song of the night, “Beautiful World,” did not wow fans as intended. Once upon a time, Booji’s appearance, occasionally squared off combatively and squealing in a crib, inspired wincing from Devo’s crowds. This time, the Booj drew happy “woos” as if it was a cute kid singing a happy song about the universe, rather than a petulant child sarcastically rhapsodizing about a sweet romantic place where beautiful people prove how much they don’t care.
Or maybe that’s what devolution really means—a newfound optimism, rather than the pessimism of yore—and I just need to strap on my energy dome and mutate.
All good. All great.
—A.D. Amorosi; photos by Wes Orshoski (shot five nights later in Brooklyn)
