The 1970s—what an exciting time! The endless possibilities for cultural reinvention of musical genres were just beginning. Specifically rock ‘n’ roll, alternative music, punk rock, hip-hop, rap, and pop new wave bands. Country and Western too. Kent State was one defining moment in our evolution, revolution for peace, justice, and the American ethos, pathos, and logos. Four students were shot and killed on the college campus grounds by National Guard soldiers during an anti-Vietnam War protest. The blatant rot and decay in the American panacea of civil rights, warmongering, corporate political greed, and repression bubbled at the boiling point. Contemporary ideas and unusual ways of thinking became the norm for a growing counterculture revolution.
I was a disobedient, radical 14-year-old, and already knew the American Dream was a nightmare. Hypocrisy and hatred ruled the nation. Little has changed after all these decades. Weeks after the Kent State murders, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young released the song “Ohio”. Four dead in Ohio. It was the beginning of the end for everything. The songs of the day were pivotal in the annals of anti-war, anti-establishment sentiment. Revolution was thick in the air. The American nightmare went from weird to weirder.
From this hallucinatory hellscape of broken dreams, betrayal, discord, and mounting cynicism—something strange began to appear. Bands were popping up everywhere in cities and towns alike, brandishing their discontent. From the ashes of Kent State, a handful of students took their disillusion, distilling and refining it into a new, radical artistic sound and vision. Among them were Gerald Casale and Mark Mothersbaugh and their brothers (founding members of DEVO), who saw firsthand the madness that defined the American mystique. It quickly spread across the world. The advent of punk and new wave was a major threat to the establishment.
The questions that haunted them—the misconception and poo-pooing of authority, conformity, religion, and the so-called progress of modern society—itched beneath the surface, creating a new artistic form of scratchy subconsciousness. Renouncing the stagnant formulas of popular music, they looked to create something that wasn’t just another rock band but a concept, an idea: the de-evolution of humanity. DEVO was born—not merely a musical act, but a performance art project, a satirical response to the disillusionment of our generation.
DEVO appeared like a beacon of unique truths, their own warped theater of militarized, costumed mad scientists in matching uniforms, robotic moves, and scathing satire. DEVO held up the cultural mirror to a numb public, intent on exposing the absurdities of society, technology, religious beliefs, and crooked politics. Their music was art with a big bite of protest, the band that insisted on evolving—even if that meant devolving. My first introduction to Devo was through Sam, the maestro of the Motor Morons band. They were the ultimate band for gearhead grease monkeys who loved push-button transmissions, big trucks, fast cars, big girls, and a lot of beer.
The album released in 1978, Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are DEVO was playing on the turntable, and I asked Sammy, what the hell is this stuff? There was also a herky-jerky 45 rpm of Devo covering The Rolling Stones' “Satisfaction” and a bizarre song called “Mongoloid.” I was intrigued by the sound and thought it mocked automated robot Muzak. Like synth pop gone berserk. A few years later, during a slow weeknight at the Marble Bar in Baltimore, I watched the MTV video of the song “Whip It.” Here’s a bunch of weirdo guys in black shorts and turtlenecks, donning red plastic art deco style hats, aka energy domes. It reminds me of a kid's toy game where you would place marbles at the top and they would roll around, spiraling down to the bottom.
A founding member of DEVO later verified that the original design was inspired by and borrowed from a 1930s white milk glass light fixture that he stared at every day hanging from the ceiling in a school classroom. In the original “Whip It” video, the band is cracking whips, a woman is whipping cream in a bowl, cowboys are drinking beer and cavorting with women on a set reminiscent of Hee Haw. The band sang about when problems come around, you must whip it good. The message in the song gets reinterpreted and twisted into far-fetched theories about masturbation, sadomasochism, and subliminal references to slavery.
The pop tune had a beat that was definitely DEVO, and you could dance to it. In a documentary on Netflix, Mothersbaugh said there are two types of DEVO fans. The ones who like the music because they just want to dance, and the fans who like the messages in the song lyrics. I think they can be both. Although not everyone is a fanboy. Devo's Gerald Casale had a fight with Stiv Bators of the Dead Boys at Max's Kansas City in NYC around 1977. There was always a rivalry between the Dead Boys, who were pure hardcore punks rejecting the watered-down intellectual, art school aesthetic stylings of DEVO.
Some people thought that they were art snobs. The Dead Boys’ animosity stemmed from jealousy towards Devo for the fame, making big record deals, and championing subversive avant-garde hipster performance art interpretations. David Bowie and Brian Eno jumped on the DEVO bandwagon. If you throw in the Church of the SubGenius, run by a mythical cartoon character named Bob Dobbs, the advent of spuds, and a takeaway on nerds. The Beat Generation, Vermin Supreme, the perpetual presidential candidate, the Jockey Club, the Tinklers, Half Japanese, Pere Ubu, the Surrealist Movement, Dada, and that ilk. The cult-like status that garnered accolades that parallel the Grateful Dead in their heyday. Now the Grateful Dead are dead, and DEVO soldiers on after half a century of devolution.