“DEVO SUCKS—DIE”

By Christian Lipski

Can you really cut someone in half with a shotgun? I mean, would the blast (assuming both barrels) really sever all the bone and muscle and those other bits all at once, or would it at best just put a wet, meaty hole in your midsection only big enough to push a lunchbox through?

These were the thoughts going through my head in Freshman Spanish as the guy behind me shared with me his opinions on the band Devo and people who enjoyed their music.

I got into Devo initially because my brother did not like them, and we were always looking for ways to establish our individuality (that’s also how I decided to like the Rolling Stones). As I got a little older and puberty started to wreak havoc on my system, I began to appreciate Devo’s dirty, dirty nature, which despite their hit single and video “Whip It” didn’t seem to register in the skulls of the populace. This also dovetailed nicely with my simultaneous discovery of the Church of the SubGenius, which counts the band among its early members.

So let’s say at about 13 I was fully entrenched in Devo, spending most of my day in my room reading, with side one of Freedom of Choice on infinite repeat on the turntable. It appealed to me in all different kinds of ways: intellectually, sexually, subversively, and musically. To display my enjoyment of the band and its music, I rode my bike the eight miles to the local record shop and purchased (with my own money) a small pin (or badge) with the distinctive flowerpot hat and band name on it. This pin took up residence on my coat alongside various others that I had collected.

Pin shown actual size

Now, I don’t know what kind of advanced technology Devo Inc. had inserted into their merchandise. To me it looked like an ordinary one-inch band pin, the kind that was flourishing in the early-to-mid-eighties. But somehow this one pin had the mysterious ability to refract light in such a way as to be immediately visible from at least the length of the main hall at West Morris Central High School, and perhaps even from space.

However it was done, it became a flashing sign to jocks, stoners, and other predatory hall creatures, one of whom sat behind me in Spanish, a class that was depressingly held every day of the year.

In Victorian Britain (1837-1901) it was customary to introduce oneself by means of a calling card, which allowed two people to meet without the crudity of physical interaction. Careful research has determined that in certain parts of 1980s New Jersey this tradition had evolved into writing with ballpoint pen on another’s notebook cover. I returned to my desk from the bathroom or water fountain or whatever to find the message “DEVO SUCKS—DIE” waiting for me. It eventually became obvious that the author sat immediately behind me, close enough to lean forward and whisper to the back of my head, “I ought to cut you in half with a shotgun,” and other creative thoughts throughout the school year. The best part was that I was so anxious about this kind of stuff that I would sweat a lot, and in order to disguise that fact I would wear my coat all day. With the Devo pin a shining beacon in all of its magical glory.

And why that pin? What was so special about that particular button that it deserved special treatment? It’s not like there weren’t a host of other reasons to hate me affixed to my coat. Why not, for example, the two-and-a-half-inch handmade faux-parchment button that established me as a “Knight of the Court” from a community production of Once Upon a Mattress? Good God, I would kick my ass for that. The world is a mysterious place.

Fade now to twenty years later. My wife and I went to radio station KROQ’s “Inland Invasion” concert, which featured current and classic bands in a festival-type setting. One of those bands was Devo, playing on the main stage. It was a great show, with old favorites and lesser-known tunes played at a high volume. I was on my feet on the lawn, bopping around and swimming in the musical love that the fellows were putting out. At some point I started to notice the crowd around me. They were, for the most part, around my age, and dancing to the music, having fun.

And I started actually yelling at them. Because you could just tell from looking at them that they had HATED Devo when they were in high school. There was no way that beer-swilling ex-linebacker Bob there with the knee-length Bermuda shorts and flip flops would have been caught dead listening to the very song he was dancing to now. None of them had put in dues. They’d played it safe and sane, staying conservative in their musical choices, keeping well away from anything that would mark them as “different” in the eyes of their peers. How dare they be allowed to jump in later in life with no consequences?

I’d love to say that I went all foamy and red-eyed with rage, that I attacked these poseurs, these latecoming bandwagon-jumpers. I can’t, though. I spent about half a minute yelling and being pissed, and then I turned back to the show. I had gotten older, and so had they. I’d bet that the kid from high school (if he hasn’t already died from a tragic crystal-meth-brewing accident) wouldn’t have a problem with Devo now, and might actually be a little embarrassed by his youthful assery. We had all changed, grown closer to each other.

The fans on the lawn looked from jock to nerd and from nerd to jock, and from jock to nerd again, but already it was impossible to say which was which.