When it comes to the quirk of the cult, few acts or artists arouse and instil such staunch sense of belonging nor dedication-related reward as Ohio's finest,
Devo. Tonight they take to Huntington, a serenely sinister, seemingly dormitory town on the spindly peninsula of Long Island: the windswept streets are lined with Santa parodists crawling from one satirically ornamented watering hole to another, delivering drunken carols as if they were rickety sea shanties, consequently adding further ersatz menace to this Gilliam-like land of no return. More precisely however, it's the eerily pristine Paramount that's to be our bizarrely conspicuous, LED-doused hangout, a magnet for the energy-domed spuds who trudge drone-like through prickly winds and apocalyptic meteorological conditions toward the warmth of the familiar, the favoured, and indeed the fabled.
For Devo shows have indubitably become legendary-to-the-point-of-folkloric jamborees constructed to celebrate and commemorate one of the modern musical world's most reprehensibly neglected back catalogues and, on a night like this, seen through a sea of variegated postmodern plastic, aurally, visually, sensorially, to paraphrase the men of Devo themselves, this is a monumentally good thing.
Energy domes abound, a great energy laced with torturous anticipation is arithmetically cultivated before Mark and Bob Mothersbaugh, Gerald and Bob Casale, and Josh Freese pop up and peekaboo from behind mountainous synths and synth stands, drum risers and guitars. Giving the past a momentary slip, the wailing, pulsating synths of Don't Shoot (I'm A Man), lifted from (again) heinously overlooked latest Something For Everybody jolt into compulsive action and lock all into undivided absorption, sounding like the sirens of Manhattan's every emergency service vehicle inexplicably pleasingly screeching within the inner ear. The peanut butter to the sonic jelly are crazed and crazily clear, retina-scorching visuals as we're treated to a tantalisingly lavish AV extravaganza from the off: a handful of tees consecrating The Residents are dotted about the dimly-illumed hall and
from deeply disquieting latex masks to the exploration of the most boundary-mauling avant-garde, parallels are numerous and ubiquitous over eighty minutes of prevalent pitch bending and intermittent shape shifting. In grey boiler suits, the New Wave troupe resemble the Beastie Boys at their most effervescent on the treble and yowl-smeared jitter of What We Do, emulating the feel of a rudimentary rap collective before hurtling into a smutty take on Going Under that's tonight beat into a vivacious beast that's substantially jerkier than any dried, vacuum-packed flesh.
Fresh crackles with the uninhibited virility of a barely legal teen knocking back cold, hard whiskies as Mothersbaugh (Bob) puts a distorted Les Paul through its arresting paces with cracks and thwacks of the stuff, while the frenzied undulations of That's Good involuntarily buoy all into tidal bounce. It's a show that's as choreographed as every swing and kick of a Rockette's leg, and as many costume changes as a Radio City Christmas Spectacular ensue, the first of which sees electric blue domes donned for a racy pelt through Girl U Want, Whip It, and Planet Earth. That their most sacred jingle is all but entirely cast into shades of bathos by an immense Girl U Want and is shuffled unspectacularly into the heart of papered setlist – besides the reality that the likes of Big Mess, Gut Feeling, Here To Go et cetera are tonight omitted – appreciably elucidates the strength in depth both of Devo's discography and of the songs themselves. Like an unostentatious and highly accessible Kraftwerk-via-skyscraping choruses, there's certainly deranging method to the glorious madness of the Devo show, especially upon witnessing Mothersbaugh (Mark) rabidly waving fireball-like pom-poms in the snouts of the diehards who are here almost surgically fastened to the barrier.
Ageing indecently if in a manner as dignified and distinctive as conceivable, they momentarily vanish, leaving a Carl Sagan vid of a swirling cosmos in their wake before swiftly returning to rip apart tawdry cadmium yellow coveralls, cunningly uncovering knee pads and yet more Devo paraphernalia as they cover (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction and reel off their suitably lurid impression of P. F. Sloan and Steve Barri's Secret Agent Man. Uncontrollable Urge, Mongoloid, and Jocko Homo are then rattled off with the relentlessness of impossibly rhythmic artillery fire, with zeal and zest as Mark, Gerald and Bobs bob and jounce in formation like turbulent Red Arrows of a rather more garish hue.
An hour in and they're onto their fifth costume as bilious "sexy wiener shirts" are then revealed, prompting the odd expression of aghast horror akin to that which is sure to become profusely endemic worldwide come the 25th. That said, or scribed, if you're busy contemplating what gift-wrapped Christmas bulk to proffer your nearest and dearest Devo Obsesso already in possession of fluo energy dome, a
'Hot Dog Fresh Cycling Jersey' is a bet as safe for satisfaction as any.
The evening in itself is something of a wondrous gift, a Christmas show that becomes progressively more festive as it rumbles on: by its closing stages proceedings feel as traditional as turkey, with the fowl tonight hurled into the ravenous throng by Mark in the form of cardboard-ensnared discs of gristle. His lycra shorts packed with all things inedible from one of the state's innumerable Duane Reade outlets, other culinary horrors include half-eaten baguettes and crumpled crisps, chips, or indeed fried spuds that are all viciously scrapped for as Freedom Of Choice is thrashed out in the periphery of hearing. Spasmodically it's all too ocularly feastful, our haywired compère detracting attentions from some of the finest musical and cultural produce of the late '70s and early '80s yet with Beautiful World we're reconnected to juddering and wiry guitars, to timeless synth lines, reeled back in like a satellite hauled out of orbit and back down to the comfort of Earth. It's an unlikely denouement yet it's one that, somehow, right here, right now, sends Devo stratospheric.
Bouncy balls plastered in beaming grins then clog the air, launched from a fanny pack by Mark Mothersbaugh in a part-Slitheen, part-Sci Fi Saint Nick getup as the final gasps of exhilaration are respired lengthily during an extended yet never exasperating climax. Forget West 50th; the purest Christmas Spectacular took off from Huntington's New York Avenue, down at 370. Devo, we salute thee.
