Many — if not most — Rock bands start out as a lark. For every factory produced Pop group and every once in a generation supergroup, there are thousands born from the spontaneity of “I can sing, you can play guitar, our friend has drums — let’s try this!” The majority of those larks end up more like a fling. It turns out that I can’t actually sing. You go off to college and leave your guitar behind. Our drummer friend’s parents kick us out of the garage and, in a matter of months, the band that was barely a band, is nothing more than a charming memory.

A subset of those larks are intentionally comedic — inspired not by the urge to make great music but by the desire to amuse. Weird Al might be our greatest purveyor of parody Rock. Spinal Tap the most famous satirical Rock band. But there are a myriad of others who exist to make us laugh rather than to move. Ween, They Might Be Giants, and even (I think, I mean I hope) Barenaked Ladies all qualify as “Joke Bands.”

However, because punchlines can get annoying, there are equal, opposite and far more serious forces at work: Art Rock bands — those groups who aspire to the headiness of the avant garde. The Velvet Underground and Sonic Youth are New York’s version. Can and Kraftwerk are Germany’s. And, I suppose, Yes and King Crimson would be England’s. The thing about Art Rock bands, though, is that while they can be obsessed over or, even briefly popular, they are by definition niche. They are some people’s kind of fun, but, by definiition, not everyone’s.

Once we let the larks tire themselves out, separate the good jokes from the dumb ones and the art from the schlock, though, we are left with the exception to the exceptions to the exceptions. And that would be Devo, the Rock band that was also a Pop band that was also a Punk band that was also an Electronic band who made Joke Rock that was also Art Rock. Devo formed, at least partially, in response to the Kent State shootings in 1970. Except, they formed in 1973, which meant that they were not so much a reaction to a tragedy as they were a comment on our collective de-evolution (or “de-vo” or “Devo”). Devo was kind of a lark. Kind of a joke. Kind of like art. Two sets of brothers (the Mothersbaughs and the Casales) who, under almost any other circumstances, would have ended up in art galleries, or as footnotes to the future history of the Talking Heads. But instead, they became Devo — Top 40 hitmakers, MTV legends and icons of nerd culture.

Some of Devo’s good fortune could be attributed to (who else) David Bowie, who helped land them a major label record deal. Some of it was the success of their gimmicks — the dome hats, the wraparound shades and the matching hazmat suits. And some was a byproduct of Punk and Post-Punk, which acclimated our ears to harsh tones and jagged rhythms. But most of it was the music — its inventiveness and its infectiousness. “Mongoloid,” “Jocko Homo,” “Girl You Want,” “Beautiful World” and “Whip It” were provocative and funny. They were catchy and weird — but mostly catchy. They were sharp but not abrasive. They stood out on the FM dial and jumped off screens. Yes, for more than half a decade — from 1977 through 1983 — Devo was a big deal.

But maybe not so big. “Whip It” was their only Top 40 hit and “Freedom of Choice” their only platinum-selling album. They were far from a fluke — their first five albums are full of songs that far exceed novelty. And that is saying something because their jokes were pretty darn good. However, by 1984, the year of “Revenge of the Nerds,” Devo had started to devolve. While Louis and Gilbert were doing Devo cosplay on the big screen, the Mothersbaugh and Casale brothers struggled to separate lark from gimmick. Their sixth album, “Shout,” was panned by critics and ignored by radio and MTV. In short order, they were dropped from Warner Brothers and lost drummer Alan Myers, who attributed his departure to “creative unfulfillment.” Less than six years removed from their radical debut, Devo had been market-corrected by Gary Numan, Thomas Dolby, New Order, Weird Al and the Adams College chapter of the Lambda Lambda Lambda fraternity.

1984 was not the end of Devo, per se. But it was the end of Devo as the exception to the exceptions to the exceptions. Mark Mothersbaugh and Gerald Casale turned their attention to film and television soundtracks, composing and performing together for “Revenge of the Nerds II: Nerds in Paradise” and “Slaughterhouse Rock.” Mothersbaugh, however, quickly graduated from B-movie fare, and made a name for himself on “Pee-wee’s Playhouse” and, eventually, in the Wes Anderson universe. Along the way, the Devo frontman became one of the most prolific and acclaimed composers in Hollywood.

Shortly after “Nerds in Paradise,” but long before “Rushmore,” Devo was in flux. After the debacle that was “Shout,” they signed to Enigma Records, a label that specialized in crossover Metal (Mötley Crüe, Poison), first rate, second wave Punk (Hüsker Dü, The Dead Milkmen) and just barely mainstream Art Rock (Pere Ubu, Sonic Youth). On paper, Enigma seemed like the perfect landing spot for Devo, and Devo like a prestigious addition to their stable. Unfortunately for both parties, “Total Devo,” from 1988, arrived with a thud and a sigh. It’s first single, “Disco Dancer” was summarily trashed on MTV’s “Smash or Trash.” “Baby Doll,” meanwhile, was rerecorded with Swedish lyrics and under a pseudonym — for ironic purposes but also, no doubt, to separate a new song from a tired band.

If “Total Devo” anticipated the band’s break-up, “Smooth Noodle Maps,” from 1990, sealed it. The first Devo album to not chart in any English speaking country, “Smooth Noodle Maps” was less a commercial or critical failure (though it was both of those things) as it was completely boring — something that Devo had never been accused of. It was derided for its synthesized horns, low rent beats and lack of provocation. More than they loathed the songs, however, fans disliked the sound of the album — thin and compressed. “Smooth Noodle Maps” was the end of the line — a death knell. In the Spring of 1991, following poor concert ticket sales, zero radio airplay and no commercial prospects, Devo broke up. Mark Mothersbaugh reflected on the time thusly:

“Around '88, '89, '90 maybe, we did our last tour in Europe, and it was kind of at that point, We were watching “This Is Spinal Tap” on the bus and said, 'Oh my God, that's our life.' And we just said, 'Things have to change.’”

Change they did. While Mark’s career as a film composer bloomed and while Gerald established himself as a director of music videos, Devo was on hiatus. There were occasional reunion shows, album reissues and public appearances, but it would be another twenty years before we received “Something for Everybody,” their (likely) final studio album. In the interim, the band’s reputation as pioneers of New Wave, Post-Punk and Art Rock began to swell. And with it, my curiosity about “Smooth Noodle Maps” grew and grew. I wondered, was it was really that bad. If I listened to it closely, could I hear the gears grinding? But, most of all, what happened?

As for that first question, the answer is “no” — it’s not that bad. Just eleven songs and barely thirty-four minutes, “Smooth Noodle Maps” is economical and generally pain free. “Post Post-Modern Man” with its half-decent hook, quarter decent joke, laser beams and programmed beats, is probably better than “Nerds in Paradise” — but not nearly as good as “Weird Science.” “When We Do It,” on the other hand, is less curious about Oingo Boingo and more interested in New Order. The bass and drums want you to move closer to the dance floor. But the groove is sexless. In fact, it’s worse than sexless — it’s unfunny. Actual words Mothersbaugh sings:

When we do it

The great big "it"

I hope it's "we"

And not just me

Which helps answer the second question: yes, you can hear the gears grinding. Their hooks — once sharp as a tack — are now dull. The beats, once deliriously herky jerky, have straightened themselves out. But most of all, their jokes — once immediate and obtuse at the same time — are boring. “A Change is Gonna Cum” is an actual song title and also entirely unnecessary. “Jimmy,” about an abusive husband who ends up in wheelchair, is lazy irony. And "Devo Has Feelings Too" eerily resembles middle of the road, late Eighties Metal filler. Nearly two decades after the lark began, Devo’s set ups were soft and their punchlines lacked teeth.

But most of all “Smooth Noodle Maps” sounds terrible. Both like a band circling the drain and like a set of songs poorly served by their producers, who happened to be the band themselves. It sounds shoddy, like Oingo Boingo covering New Order under water. It’s possible that the fun had run its course. Or that their art was betrayed by a lack of technical ingenuity. Or that their recording budget was insufficient. Or that Mark and Gerald’s inspiration was deployed elsewhere. Whatever the reason, though, Devo’s eighth album lacks luster.

And yet, there is something about it — something I could not immediately place. Something so familiar that I almost missed it. Not the computerized deadpan of Mothersbaugh’s vocals. Not the science fiction of the synthesizers. It was the beats — those cheap, digital beats. They sounded terrible, but also, they kind of slapped. Not like Oingo Boingo. Or New Order for that matter. No — they slapped like LCD Soundsystem. Yes — LCD Soundsystem! The germs of “Sound of Silver” and “This is Happening” aren’t Can or Faust or Suicide or O.M.D. They’re somewhere in “Smooth Noodle Maps.” Devo’s worst album resembles James Murphy’s finest work. Which is the thing about Devo. They were oddly, exceptionally original until the zeitgeist caught up with them. But even in 1990, even after they were stripped of their novelty — even at their bottom — they were ahead of their time, making science fiction for the not too distant future.

by Matty Wishnow