Shows/1989-03-10

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Setlist:

Encore #1:

Encore #2:

Encore #3:

They Might Be Giants
— with Deja Voodoo opening —
Ecstasy Club in Berlin, Germany
March 10, 1989


Fan Recaps and Comments:

(Translated from German)
"Pop & Bullishness" by Thomas Winkler
Taz, Mar. 13, 1989:

Life is hard enough, but there are still plenty of stupid things to make it even more confusing and frustrating. For example, there are official concert start times, the custom of collectively moving them back due to late arrivals, and the whim of an agency to let the people who plan this happen. Thank God the main group was still there, “They Might Be Giants", otherwise the writer would have completely lost an object of criticism by cleverly bypassing the opening act "Deja Voodoo", which was actually his only concern.


The rhythm comes from the tape, accordion, guitar and vocals are live, many pieces are acapella, but even as a convinced rockist I don't miss anything. I'm standing on the stairs, behind the young man with horn-rimmed glasses and the young man with medium-length hair, both in plain shirts and jeans, exactly the kind of neighbors you never see but who wake you up every morning because they're bought a new, crazy instrument at the flea market, a kind of Indian moon lute, had to try it out and played it all over the house, or had the idea to install a dial-a-tune service on their answering machine, and everyone record another self-composed song on the second day.

So I'm standing on the stairs behind the stage, and hundreds of shiny eyes can't be wrong − that's what they wanted: fun, sophisticated of course. But we’re always up for musings like “Youth Culture Killed My Dog.” The connection between art and shit, or more appropriately between pop and nonsense, is perfect. The young men also have a taste for cabaret and invite someone with a “strong sense of rhythm” onto the stage, give him a medium-sized tree trunk and instruct him to beat the beat. When the guest musician no longer has control of his piece of wood after a few seconds, the audience is asked to help and clap along. But even the advice to stop listening and just look at the hands in front of the stage doesn't help and it's only on the third attempt that you make it almost to the end of the piece.

Two typical American students (eastern states, went to school in Boston, probably the only place in the USA where you can come up with such ideas) who are afraid of nothing, convinced Brooklynites who want to sink Manhattan, with a twisted view of music, who you wouldn't even expect to be English, romping around the trendy Postmodern department store like a few little children. Nothing is sacred, no melody, no matter how corny, no riff, no matter how stale, and everything that is considered a hit, anyway, everything is touched and grasped with thick, greasy fingers. But you can't be angry with the little ones, they smile far too innocently when you want to slap their little hands.


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