1988-09-18 Newsday
They Might Even Be Big
By Mark Coleman, Newsday, September 18, 1988
Archived from: Newspapers.com - part 1, part 2
They Might Be Giants became darlings of the downtown club scene with their self-effacing wit and odes to absurdity.
At the Knitting Factory, a club in lower Manhattan, one can sip imported beer or herbal tea and listen to live performances by jazz and rock musicians of the avant-garde persuasion. Normally, the music bill of fare there features conceptualized eardrum-assault. Each Wednesday in September, however, a local ensemble known as They Might Be Giants will be making the Knitting Factory's exposed-brick walls shake with an unfamiliar sound — laughter.
One recent Wednesday at the club at 47 E. Houston, for example, the Brooklyn-based duo appeared as their own opening act. Armed with acoustic guitar and accordion respectively, John Flansburgh and John Linnell introduce themselves as "Count Drinkalot" and then proceed to croak and stumble through drunken-sailor versions of Giants standards such as "Hope I Get Old Before I Die" and "Kiss Me, Son Of God." The crowd howls in delight.
With their self-deprecating humor and deadpan presence, these two modern-day folk satirists could be the nerdy-cool Smothers Brothers of the '90s. Yet They Might Be Giants is something more than a comedy act; they might be the most original — and genuinely popular — rock group to emerge from New York in this decade. "Although the Smothers Brothers' in-between song patter sounded spontaneous, it was all written out in advance," says John Linnell. "When people come to our show, they actually get to see us trying to figure out what we're doing. We've had a lot of practice at not sounding practiced."
"Lincoln," the group's second album, illustrates that contradiction. Each one of its 18 original songs (down from the 19 on "They Might Be Giants," their debut album) is densely packed with ideas and deftly arranged, like a miniature movie soundtrack. For every whacky ode to absurdity such as "Shoehorn With Teeth" or "Purple Toupee," there's a weirdly affecting tale of unrequited love such as "Ana Ng" or "I've Got A Match."
Both Flansburgh and Linnell are gifted musicians on several different instruments and prolific writers, and through the miracle of tape recording they're usually able to recreate the mad-scientist aesthetic of their records in concert. "I feel naked without our tapes," admits Flansburgh. "Playing that 'Drinkalot' show unaccompanied is totally terrifying. But that's the great thing about doing a series at a place like the Knitting Factory. We can stretch out and not worry about Delivering The Rock Goods. Now if we would have done that 'opening act' at Columbia University the other night, there would have been a lot of people scratching their heads."
"And threatening to scratch our heads," adds Linnell.
It's hard to imagine anyone perceiving They Might Be Giants as a threat. They became darlings of the nihilistic downtown scene, even though they don't dress all in black, dismember vegetables on stage or sound remotely like the Velvet Underground.
"We started off with a lot of songs that weren't particularly pointed towards an audience," says Flansburgh. The two Johns began collaborating as high school students in Massachusetts during the late '70s. When they both ended up in Park Slope in Brooklyn a few years later, they resumed their friendship and their bedroom recording sessions. "Gradually, we developed our show, and now I think it's very audience-friendly. In fact, I think we lose points with some people because of that," Flansburgh said.
"After we got past the nightmare showcase clubs — really dismal places where we'd just play to our friends — we started playing to the really cool crowd in the East Village," recalls Flansburgh. "I actually felt like more of a star in 1985 than I do now because I'd walk around and people would say 'you're cool.'"
"It was like being in a Don Knotts movie where some papers get mixed up and you become a five-star general instead of a private," Linnell says wistfully. "That may never happen again!"
"In three years we've gone from being a New York Creative Music Project to a National Touring Act," reflects Flansburgh. "But we're still doing alternative music. As much as I respect Gloria Estefan of Miami Sound Machine," he adds with arched eyebrows, "we're not trying to reach out and touch some universal chord. We're speaking to ourselves!"
Nevertheless, They Might Be Giants have developed a loyal following. It's a diverse, decidedly non-esoteric crowd that seems to be growing. A typical Giants' gig is marked by a feeling of equality; the sort of down-to-earth atmosphere that made the original punk movement so special. "Punk rock was really the jump-start for us," says Linnell. "Bands were getting together who weren't ashamed of not having down the 100 Standard Rock Licks. We probably still don't know 'em."
"A lot of times people come up to us after our shows and say, 'You guys were really great, I'm gonna start a band!' " says Flansburgh. "That makes me happy, because when I went to see punk bands, I always thought 'I'm as good as that,' as much as I'd like 'em. In the '70s there was an attitude of 'gutter god up here, audience down there.' It's really nice to be able to open that door. I think if They Might Be Giants could be rock gods, we'd give it a whirl. But we're definitely stuck here."