Shows/1989-01-19
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Setlist: (incomplete and possibly out of order)
They Might Be Giants
Institute Of Contemporary Art in London, UK
January 19, 1989
Fan Recaps and Comments:
A review of the show by Keith Cameron
Sounds, Jan. 28, 1989:
INDEED THEY might, though I suspect Johns Linnell and Flansburgh will settle for being just above averagely tall. Goliath status would, at least, excuse them the dubious pleasures of affairs like this.
"That was a good test to see if you're talking during the songs," said Linnell after the extremely low-key "I'll Sink Manhattan". "We know you're not talking between them." Ouch! TMBG's ennervating mix of beat box driven stompers and dislocated cabaret-show sea-shanties doubtless thrives on an audience as perky as themselves; pissed and uninhabited would help too. Well, the earlycomers at this subtly disguised music biz lig (well come on, how many people actually bought tickets?) weren't pissed (yet) and the shedding of inhibitions was never likely to get more out of hand than the occasional toe-tap.
That they soldiered on like the Tin Pan Alley troupers they certainly resemble was to their credit and out slight embarrassment. It's not hard to warm to the sussed catchiness of songs such as "Ana Ng" and "Don't Let's Start". But when sandwiched by some near acappella lyric-heavy recitals, one's appreciation is blunted. As these moments become more frequent, They Might Be Giants assume the rather horrific mantle of fringe theatre satirists, when the epithet "clever" ceases to be a compliment. As such though, they are wholly proficient and it comes as not too great a surprise to learn that they have sold a million records in America, where cynicism reigns less heavily than on these shores.
So no, not giants; but they won't be pygmies either, and rightly so.
A review of the show by Tony Beard
Record Mirror, Feb. 11, 1989:
The Kooky Crew. They Might Be Giants are the duo plagued by that damned unfashionable "wacky Yanks" tag that makes them out to be peddlers of some sort of second-rate loony tunes. They're in danger of being passed over simply because they seem to be pissing about with pop.
They Might Be Giants are from New York, although they're about as streetwise as Deputy Dog. Def they ain't. It's a good point to focus on, for the Giants often come close to cartoon capery, what with John number one's heavy metal tomfoolery − a sort of Spinal Tap gross out with glasses and sensible shoes, politely raucous rather than a great rock barf out. "(She was a) Hotel Detective" is fuzzball fever, a real gumball pop song. Sharp rather than sweet.
John number two plays accordion "like the Charles Manson Orchestra." He's the rather more sensible one. "Lie Still, Little Bottle," though, is not, it's almost pantomime, especially when a friend is invited to jam on stage, with a tree branch. Then there's the brisk, trad chaos of "Polka," an opportunity for John number one to roll about a bit and generally ham it up. It's all fun and games, sure, and at times it's just as pop was meant to be − three minutes (and under) of playful hooklined entertainment. But then they start to shout "Kill George Bush" as if it's the only thing of any importance. And then there's the line in "Kiss Me, Son of God" about building empires "on the blood of the exploited working class." Serious stuff that's all but overlooked. Maybe they have a future after all − the condemned men live.
