The theory of Devo-lution

For the aptly titled <em>Something for Everybody</em>, Devo let its fans have their say on just about everything

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      Had things gone just a little further down one particular evolutionary byway, the version of Devo that’s coming to the LIVE at Squamish festival this weekend might have looked quite different. In fact, it could have been fronted by American Idol contender Adam Lambert—and that would have been just fine with the band’s founder, Mark Mothersbaugh, who, as it turns out, will remain at the microphone.

      But let’s back up a bit.

      The summer tour that’s being touted as the second coming of Devo—which has included high-profile Lollapalooza and Coachella shows—isn’t exactly that. In fact, as Mothersbaugh explains by phone from the band’s Los Angeles headquarters, he and his long-time accomplices have been hitting the stage every year since 1996, when, after a five-year hiatus, they decided to start performing again. But they’ve been selective about it.

      “For the last 14 years, we’ve been going out for, like, 15 to 20 dates a year, maximum,” the affable singer, soundtrack composer, and visual artist reveals. “Mostly just cherry-picking festivals, like Sonar in Barcelona or festivals in places like Rio de Janeiro and Japan, and then calling it a day.”

      This year is a little different. For one thing, the 37-year-old quintet has expanded its operation, hitting more places than in previous years. And for another, Devo’s got a new album, Something for Everybody, to promote. It’s the band’s first since 1990’s Smooth Noodle Maps, its best since 1980’s Freedom of Choice, and if Mothersbaugh had had his way, it might not have been made at all.

      “I had no interest in it originally,” he confesses. “In fact, I thought that it would never happen.”

      How Something for Everybody came to be is a long and tangled story, although it can be compressed into one word: money. What happened, essentially, is that in 2007 Dell wanted to license Devo’s 1980 hit “Whip It” for a computer commercial. Inspired by some of the sound-check jams the band had been coming up with, its management suggested an unrecorded—and in fact unwritten—number instead. The Dell execs bit, and Mothersbaugh came up with “Watch Us Work It”, the first new Devo song in some time. The tune was then turned over to Sweden’s Teddybears for a remix, and the former black-metallists convinced Devo that a full album might, in fact, be desirable.

      “We talked to them and they said, ”˜Oh, you guys, we’re fans and you should do an album,’ ” Mothersbaugh comments. “We were like, ”˜Well, I don’t know if we’re interested in getting back in that business. We kind of did that and went through it, and it wasn’t that pleasant.’ And they went, ”˜But things are different. We’re unknown, but last year we put out a record and we sold 30,000 albums in one year.’

      “I just remember thinking, ”˜Oh, my God, I sold 30,000 singles out of my bedroom in Akron, Ohio, probably, and we didn’t even have a record company. So why would I try to reproduce that paltry number?’ And then they went, ”˜But in the same year, we licensed the songs on that album for over five million dollars.’ ”

      Intrigued, Mothersbaugh let Devo’s cofounder, Gerald Casale, talk him into a meeting with Warner Bros., and that clinched the deal.

      “It was interesting,” he stresses, still sounding surprised. “People there were like, ”˜Well, we know we’re an endangered species and we’ll probably be gone in about five years—unless we reinvent ourselves. And that’s why we want to do a record with you guys. We want to see if that’s possible, if we can do something together.’ It sounded like a social-science experiment to me, and that was really appealing.”

      The experimental part was that Devo and Warner developed Something for Everybody through a series of focus groups and on-line votes, allowing fans to have input into everything from the new disc’s title to the songs selected for release to the colour of the band’s patented Energy Dome hats, which are now shiny blue instead of the more familiar fire-engine red. It’s a remarkably perverse spin on Devo’s original concept of de-evolution, which contends that popular culture inevitably tends toward stupidity—not least because ceding some degree of creative control to the masses seems to have been a decidedly smart move. And, remarkably, it entailed no significant compromises on Devo’s part.

      “To be honest with you, I was a little disappointed that we didn’t get to compromise more,” Mothersbaugh says. “I was hoping that somebody would say, ”˜The singing on all these songs sucks. You should get Adam Lambert to re-sing all these songs.’ I was hoping for something like that. I remember talking to Gerry and saying, ”˜I think we could do that. I would definitely call Adam Lambert up and ask him if he’d sing on our record.’ ”

      It’s tempting to take him seriously. After all, not only is Mothersbaugh one of the nicest and brightest people in pop, but as one of Hollywood’s busiest film composers he probably does have Lambert’s number on his phone. Moments later, though, his perverse streak resurfaces as the 60-year-old musician weighs in with the real reason you need to see Devo in 2010.

      “Remember: four out of five of these guys are pretty far up there in the years, and one of us could keel over at any moment,” he says, laughing. “So pay attention—any show could be the last one.”

      Devo plays LIVE at Squamish on Saturday (September 4).

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