They Might Be Giants @ Le Poisson Rouge

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Friday, 20 February 2009 14:20

In colorful orange knit hats and fluffy wool scarves, they twirled on Bleecker Street, running rings around their chaperoning parents, repeatedly reminded to “stay away from traffic.” In the half hour before the show, fans bubbled with anticipation: Many screamed, a few cried, some drooled, and a handful wobbled towards the street before being lovingly yanked back.

This wasn’t a Scorpions reunion, and there was no alcohol involved. This was the They Might Be Giants children’s show at Le Poisson Rouge, 3 o’clock on a sunny afternoon, and the crowd was restless.

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Since 1982, They Might Be Giants have been beloved graduates of the underground art-rock scene in New York City. With a knack for sculpting nuanced DEVO-style rock around bizarre motifs - the 11th president James K. Polk takes front seat in a fan favorite - the band has garnering a devoted following of geeky music fanatics that stretches across the country. Recently, though, the group has grown famous for their children’s albums, aimed at fans that’ve followed the band long enough over their 25-year-plus career to now have kids of their own. The group's most recent record, Here Come The 123s, took home the Grammy last week for Best Musical Album for Children.

As children flooded into the venue, staff members passed out toddler-sized yellow foam fingers, stamped with the words “They Might Be Giants.” Inside the theatre, parents sat cross-legged before the stage, wrangling kids, while 300 unpacified toddlers crawled over their shoulders, chased their siblings, and more often than not, bounced up and down in place. A toddler’s mosh pit. Many kids, not finding a better use for them, playfully smacked their parents with the fingers or, ignoring all sound advice, found a home for the teething-friendly foam in their mouths.

“This is The Beatles for him,” said Sarah Wendell a long-time TMBG fan and mother of Max and Alex, a toddler and grade schooler passing time before the start of the show. Max, dancing to pre-recorded club music, wiggled and jived, stumbling forward, flaunting a junior version of the jitterbug. His mother, with a finger through the belt loop on his elastic jeans, gently reeled him in. “He’s gonna sleep so well tonight. [Max] is teething and he’s just going to pass out when he gets home.”

The Giants took the stage just in time. After a 20-minute wait, children grow fussy. Nap-deprived cries sprouted up around the venue. Their parent’s voices quickly followed with deeper soothing tones -- but as the band strode under the stage lights, the crowd responded lovingly. Folks pointed towards the podium, explaining to slightly confused children, “There’s John and John,” referring to the group’s two original members.

Introducing the first song, John Flansburgh, in a bright-orange-collared T-shirt and his trademark black-rimmed glasses, quipped, “Put your hands in the air and wave them as if you’re at your first nightclub experience, children!”

“I feel as if they raised the stage six feet,” he deadpanned, staring over the tiny heads of the audience, most of which didn’t reach the shoulders of their seated parents. The band, with a drummer, bassist and acoustic guitar in tow, segued gently into “Fibber Island” – a delightfully hushed melody about a make-believe colony where people scarf chocolate by the pound, strum rubber guitars and sew buttons on their cars. The theater floor became a seabed of gently swaying heads – a seated beach party without the campfire – as folks were reunited with their old friends on stage.

Next up was “Alphabet of Nations,” a cascading piano ballad that found The Giants listing off countries in their trademark nasal voices. Bathed under blue light, the song’s finale gave John Linnell an opportunity to bandstand, belting the word “Guatemallllaaala!” over the heads of a bobbing audience. Waving his microphone in front of his mouth for a goofy strobe effect, the club filled with generation-bridging laughter and applause.

The tune that best showcased The Giants’ ability to spin an idiosyncratic melody around an endearing topic was the jumping “Seven” off this year’s Here Come The 123s. Ushering a horn section on stage, the band stepped into the charming funk groove about the number Seven who crashes a party, multiplies and demands cake. The anthemic chorus, “WE WANT CAKE. WHERE’S OUR CAKE!” was echoed by the crowd with thunderous (if squeaky) camaraderie.

Ultimately, the afternoon was about bringing parents and children closer, uniting under a shared love of the same band – an occurrence that, speaking from experience, probably won’t happen again till these kids reach their 20s. With a jiggling tyke perched on one knee, Sarah Wendell put the bonding experience nicely. “They Might Be Giants’ music is much easier on the parents,” she confided. “The Wiggles [another popular children’s band] can be a little grating, but TMBG is always good.”

“The excellent behavior of these kids, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve seen children bum rush the stage,” remarked Flansburgh, before launching into the main set’s rollicking closer, “Dr. Worm.” The pogoing tune brought the masses to their feet. Parents lined up in front of the stage, toddlers delicately balanced on their shoulders, as they lightly hopped and bounced away the afternoon, coaching these future headbangers of America.

At the end of the gig, much like a normal festival where alcohol, not milk, is the social lubricant, a few tired children were passed out next to their friends, and a handful, understandably, had soiled themselves. Empty plastic baggies littered the venue floor. A familiar site, though instead of mood-altering substances, these baggies contained a few half-eaten Cheerios. Scanning the room, one first grader, sporting an all-white karate uniform with chocolate-chip cookie smeared all over his grinning face, was led from the venue by his delighted, knackered folks.

Children, mark this day as proof that your parents were indeed, once upon a time, quite cool.

-Zachary Dinerstein