Devo Explores the Line Between Artistic Integrity and Success

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In 2018, the Smithsonian Institute’s Hirshhorn Museum curated an exhibit titled “Brand New: Art and Commodity in the 1980s.” It featured nearly 150 works from decade-defining artists, everyone from punks like Guerilla Girls to Barbara Kruger’s subversive pop art to mainstream sellouts like Jeff Koons. You could see Donald Moffett’s “He Kills Me” Ronald Reagan lithograph next to an ACT UP “Silence = Death” neon installation, next to Koons’ “New! New Too!” drink advertisement.

The exhibit was fascinating for several reasons, not least of which was the thin line the featured artists walked between staying true to their original politically-charged outsider perspective, and the desire to make a living off their work. That struggle feels specific to the ’80s, one of the last decades in the U.S. when an artist could choose to prioritize authenticity over commercial success. Back then, that effort (though honorable) wasn’t easy, and made harder by the fact that the most prominent scenes were already shifting toward capitalist striving. These days, anyone who doesn’t monetize their work is considered a hobbyist.

I thought a lot about that Hirshhorn exhibit watching Chris Smith’s Devo, which charts the career of the pioneering new wave band from their beginnings as art students at Kent State University in the ’70s through their mainstream breakthrough with 1980’s “Whip It!” and subsequent creative difficulties. At a surface level, Smith’s film is a fun documentary about an undeniably fun band. Looking deeper, it’s an even more interesting examination of trying to maintain your values in an industry that wants more than anything to smooth those rough edges down to nothing.

It’s impossible to remove Devo from its original art project context, and Smith does well to establish those connections early. Like many of their art world contemporaries, Devo founders Jerry Casale and Mark Mothersbaugh were skeptical of the vision of progress and prosperity sold to America in the ’50s and ’60s. They had friends who died in the infamous Kent State shooting in 1970. That experience, coupled with coming of age during the Vietnam War, galvanized Casale and Mothersbaugh to create art inspired by Dadaism and artists such as Max Ernst and Marcel Duchamp. Smith depicts those influences in a bright, montage-y style appropriate to the band’s aesthetic.

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Much of what’s discussed in Devo has previously been shared elsewhere. We witness the shift from Devo as performance art to an actual band featuring Casale, Mothersbaugh, Casale’s brother Bob, Mothersbaugh’s brother (also named Bob) and Alan Myers. There are stories about the band’s early adventures with David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Brian Eno and Neil Young that, if you’re a fan, you’ve already heard. Smith covers the origins of some of Devo’s famous costumes, including their plastic hairdos and jumpsuits, though the iconic Energy Domes go bizarrely undiscussed.

What makes Devo worth seeing is its account of how fluidly the band switched from an art project designed to turn people off to a band seeking a record contract. It turns out touring and sleeping in an Econoline van makes you pretty amenable to people offering to professionally produce your record, even more so when those people are Bowie and Eno.

From the moment Mothersbaugh, Casale, Myers and the Bobs sign with Warner Brothers, the story switches from “what can we pull off and still attract an audience” to “how far can we push this and still keep the record execs happy?” That dynamic wasn’t helped by the unexpected success of “Whip It!”, which stressed out the band as Warners encouraged them to catch lightning in a bottle again, and pushed them further into a commercial realm that they never really returned from.

As Smith documents the band’s evolution into cultural icons, Casale, Mothersbaugh and co.’s insertion of subversive messages into commercial projects again echo the story of ’80s-era visual artists’ dubiously effective attempts to profit while sticking it to the man. An ad the band created for Honda scooters backhandedly satirized the vehicles’ uniformity. In a mail-order merch insert accompanying Devo LPs, the band poked fun at themselves for selling out. Casale and Mothersbaugh also discuss including Devo-esque messaging in their work after the band’s breakup — Mothersbaugh as a film and TV composer, Casale as a director of music videos and ads.

Devo’s final note is timely, encouraging viewers to continue the tradition of creating art that critiques the world around us; a world Mothersbaugh, Casale and their compatriots saw coming decades ago. But there’s something ever-so-slightly off about it. Certainly I’m not trying to criticize a band I’ve loved my whole life, but, as Smith demonstrates, Devo remains emblematic of the culture they came up in. That includes everything they got right and everything that seemed right at the time, but looks like hollow victory in hindsight.

Abby Olcese is an entertainment writer based in Kansas City. Her work has appeared at /Film, rogerebert.com, Crooked Marquee, Sojourners Magazine, and Think Christian. You can follow her adventures and pop culture obsessions at @abbyolcese.