Dear TMBG,

Thank you for taking the time to read this long overdue letter. I hope you are well and that you are enjoying your recent successes. Things in LA are nice this time of year. We have all been listening to your newest album with great pleasure and the fanily looks forward to your on-the-road updates and podcast appearances. Keep up the great work!

Though you probably don’t remember me, we first met in the early 90s, which was during one of the worst times in my life: Adolescence. I was a poor kid living in the suburbs of St. Louis, Missouri, a rather conservative town where I attended a public school in an affluent neighborhood. My mother and I shared a one-bedroom apartment; she slept on the sofa so that I could enjoy the freedoms of my own room and privacy. She often held down multiple jobs at once, sacrificing nearly everything to ensure my access to (arguably) the best free education available in the area.

.

Half-way through middle school, trying to provide for us had taken a severe toll on my mother’s physical (and mental) health. She suffered chronically from respiratory issues and found herself in the hospital with breathing failure numerous times as a result. The stress of high medical bills and her continued problems with her health only exacerbated the situation, so that by the time I was starting high school, she was disabled and could only hold down temporary work to supplement the pittance she received from the government. Severe depression, displaced anger, suicidal thoughts, and high anxiety became a part of her daily life, and mine as well.

Being a teenager is difficult enough without being constantly weighed down by fears of losing a parent or a home. While many of my friends enjoyed skiing vacations, new clothes (not from a second-hand store), and even their own cars, I spent my adolescent nights frantically worrying about having electricity the next day or contemplating whether the local food bank would actually give us something that looked edible this time.

High school was even worse, if that’s possible. I was a poor kid in a rich school, which is about as much fun as pulling street shit out of your dog’s mouth. I was teased, bullied, ridiculed, made the brunt of jokes nearly every day. Once allowed, I opted out of a lunch period to avoid those less monitored interactions with my peers. Even well-intentioned teachers often inadvertently made classist comments towards me or mistook my cheerful demeanor as evidence that my home life was more stable than it actually was. Being a weird theatre kid didn’t exactly help in my climb up the popularity ladder. My closest friend at school was a green-haired girl who liked to wear dog collars and enjoyed drawing on her bedroom walls with crayons. “Interesting,” you’re thinking, “but what does this have to do with TMBG?”

Well, one day, something amazing happened. I discovered this band, a strange, intellectual, avant-garde group from New York who had recently released a brand-new record in January of 1990, a record that would start a lifelong journey of musical love and would provide a respite from the hell realm of my daily teenage realities. A record that somehow managed to embody the horrors of life and doom and despair, with boisterously nasal melodies and refrains that could make even death seem bouncy: Flood by They Might Be Giants.

As a poor kid in a pre-Pandora world, getting access to non-commercial music was not easy for me. I rarely bought new albums and mostly relied on the kindness of friends to make me tapes. But after hearing TMBG once, I knew I needed to hear more. I took some money from my busgirl job (which usually went to household expenses) and purchased Flood on cassette at the mall music store (this was before I had discovered the glories of Vintage Vinyl). I remember coming home and unfolding the bright yellow insert, mesmerized. Sitting cross-legged on my mattress, my Sharp pastel pink cassette player on my nightstand, I listened joyfully as it scratchily echoed the Johns off my bedroom walls. I had found my music. Or, more accurately, it had found me.

While many of my cohorts were donning themselves in Grunge-filled guitar tunes or Madonna melodies, I clothed myself in wheat stalks and bee bonnets. In my early TMBG days, memorizing their bizarre lyrics was as important as breathing in air, maybe more so. I became a recitation master of songs like “Mammal” and “Dinner Bell,” and would often engage in playful battles for memorization dominance with fellow TMBG friends. In these moments, it didn’t matter that my mother was busy begging the local synagogue to help her pay the gas bill. I could just be a kid who liked music. And in my really bleak times, Dial-A-Song cured all that ailed me.

My first concert involved a glorious 7+ hour wait in a line outside of Mississippi Nights (to ensure first row admission). My friends and I took turns holding our place near the front of the line to sneak away to the hotel across the street to use the bathroom. As the band began to arrive, former drummer, Brian Doherty, curled his way down the line of excited patrons signing all items passed his way. Others drifted by, stage crew, etc., and when I remarked on this one guy’s t-shirt (Beaker and Dr. Bunsen), he turned out to be a reporter for a local newspaper, and at the end of the show, he found my friends and I and interviewed us for his review. He also hooked me up with two free tickets to Their next show the following evening, and there was a brief shining moment where we thought he MAY have been able to get us backstage passes, though it didn’t pan out. In hindsight, it’s probably best that it didn’t happen, as I would have likely dissolved into an incompressible, high-pitched Chihuahua puddle upon meeting Linnell. I can’t promise that it would be any different now at almost 40.

High school finally ended and then began college, a time of new fan growth and deeper love. I saw Them open for the Violent Femmes once (who were terrible, sadly, though I’ve heard it was an off show for them that night), the first time I would get the thrill of TMBG puppets. At other shows, I would chant with my fellow birds for The Stick and sing the alternate (real?) lyrics to New York City. I once spent about twenty minutes surreptitiously peeling a large, city-stained concert poster off a wall in NYC and pieced it back together with a lot of tape and matching paper just to hang it on my wall. In Syracuse, I convinced the local record store guy to give me their Factory Showroom promo posters for free (cuz he liked my pigtails). Lingering after concerts over the years has gifted me with set lists, a drum stick or two, guitar pics, stickers, many handshakes, and even a chat with JF once or twice. I am confident it can happen for you as well.

In my twenties, I would find myself in Istanbul at an ex-Pat bar called Melek (“Angel” in Turkish), where my brain would break at about 2 in the morning when the DJ would decide to stop playing ambient French songs and suddenly TMBG would burst from every speaker. The small dance floor in the back of the dimly lit room would tumble with jumpers, and the whole bar would sing along to “Istanbul, Not Constantinople.” The song would never be the same for me again.

As I end my 30s, I have literally lost count of all the shows I’ve been to. I do remember driving 2 hours through a snow storm alone to see Them at the Town Hall in Rochester. The opening number, “I’m Impressed,” came to a close with a blown fuse, which then resulted in one of the most magical TMBG moments of my life. As we waited for some heroic stagehand to traipse the snow-filled Rochester night in search of a new fuse, the Johns performed a mini-acoustic set in a half-dark room to the quietist and most respectful audience that has probably ever existed. We were all in awe. It was also at that concert that I saw an elderly woman in a wheelchair head slamming in the back AND a marvelous dancing kid, who was definitely under the 14-year age limit, sing along to all the lyrics. As I have discovered, TMBG are timeless and have fans from all corners of the world.

I’ve seen Them at festivals, where They broke all seating rules (much to the dismay of the establishment) and had an entire stadium in a Congo-line, strangers dancing with strangers. At the Filmore in San Fran the Johns convinced the lighting crew to turn on the gorgeous LED jellyfish chandeliers, which probably was not in their contract. (The Filmore is awesome, by the way. Free, uniquely designed posters are given out after shows, along with apples. Yes, real apples. There’s a whole story behind it too. Look it up). TMBG concerts are unlike anything else. There have been phone calls with ghosts, jokes jokes jokes, lots of coffee, Avatars, triangle solos (there’s a double meaning here btw), confetti shooting machines, 2 encores, and even some swearing. I’m convinced that if there is a Heaven, it’s John Linnell saying “Fuck.”

Fandom is a strange experience. I have loved TMBG longer than the actual love of my life; TMBG and I have more memories together than many of my closest and oldest friends. They have been there during my worst times, like when my mother died, through numerous break-ups, and grad school crises. They were there in between my dad’s Roy Orbison and Beach Boys tapes on long car rides across the country. We have travelled together in CD form to distant Asian islands, middle-Eastern deserts, and European cafes. And some of my best nights have been in bluish lights with other Squid-Whale-Rabbit-Eared fans, a red accordion (in stripes), and an equally red electric guitar (in flannel).

I have discovered over the years that there are two kinds of people in the world (well, there are probably more, but I’m an English teacher and terrible with numbers):

1) Fans

2) Everyone else

An unpleasant relative of mine recently heard that I was going to see TMBG and said, “But haven’t you seen them already?” She clearly falls into the second category. Others like her may have frivolously written Them off as “quirky” or “silly.” Certainly, there are elements of these things in Their music and performance style. But the reason fans like myself continue going to see the Johns and keep hoarding their music like it’s a precious commodity is because, well, it IS a precious commodity. Since the beginning, TMBG have been doing things Their own way.

TMBG encouraged fans early on to record shows (something rather unheard of at the time), which meant that poor kids like myself could get access to fresh sounds. They have generally kept concert tickets reasonably priced and have gone out of Their way to encourage fans to share Their sounds. Dial-A-Song is a whimsically odd entity, and I have yet to find anything quite like it in the music world at large. Where else can one go to have a private moment with a band over a scratchy old phone line? What other band do you know of that requests Venn diagrams and strange artwork from its fans?

You must be thinking of some other band…

An entire world of music awesomeness, and much of it for free. And perhaps it is because of all these economically viable ways to consume Their sounds that They have also become one my one main sources for constant investment over the years. I have probably spent as much money on TMBG records, bumper stickers, concert tickets, and other swag as I did on my Bachelor’s degree. Well, that’s not true. Nothing is as expensive as college these days…But my point is that by creating a market for Their music which can be appreciated across economic boundaries, They have made me (and many others) a lifelong fan, and a lifelong investor. I’m not sure if that was the intention, but brilliant marketing, to say the least. And please (if you can afford it) DO buy Their albums and memorabilia, rather than simply consuming the numerous free options out there. Because They deserve it. And here are a few more reasons why.

TMBG wear way more than just “quirky” musical hats (though there have been a few of those as well). They are truly skilled musicians. Shortly around the time I fell for Them, I began playing guitar myself. I have never exactly risen to the ranks of great instrument playing, but I have managed to learn enough to entertain friends and finger-pick my way through a few pieces with minimal errors, and a lot of practice. But even after numerous attempts and alternative interpretations of online chords, I have barely mastered Their music. Because it’s hard. They jump between chord progressions faster than I can eat a bag of peanut M&Ms (which is pretty fast if you ask my boyfriend).

I recall trying to learn Ana Ng in high school, and finally, after cutting several chords and tearing up my hands on really old strings (because new ones were a financial luxury I could not afford), I could poorly strum a choppy version of the opening progression. When I tried to play it alongside the actual music, I was a solid verse behind. Then I gave up. To be fair, I have terrible rhythm, but even with my mediocre, self-taught skills I can recognize music mastery when I see it. And the Johns are it. (And the other band members are quite talented as well, I might add. They also have shiny shoes). They stretch beyond genres, have transformed the world of kid’s music, and have the uncanny ability to tackle dark topics in the most uplifting way.

Their newest album, I Like Fun, is TMBG perfection. JF jokingly said at a concert I was at recently, “I’m not sure if we can do better than this.” Or something like that. Don’t sue me for misquoting him, as I was at a TMBG concert and my brain was in euphoria mode at the time. What I love about this album is how They have clearly evolved while staying quintessentially Themselves. There have been several articles written about this album, so I won’t waste time here repeating what has already been said. Check them out. And buy the album. But what I will say is I am skeptical of JF’s comment. If anything, this album, in its perfectly somber whimsy, proves that TMBG have a lot more up their sleeves. I can imagine geriatric tours in their distant future, with the Dans slowing rolling the Johns out on stage as Marty Beller hooks them up to coffee-induced IVs. I think I speak for every fan when I say, if not now, where!

Thank you TMBG, for reminding me that I’m never just a hat. Neither are you. May we find each other at the end of the tour.

Your loyal bluebird,

Sly

Lesley Gouger is a writer and English teacher in Los Angeles. Check out her other work via her profile page.