SWARTHOS

Mayhem and Mania at the Bacchanal: A Devo Night of De-Evolution and a Belt to the Skull

San Diego, 1989. The night is a snarling beast, and I’m out here in the Kearny Mesa heat, queued up outside the Bacchanal, a strip-mall fortress pulsing with the promise of chaos. The neon flickers, the pavement reeks of anticipation, and I’m locked in a fevered debate about de-evolution with a tribe of spud enthusiasts—greasy freaks in thrift-store jackets and warped shades, all of us drunk on Devo’s twisted truth. This ain’t just a concert; it’s a descent into the heart of absurdity, and I’m about to get christened with a leather strap that’ll scar me for life.

The Bacchanal looms like a bunker, a 700-soul sweat lodge that’s seen Pearl Jam and Ray Charles but tonight belongs to the prophets of de-evolution. My fellow spuds are a gallery of misfits—punks, weirdos, and one guy with a safety pin through his brow, spitting wisdom: “Man, de-evolution’s the real deal. Look at Bush, look at hair metal—just spuds chasing their own graves.” I grip my ticket, a passport to madness, nodding like a zealot. We’re not here for music; we’re here to see the world unmade.

Inside, the Bacchanal’s a cauldron of noise and bodies. I claim my throne—front row, center aisle, close enough to taste the chaos. The stage is low, raw, a platform for lunacy. The crowd’s a howling mob, spuds united in their hunger for Devo’s demented gospel. Then the lights crash, and the band erupts—energy domes bouncing, synths screaming, guitars hacking like axes. It’s wild, loud, fantastic, a sonic hurricane that shakes your marrow. “Jocko Homo” hits like a fist, “Satisfaction” twists the Stones into a pretzel, and I’m screaming, lost in the glorious riot.

Then comes “Whip It,” the song that turned Devo into a freakshow legend—its cowboy-sadist snarl a middle finger to the mainstream. Live, it’s a beast unchained. Mark Mothersbaugh, bug-eyed and electric, isn’t just performing; he’s summoning a storm. He snatches a belt, some leather demon from the “Whip It” video—and bolts into the crowd. The front row’s a battlefield, and I’m in the crosshairs, aisle seat and all. Mark’s swinging that belt like a mad rancher, eyes blazing, and WHAM—it cracks against my skull.

Pain explodes, sharp and hot, but I’m too wired to flinch. The crowd roars, half-cackling, half-wailing, as Mark scrambles back to the stage, still snarling “Whip it good!” My head’s throbbing, but I’m grinning like a lunatic. I’ve been touched by the high priest of de-evolution, anointed by the guy who’ll score Rugrats and Wes Anderson’s flicks. This isn’t pain; it’s a sacrament, a spud’s badge of honor. The show rages on—“Girl U Want,” “Uncontrollable Urge,” every track a Molotov cocktail—but that belt strike is my North Star.

Outside, in the San Diego night, my head still buzzing, I’m surrounded by the faithful. We’re ranting about the show’s insanity, the Bacchanal’s gritty magic, and my run-in with Mothersbaugh’s leather. “You’re a spud king,” says Safety Pin Guy, handing me a warm beer. I laugh, dizzy with the weight of it. Devo’s creed—humanity’s a wreck, conformity’s a trap, and we’re all just spuds spiraling backward—hits harder than ever. I’m not just a fan; I’m a survivor of the de-evolution wars, carrying a tale that’ll outlast the Bacchanal’s concrete husk.

Years later, I wear that moment like a crown. At DEVOtional, I’ll spin the yarn for spuds who only know Devo from grainy YouTube clips. On X, I’ll fire it off with #WhipIt and watch the love pour in. The Bacchanal’s a ghost now, just another strip-mall memory, but in ’89, I stood at the edge of madness and took a hit for the cause. Mark Mothersbaugh didn’t just clip my head; he knighted me, a spud eternal, bound to the wild, loud, fantastic lunacy of Devo. That’s a high no one can touch.

— SWARTHOS, Spud Supreme, San Diego, 1989