Trying to describe They Might Be Giants has always been tricky. Standing in the lobby of downtown LA’s Orpheum Theater, watching a crowd that included everything from people in full costume to business suits to what looked like Woodstock survivors, “What the hell do you call this band?”
The answer came from an unlikely source. Minutes before showtime, I bumped into an old friend who summed up the Johns (Flansburgh and Linnell) enigma with surgical precision: “They’re the Napoleon Dynamite of music.” Boom. Nailed it. Awkward, brilliant, inexplicably cool, and utterly impossible to replicate.
The Orpheum itself provided the perfect backdrop for TMBG’s particular brand of organized chaos. Built in 1926, this downtown jewel has hosted everyone from Judy Garland to Jack Benny; its French Baroque interior dripping with the kind of old Hollywood glamour that makes you want to order a martini and discuss the studio system.
The venue’s 2,000-plus capacity felt intimate rather than cavernous, every ornate detail visible under the venue’s restored chandelier lighting.
For a band that’s been trafficking in intelligent weirdness since 1982, when the two started making lo-fi magic in a Brooklyn apartment, They Might Be Giants have somehow managed to remain perpetually relevant without ever quite fitting in. Their early years were defined by answering machine concerts and accordion-driven anthems that college radio couldn’t resist. By the ‘90s, they’d evolved into a full band, scoring unlikely mainstream success with children’s albums and adult alternative hits that proved smart could also be catchy.
This evening’s show was structured as a trip through their catalog, with two sets focusing on different eras of their music. No opening act – just They Might Be Giants for two and a half hours.
The first set started with “Subliminal,” followed by “Snail Shell” with John Linnell working his accordion like he was leading a polka band. “Dirt Bike” had a driving rhythm that got the crowd moving, while “Meet James Ensor” managed to make a song about a Belgian surrealist painter genuinely fun.
“The Famous Polka” showcased everything that makes TMBG impossible to pin down – Eastern European folk music filtered through Brooklyn art rock sensibilities, delivered with the kind of earnest enthusiasm that should be embarrassing but somehow isn’t. When they launched into “Spy,” the crowd’s response was immediate and total, proof that even their most obscure material has somehow lodged itself in their fans’ collective unconscious.
Set one closed with “The End of the Tour,” a melancholy meditation on creative exhaustion that felt particularly poignant coming from a band entering their fifth decade. Flansburgh’s guitar work was understated but precise, while Linnell’s keyboards provided the perfect emotional counterpoint.
After a brief intermission, set two delivered the hits with the kind of precision that only comes from playing these songs thousands of times without ever getting bored. “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” transformed the Orpheum into a geography lesson disco, while “Particle Man” had the entire venue singing along to what is essentially a physics lecture set to music. “Don’t Let’s Start” captured their nervous energy perfectly – all jittery rhythms and stream-of-consciousness lyrics that somehow make sense.
“Brontosaurus” showed they can still make the ordinary interesting, while “The Darlings of Lumberland” demonstrated their storytelling skills. “When Will You Die” was the evening’s darkest moment, a song about mortality that manages to be both unsettling and oddly comforting.
The first encore brought “Where Your Eyes Don’t Go,” a song about perception that felt relevant, followed by “Birdhouse in Your Soul.” Their biggest hit is still their best three minutes – a love song to a nightlight that somehow captures the need for comfort in an uncertain world.
The crowd response was immediate and total. It was actually quite visually chaotic and humorous as large parts of the crowd jumped up and down with hands in the air, but frenetically and all of them out of sync. It was literally perfect.
They came back for a second encore with “Doctor Worm,” their song about impostor syndrome that had the entire Orpheum celebrating their own perceived inadequacies.
What stood out wasn’t just the performance quality – both Johns, now in their 60s, showed plenty of energy – but the genuine enjoyment from both the band and audience. This wasn’t nostalgia touring or a greatest hits victory lap. This was a band that still believes in smart, weird music, playing for people who get it.
The crowd was as eclectic as you’d expect from a They Might Be Giants show. Office workers stood next to art students, families with kids mixed with longtime fans who’d been following the band since the ‘80s.
Everyone seemed to be having a good time, which isn’t always a given at shows these days.
Maybe that’s what keeps They Might Be Giants relevant after all these years. In a world that increasingly demands you pick a lane, they’ve spent four decades proving that smart can be silly, that experimental can be catchy, and that the best music often comes from refusing to fit into neat categories.
Walking out of the Orpheum into the LA night, past groups of fans still talking about the show, I kept thinking about that “Napoleon Dynamite of music” comparison. It really does fit.
They Might Be Giants are awkward, brilliant, and completely themselves. In 2025, that feels like something worth celebrating.
