John Flansburgh would like to talk about junk. “I love the junk stores of Louisville,” he declares at the top of our chat. “You have wealthy people who throw things away carelessly.” It’s not the usual starting point for an interview about a new album, but this is They Might Be Giants. You want the map, you’ll need to triangulate absurdism, dread, and a Jack Bruce sound library.
The band’s latest album I Like Fun is somehow their 20th, though Flansburgh isn’t celebrating with cake and candles. “It’s not like we did anything differently,” he shrugs. “We’ve put out consistent records the last few years, but for some reason this one’s getting noticed. Maybe it’s because the world is such a dystopian hellscape that people are relieved we’re still here.”
Which is funny, because I Like Fun might be their most existentially bleak record to date—a smirking, sing-song spiral into collapse. “There’s a strange cheer-up-loser quality to our music,” Flansburgh admits. “We’re mining this very specific post-adolescent dread—like, I can’t quit my job, I’m stuck here. It’s not about ending it all. It’s just about continuing despite everything.”
And if the world’s burning, at least They Might Be Giants brought a Mellotron. “I bought a reproduction Mellotron and sent it to John [Linnell],” he says. “He sent it right back—he’s a minimalist. But inside was this huge sound library, including a sample of Jack Bruce from Cream singing scales. We used it to build the title track. It’s like animating the ghost of Jack Bruce without the hologram.”
The duo’s famously weird creative process hasn’t mellowed with age, but it has become… digital. “We’re still shy about writing around each other. We do it long-distance, Postal Service-style. We send beats and files back and forth. I sent Linnell this gospel-ish beat with very specific handclaps and said, ‘Here, go wild.’” The result became the opener, “Let’s Get This Over With”—an unintentional but perfect way to start a record in 2018, 2020, or, frankly, any year since.
Flansburgh is also painfully aware that political songwriting has a shelf life. “If you’re just being a pundit, your music won’t hold up. We’ve always tried to find the absurdity in it instead. That’s how it sticks.” Even on stage, their once-theatrical stunts have morphed into something more considered. “We used to have gimmicks, but they don’t last on tape. If it doesn’t sound good, it’s gone.”
Still, death remains their most evergreen subject. “It’s not just a theme—it’s the Swiss army knife of songwriting,” he says. “Sometimes it’s sincere, sometimes it’s entertainment, sometimes it’s a crutch. You run out of ideas, you blow everything up.” And yet, they occasionally surprise themselves. “We were so sassy and sarcastic back then, but some of those early songs are really thoughtful. I listen back like, wow, we nailed it… in our decrepitude.”
As always, Flansburgh’s wit is as sharp as ever, but he’ll wax sincere when nudged. “I don’t believe anyone really dies,” he says, referring to the Jack Bruce sample. “Not with this kind of technology. We’re just… around.” Spoken like a man two decades deep into a discography where puppets, particle physics, and pandemic dread can all co-exist.
They Might Be Giants return to Louisville’s Mercury Ballroom on March 18, where Flansburgh hopes to dig through your junk again—musical and otherwise. “If you want to go junk hunting, count me in.”
Listen to the interview above and then a 2013 interview:
