John Flansburgh and John Linnell-partners in the musical duo They Might Be Giants-were on their way out of a trendy little restaurant in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when the young waiter who had served them caught up to them. "You make good music," he said solemnly, then moved on. On the face of it, this was not a momentous event, but Flansburgh was beaming. "That was absolutely flattering," he said as we arrived at the studio he maintains in his former apartment, a few blocks from the restaurant. "I think we've got a nice kind of fame."

They Might Be Giants have released nine albums in sixteen years, are about to issue a career-spanning boxed set, and have been touring widely since Reagan was in the White House. Two witty, articulate men in their early forties who write catchy songs about things like thermostats and metal detectors, Flansburgh and Linnell are the elders to a whole generation of smart rockers-Moxy Fruvous, Barenaked Ladies, Harvey Danger, and Weezer, to name just a few. But, as highly respected, seminal bands often are, They Might Be Giants tend to be commercial runners-up to their offspring. (As David Bowie once put it, "It's not who does it first, it's who does it second.")

Still, it turns out, that's not such a bad thing. In an industry addicted to blockbusters, most bands don't rest in the middle ground for long; they either go on to greater things or, more often, drop back into obscurity. But They Might Be Giants, a band that's run like a grass-roots political campaign, has inhabited that rarefied limbo for most of what Flansburgh calls their "tortoise-like career." The Giants gross between one and two million dollars a year, a sum that would barely cover Mariah Carey's manicure budget, but which, even after expenses, provides Flansburgh and Linnell with a tidy income and that most elusive of commodities artistic freedom. They probably won't ever get filthy rich, but they do earn a comfortable living doing exactly what they want to do, which makes them the envy of many far more commercially successful artists. Along with a select few-performers as disparate as Fugazi, Robyn Hitchcock, and Lucinda Williams-Flansburgh and Linnell enjoy a modest but constant popularity, the wonderful state of obscure success.

If a nerd is someone whose every word and deed are predicated on the belief that appearing smart is more important than getting laid, then They Might Be Giants are, in fact, nerds: their music doesn't sell sex; it sells smart-kid whimsy. Arty, melodic, and well wrought in a formal way, it bristles with wordplay and musical ideas. Its references are not to such totems of cool as the Velvet Underground and Leonard Cohen but to quirky styles ranging from polka and commercial country to cartoon music. So it's hardly surprising that They Might Be Giants have a disproportionately large presence on the Geek Broadcasting System, also known as the Internet. The Giants started a Web site back in 1994 and soon rivalled much more famous bands-Pearl Jam, U2, and Nirvana-in online popularity. Thanks to their Internet following, Linnell was voted one of People Online's ten most beautiful people in 1998, and at one point Flansburgh ranked high in the Person of the Century poll on Time's Web site, coming in just behind Jesus, Adolf Hitler, and the pro wrestler Ric Flair.

They Might Be Giants have also broken into the world of advertising, making music for Coca-Cola, Diet Dr. Pepper, Chrysler, and Weber grills. And they have recorded a children's album, called "No!," complete with charming interactive content, which was released this June and hit the top of the Billboard kids' chart. "No!" was an artistic breakthrough, taking the band back to the vocal-intensive, sound-driven approach of its early years, a reversion that had an appealing influence on last fall's "Mink Car," its most recent album for adults.

Last summer, They Might Be Giants played a mini-tour, the kind of low-key trip that helps a band like theirs keep going between albums. The first stop was the Fourth Annual Sunset Music Festival, in Newport, Rhode Island, where other artists included mellow baby boomers like David Crosby and Livingston Taylor. It wasn't the hippest gig, but then ones that pay the bills rarely are.

In the bright sunshine outside the band's trailer stood Nathaniel, a sixteen-year-old with a patch of bleached hair and a green camouflage T-shirt spiffed up with a skinny tie; his friend Chris had glasses, braces, and a skinny tie of his own. What drew them to They Might Be Giants? I asked. "They sing about Presidents and 'Planet of the Apes,' " Nathaniel explained. "It's not all about girls." "I think there should be a dork-rock tour of Weezer, They Might Be Giants, Harvey Danger," Chris exclaimed, apropos of nothing in particular. "That'd be awesome! A whole crowd of people just like me!"

Despite fans like these, things weren't going in the Giants' favor that night: only about nine hundred people had bought tickets to a venue that holds twice that number, the police hassled the soundman about the decibel level, and someone kept flipping on the house lights. But eventually a few brave souls got up to dance; others joined in, and suddenly there was a dance party right in front of the stage. "Last night was a victory," Flansburgh pronounced the next morning at the Providence airport. "Here's to perseverance."

Their next gig, a free outdoor show in Nashville, was much more successful. Some fifteen thousand people watched the band pump out a strong performance on a barge tethered to the shore of the Cumberland River. Afterward, Flansburgh did a meet-and-greet session with fans, off to the side of the stage, as he has done since the band started. He worked a long line-at least a hundred people-like a politician, tirelessly shaking hands, signing autographs, getting his picture taken with smiling fans, enthusiastically answering questions about the band. He stayed until he had met everybody-well over an hour. As the last people in line, a couple of twenty-something guys, strolled off into the night, Flansburgh called out, "See ya in the pit, fellas!"

The Giants will probably never play to audiences this size on a regular basis, but that's O.K. with them. Sales of "Mink Car" suffered because it happened to be released on September 11th, and shortly afterward their current record label, Restless, drastically reorganized. But, in many ways, things have never been better for Flansburgh and Linnell: the theme song from "Malcolm in the Middle" won a Grammy this year; they are the subject of a full-length documentary called "Gigantic (A Tale of Two Johns)"; and on August 15th they'll be playing a twentieth-anniversary show at Central Park's SummerStage, a stone's throw from the spot where they made their debut. (This time, they won't have to carry their equipment over a stone wall.) "We lowered our expectations right away," Flansburgh says. "That's been very useful in having an enduring career in rock." He adds, "Is this a good enough life for us? I think the answer is pretty clear: yeah. We roll down the road with people cheering as the bus pulls away. There are a lot of harder things to do in the world."

The New Yorker, August 12, 2002
Michael Azerrad