Rumors have abounded in recent years that certain members of the band the Talking Heads would love a reunion tour; however, eccentric mastermind David Byrne is anything but down with the idea. Avid fans are bummed, band members themselves are disappointed, but I (avid fan, not band member) am not remotely unnerved by this lack of possibility.
Why? Because I keep the Talking Heads safe and sound, wrapped in a cozy little plastic DVD case that screams in red lettering “STOP MAKING SENSE!” It’s sort of like my long-distance boyfriend asserts on the occasion, “A little lube, a box of Kleenex, that’s all I really need.” Well, kids, that damn DVD is my box of Kleenex. Feeling responsible? Feeling respectable? Well, Stop Making Sense sure cleans up that act. As a plus, it even extends the gracious gesture of brief respite from personal chaos by allowing the audience to delve into theirs. Beautiful, baby.
Jonathan Demme’s musical masterpiece, and I’ll deign to call it such, begins uncannily with a solo David Byrne singing an intense rendition of “Psycho Killer” accompanied by his lone acoustic guitar…and a boom box. After a beginning more minimalist than the setting for Our Town , the bareness slowly builds to an outstanding climax within the next five songs. Instruments become more upbeat, lighting is added, band members themselves seem to emerge from the shadows—even Bernie Worrell shows up to bounce about and presumably add a little more funk to the already oddly appealing mood.
“Burning Down The House” sets up the energy level for the rest of the show, a level which the audience is only given brief respite from during “Naïve Melody (This Must Be The Place),” where a sweaty Byrne entrances a lovesick audience by fluidly dancing with/caressing a lamp. Growing even more bizarre, the Talking Heads take a break to allow audiences to sample Tina Weymouth and Chris Frantz’s side project…
This is not constructive. Stop Making Sense was poured together with sweat, thought out on an abstract scale, dreamed up somewhere otherworldly and then easily put into practice. Seeing it live would have been to behold the performance of a lifetime. Perhaps realizing just what most of us missed and how lucky we are to have Jonathan Demme’s vision is equally as fulfilling. Probably not. Stop Making Sense isn’t just about ridiculous eighties costumes, a bunch of cool people playing phenomenal music, or David Byrne’s big suit. It’s about playing music above and beyond a level the average person could ever fully comprehend.
That makes the performance itself an aberration from sense.
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