GET INTO THE GROOVE
GET INTO THE GROOVE:
THE STAYING POWER OF STOP MAKING SENSE.
After watching David Byrne’s American Utopia I decided to revisit Stop Making Sense, the seminal Talking Heads film directed by the late Jonathan Demme. I first heard Stop Making Sense, the album companion piece, in Greg Ferguson’s dorm room, freshman year. That album was our go-to pre-party album, and the same record we put on after the bars closed. And the first time I saw the movie? 2016. Why the delay? There’s no excuse, really. Until the pandemic shut down clubs for safety concerns, I was a huge live music seeker, be it the Hollywood Bowl, the inaugural Lollapalooza, or sitting on a lawn while my friend’s jazz trio played “So What.” Also, having grown up on MTV, I felt like I’d lived the movie through the music videos the film gave rise to. So, like, what was the point?
All that said, the film blew me away. It’s not your typical rock concert. Byrne and company flip the live concert conceit on its proverbial head. The show opens with David Byrne and his acoustic guitar. He’s got on a loose-fitted suit and white Keds. There’s nothing onstage but a mic stand and portable cassette tape player. No lighting, no wires, no curtain, no stacked amps, no drum kit, no guitars leaning in their stands—no cozy rug on the floor. We might as well be looking at a high school auditorium before assembly. Then Byrne walks onto the stage singing “Psycho Killer,” and you realize you’re in for a treat. Over the next three songs, the band slowly introduce themselves. First, Tina Weymouth during “Heaven,” then Chris Franz (his drums are rolled out like a parade float), and finally, Jerry Harrison on guitar while the band plays “Found A Job.” It’s a fresh, understated opener, like a new art form, an innovative and singular way to experience your favorite band, live. This is December, 1983, The Pantages Theatre, Los Angeles, where the band filmed footage over four nights. At this point in their career, the Talking Heads are art-rock gods. Arguably, their best albums (More Songs about Buildings and Food, Remain in Light, Speaking in Tongues) are behind them. Tina Weymouth and Chris Franz have a side project called the Tom Tom Club, David Byrne is more and more in charge of the band’s artistic and musical direction, and now they’re bending the live show rules with the help of the one day The Silence of the Lambs director.
Eventually, the original band members are joined by two backing vocalists, a keyboardist, lead guitarist Alex Weir and percussionist Steve Scales. The band blisters through a list of classics: “Burning Down The House,” “Take Me To The River,” “Life During Wartime.” When the cameras pull back and we see the stage in its entirety, the band resembles an unwieldy octopus. Then there’s Byrne. In many ways, he is the Talking Heads. He is nonstop energy. His body at times defies logic. He pops and bops and pogoes. Sex symbols like Mick Jagger partially sell themselves onstage. With Byrne, it’s more complicated. My younger sister once pointed out that when Byrne dances, he’s telling a story. This is so true. Film critic Roger Ebert wrote this upon Stop Making Sense’s release: “The film’s peak moments come through Byrne’s simple physical presence. He jogs in place with his sidemen; he runs around the stage; he seems so happy to be alive and making music.” That’s not to say the film is strictly speaking, a David Byrne vehicle. All the musicians, from Bernie Worrell on keyboards, to Lynn Mabry and Ednah Holt on backing vocals, lend an exuberance and belief in process that’s contagious.
The 1980s were a lot of fun. We were at the forefront of this new genre called music video. Artists had been in the myth-building business for decades, but suddenly bands were reinventing themselves—as storytellers, actors, comedians, dancers, spokespersons, political activists, fashion cognoscenti—essentially as tools the camera feasted on then broadcast into living rooms across the planet. This was the early Reagan era. The economy was booming. Young people were frequenting dance clubs or underground punk/nu-wave scenes. MTV was the musical purveyor of taste. The station launched the careers of U2, Prince, Whitney Houston and George Michael. Like Michael Jackson, Madonna grabbed hold of this new era and made it her own. In videos like “True Blue” and “Like A Virgin” she was the center of all things. She was rebel and glamour girl to her female fans while providing sexual fantasy to the boys. Seemingly overnight, she stood for every right or wrong in America, be it sex symbol, girl empowerment, feminist, dance phenom, pop artist, movie star, enemy to Catholicism and the rightwing moral establishment, human rights activist, ditz, the list goes on. Say what you want about Madonna, but there was a sincerity and openness in her early work, a joie de vivre. Check out her performance of “Holiday” at Live Aid and tell me you’re not wowed. Just taking in the throng of fans at JFK stadium, Philadelphia, is staggering to the eye. In contrast, there’s me standing watch over a mosh pit, same era, but the venue was 7th Street Entry, First Avenue’s little brother of a club in Minneapolis, where Black Flag was playing a show. Henry Rollins was captivating. But so was the pit where testosterone, spit, hostility and steel-toed boots fought for the same tiny floor space. This thing called dancing could be several things at once in the 80s. It was how young people expressed themselves, let off steam, spoke to their tribe, and attracted a mate.
David Byrne understood that. So did Madonna and the mostly young men in 7th Street Entry that night. Dancing is the unique way human beings move to sounds that excite or soothe them. And when the connection is at its best—meaning the music’s pulse, one’s body, and whatever chemical reaction is happening between two people—watch out. Sparks fly, clothes are ripped off, bodily fluids shared. Dancing is how we show others that we exist, that we’re alive, that we’re not beaten, not yet goddamn it.
Maybe that’s what the world needs. For us to close our eyes and turn up the beat. To lose ourselves in “Once In A Lifetime,” truly one of the most electrifying songs in the history of music. To be like David Byrne and let the music wash over us.