New Musical Express, 27 October 1984

Give it a Small c

by Ian Penman

WHAT, WITHOUT wandering, is here? A company move,
accompanying live movie (directed by Jonathan Demme),
a record - another live LP, so soon? Where's the
cents in that? -of the movie, all in all a project
goin' on, something of a steady enterprise, a sleek,
self-servicing, self-Devotional choir, or cloister,
obviously with a purpose or two in lifetime, collectable,
collatable, sensible ... Sorry for wandering. What
else is there?

Talking Heads still boiling under, David Byrne head
mouth and trousers centre stage, a lyric-fashioned
music, quite quaint really. And one thing to say
is that the first side of this apparently necessary
document makes fair enough sense, more sensual than
of late because loosed, pebbles shaken lazily in a
sieve, more aerodynamic bounce than think bubbles;
put this down to the tom toms, fat, modal, generous,
smiley, shy.

On the One side, Byrne even sounds infected,
inflecting appropriately, not caring how perfect.
We can note the fall of a mask or two (the pretend
'Psycho Killer' becomes the pretend boyfriend of
'Girlfriend' and the latter is better by far) and
the acquisition of a masque or a dozen (Bryne and
Black musicians: yes, he says, that is the sound
for me! But it isn't his sound - and it isn't his
property just a sound in his head, his idea of a
party, and we get a polite hybrid, neither here
nor there, his nor their's ...)

On the Other hand, David Byrne burrows further
into a real shitstream of avant-garbage; he is,
truly, the American pseudo-intellectual equivalent
of a Prize Wally. Worse, it's something he's'
working to perfect! He really cannot give it up
(and), stop making sense. At best, a hollow,
sounds-like-sense nonsense, typified here by the
series of BoHo Zen non-sequiturs, blank observations
and obliquely strategical no-purpose guff.

Also harrowing are those times when Byrne reckons
on Getting On Down with the rest of the ethnic
boys in the band; or, to you and me, when he
starts to run off at the mouth. That certain
sound that says: this is David Byrne in his 'l
am eschewing White sense and my inherited
straitjacket of Reason ... I am -coming out
of my shell -yes, yes, this is DEFINITELY NOT
sensible.' But David Byrne is positively burdened
by being sensible, and faked ecstasy on a Rock
Stage is faked ecstasy on a Rock Stage, making
Byrne a kind of prig's or preppie's Heavy Metal
figure.

He can clothe himself in as many miles of Claus
Oldenburg hand-me-downs as humanly possible, but
a Dada gag is only good for 45 seconds (or $45,000),
and Talking Heads seem hidebound by sensible
intentions.

Is there such a thing as self-conscious ecstasy?
Yes. But no jouissance in Talking Heads.