Talking Heads

When you line up four extraordinary, high-tension albums back to back—four cold, sudden, merciless blows, delivered without ever lowering your guard or your intensity, without a single dip in inspiration—you run a serious risk of going down in history: such is the case of Talking Heads, who over the course of a fantastic four-year run ('77-'80) released the memorable debut simply titled “'77”, followed by the scorching “More Songs About Buildings And Food” (in which the hand of producer-cum-added-member Brian Eno is already unmistakable), then “Fear Of Music” with its relentless techno-world trajectories, and finally “Remain In Light”, seed and fertilizer for hybrid sounds past, recent and present. This last one is—above all—a magnificent record, raw flesh, an unbreakable kaleidoscope: it deserves yet another enthralling, thoroughly enjoyable listen.

The first impression is that of an artificial jungle, low-flying mechanical birds skimming past, brightly coloured blooms all around, an unnatural warmth in David Byrne's voice, a preacher at an invisible pulpit: that's how “Born Under Punches” presents itself, with a pressing, anomalous rhythm, the bass oozing rubbery over acid funk riffs. It's unsettling, even uncomfortable, but we're already in it with both feet, inside this (post)modern zoo, as dense as it is uninhabited, where even the chorus seems to lose its own tracks in an inconclusive, ecstatic loop, like an idea too subtle yet irresistibly contagious. “Crosseyed And Painless” hammers on just as stubbornly, a rock regurgitation with a fleshy riff and steady drumming, tattooed with a thousand sonic flashes (the flourishes of a razor-sharp guitar, a metallic rain of flying keyboards), the irresistible anarchy of a bass running free, and the declaiming of a bony, iconoclastic Byrne, by turns possessed, cold, rap-like and ethereal.

“The Great Curve” further complicates the picture with a frantic percussive layer slapped by an ectoplasmic little funky guitar: the rest is a frenzy of tribal choruses, nocturnal unease, urban insomnia, a masterpiece of vocal layering that still leaves you baffled today, (synthetic) horns chasing an ideal zenith, and the surplus of a couple of guitar solos steeping somewhere between cold delirium and mad irony. The celebrated “Once In A Lifetime” sucks us into a vortex of liquid sounds, a primordial dialogue between bass and drums over which David Byrne first declaims the most ordinary idiosyncrasies, then surrenders to a chorus that rolls on unstoppably, propped up by sailor-like choruses and—of all things—funky jolts that would ruffle a rhinoceros's hide. The finale drowns in an epic bath of acidic keyboards: one of the most deserving hits in the (great) history of rock.

The long wave of reggae simply couldn't be missing from these grooves, and here it is rippling like a foamy reflection in “Houses In Motion”, an electrified filament running along its sinuous profile, nodules of bass scattered throughout, the improbable, fascinating randomness of an artificial birdsong, a voice that first contains then unleashes a stylized rage, with a few extra bits of magic such as the sulphurous trumpeting of John Hassell's horns. Brian Eno's touch weighs heavier in the makeup of “Seen And Not Seen”, a kind of synthetic backdrop where nothing seems to be what it claims, where a heartfelt melody blooms unexpectedly amid Byrne's indolent spoken delivery and a thousand sonic theories besieging us like sudden parables of the past, foreshadowing certain soundscapes that would bring (commercial) happiness to the more mainstream Talk Talk (the “It’s My Life” era) and the intoxicating versatility of Beck.

“Listening Wind” is a hypnotic ballad with overbearing visionary qualities: the raga-paced drums sit perfectly at ease immersed in this indefinable fauna, guitars and keyboards intertwine in a stretched-out dance, Byrne sings as if from within a sandy ritual, giving life to a chorus that tastes of wind and spectral distances, underpinned by extraordinary swirls of bass, the kind that promise never to be forgotten again (indeed, the Police wouldn't forget it, going on to craft the gorgeous “Wrapped Around Your Finger”).

The closing “The Overload” is perhaps the most surprising track on the record, with its Joy Division-like dark vibrations, the malleable Byrne seeming to summon the spiritual protection of Nico and Patti Smith: the result is ultimately a harsh, rarefied dark ballad, a nightmarish seal on this elusive, intense record — the lingering doubt at the end of an unforgettable dream.

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12/11/2006