Director: Jonathan Demme (USA). Year of Release: 1984
A bare stage. We briefly see a shadow of the tuning keys at the top of a guitar, before the camera follows a pair of white shoes walking onstage. A man, wearing the shoes and a grey linen suit says: “Hi, I’ve got a tape I want to play”, and puts down a beatbox. He strums a guitar and starts singing: “Can’t seem to face up to the facts / I’m tense and nervous – can’t relax / Can’t sleep. Bed’s on fire / Don’t touch me. I’m a real live wire / Psycho Killer. Qu’est ce se / Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa.”
Do I even need to tell you about Stop Making Sense, which has been re-released for its 40th anniversary? It’s regularly lorded as being the best concert film of all time (though I think Laurie Anderson’s Home of the Brave released 2 years later runs it close, and I’ve yet to see Spike Lee’s more recent film of Talking Heads singer David Byrne). Let’s just agree that this was a film which made us realise how much more was possible with concert films than we’d previously imagined.
When the film was made, Talking Heads were a moderately successful band, who had had one top 10 single in the US (Burning Down the House, #9 the year before), and whose highest UK single, Once in a Lifetime, had reached number 14. They could fill a medium sized venue but were not playing enormodomes. This gives Stop Making Sense a much more intimate feeling which wouldn’t be possible from a more commercially successful band.
They hadn’t yet released the more hit single orientated Little Creatures (not a big loss here – those songs were hummable but less interesting), but had developed a mix of musical styles from new wave to funk and rap. Songs like Psycho Killer and Once in a Lifetime were not easy to categorise, but had a quirky quality which made them popular on the college circuit. This concert also contains a much more excessive use of synthesisers than was expected of rock bands in the mid-1980s.
Stop Making Sense also has the advantage of being made by Jonathan Demme at his most powerful and inventive. He’d made a series of “critically acclaimed” films like Melvin and Howard, which hadn’t troubled the box office too much. His next film would be Something Wild – again interesting but not phenomenally successful – followed by more mainstream stuff like The Silence of the Lambs and Philadelphia. Demme was also clearly a fan of the band and their music.
Back to the film. I remember watching the film around the time it came out and being utterly relieved when the second song started. Tina Weymouth joins Byrne onstage to play Heaven. It wasn’t a song I knew well, but Weymouth’s bass perfectly complements Byrne’s voice and underplayed narrative: “Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens”. Offstage, ethereal backing vocals add to the out-of-body atmosphere. It is a sublime moment.
As Byrne and Weymouth play, stagehands dressed in black lay down cables. A drum riser appears behind them. As the performance continues, we watch the stage being built. For the third song (Thank You for Sending Me an Angel), they are joined by drummer Chris Frantz and for the fourth (Found a Job), by guitarist and keyboard player Jerry Harrison. The band is now on stage, but for the next few songs they are joined by singers, a percussionist, guitarists and more synth players.
It is interesting to contrast the official band members with their fellow singers and band members. Talking Heads, and Byrne in particular, had a not entirely undeserved reputation of being “preppy” – a little too intellectual, with maybe not enough soul. They are dressed conservatively – Byrne in a suit, Weymouth in a grey jumpsuit, Harrison a dark jacket and jeans, and Frantz smart casual. The other band members, in contrast, largely wear t-shirts and seem to be having a much better time.
I’m sure that much of the band’s apparent seriousness is also part of the artifice. As backing singers Lynn Mabry and Edna Holt start dancing, at first it looks like they’re taunting the inert Byrne, but he soon proves himself to be a far better dancer than we’d given him credit for. Before long he’s jumping up and down, dancing with a lampshade, and acting way more like a rock God than you’d associate with a singer like David Byrne.
The set list has a sense of pace, which knows that the songs can only get faster and more energetic for so long. After Byrne charges around the stage while they are playing Life During Wartime, it’s time to do a few slower ones so everyone can catch their breath. Towards the end, Byrne leaves the stage entirely while the rest of the band play Genius of Love, from Weymouth and Frantz’s side project, the Tom Tom Club. He returns wearing a Big Suit and a readiness to hit the final strait.
By the time we get to the last couple of songs, the camera finally leaves the stage, and we see some shots of the people dancing in the audience. The music remains frenetic, and even the cover of Al Green’s soul classic Take Me to the River is an excited surge. By the time that Byrne introduces all the band members and all the stage crew, you are very aware that we have been watching a group performance where everybody’s contribution has been an essential component.
Before Stop Making Sense, concert films largely consisted of static camera shots or flights of exhibitionist fancy, like Led Zeppelin’s The Song Remains The Same. Then, MTV picked up, leading to an unnecessary tendency to fill later films with jerky camera angles. These other concert films also had an audience – God knows, I was part of it – but Demme and Byrne show what is possible if you just apply a little thought. Forty years on, few film makers have come close.
Further comments after seing the film for the second night running
Importance of the “other” musicians and singers
In the review I wrote last night, I mentioned the difference between the four main band members and the other singers and musicians who appear on stage. I’m not sure how relevant it is that the others are all Black, but it certainly makes a difference that they look a whole lot cooler. I’m not sure how possible it would have been for Talking Heads to do this sort of concert without them.
We see the differences in many ways, not least in how they interact with the audience. Byrne, Weymouth, Frantz and Harrison look apologetic and are loath to respond to audience applause. The others lap it up and wave cheerfully at the audience. This engenders an atmosphere of fun rather than impressed respect. It also encourages Byrne to occasionally cut loose.
Don’t get me wrong. Byrne’s performance is impeccable, and shows that all those years doing Performance Art had paid off. But whereas the other singers and musicians look spontaneous, he looks well rehearsed which is something else entirely. You’d guess that on the different nights of the tour, the backing musicians and singers would act differently each evening, whereas Byrne would be exactly the same.
This is not a judgement, just a remark.
The calm elegance of Tina Weymouth
Listening to the songs makes you realise exactly how much the Talking Heads sound depended on the excellent bass playing of Tina Weymouth. The bass is high in the mix, driving the songs forward. But if you watch her on stage, she seems even more reserved than Byrne.
On stage, Byrne occasionally dances, albeit very self-consciously. Weymouth prefers to hop up and down on the spot. She shows a sense of rhythm but an unwillingness to move far from the point on which she is fixed. Sometimes she moves back to play a synthesiser. On one occasion she plays a guitar. Despite her inertness she still remains the focus of our attention.
People who know about these things say that the main reason that Talking Heads split up was personal animosity between Byrne and Weymouth (others say it was animosity between Byrne and anyone he shared a room with). Watching them on stage together shows how well they could combine when they didn’t have to actually talk to each other.
The brief light show in the middle of the set
The Stop Making Sense concert does not contain much of a light show at all. For the first few songs, all we really see is a stage getting gradually fuller with equipment, singers, and musicians. The cameras react by just showing us the musicians, and a little of the stagehands setting up the stage.
Then we get to the aforementioned point when Life During Wartime finishes and the band needs some time to cool down. At exactly this moment, a curtain behind the band drops, and slides are projected against it containing largely meaningless phrases like Onions. It is as if someone had picked open come cards from Brian Eno’s Oblique Strategies game.
For the next few songs, there is much more use of light. For a while, white light is used to spotlight the musicians or project their shadows onto the back curtain. The cameras switch to shorter cuts, abruptly swapping between close ups of different musicians. Later there’s a more ambient red light which does not focus on anyone in particular, but sets a mood.
And then, there is little more light used, and the only backdrop is an extract from the Tom Tom Club album cover while Genius of Love is playing. By the encore, all we are seeing is a stage, and the audience, with few light effects at all. I’ve no idea how thought through all this was (I presume it was), but it would be interesting to know why.
What’s with the big suit?
Those of us who bought the soundtrack LP were confronted with a string of questions written in large type. The one that stuck in my head was “Why a big suit?” Apparently Byrne said that it made his head look smaller, but the only useful answer that I can think of is that, like many marketing or artistic attempts, it just worked. The early promos for the re-release had Byrne visiting a dry cleaners’ to pick up the suit. It just stuck in the mind.
Before I rewatched the film, I (falsely) remembered that the suit just kept getting bigger as the performance went on – an image which would have been more impressive but far less easy to pull off. But don’t print the story, print the legend. The idea worked. And don’t try and diminish art by trying to explain it.
Life During Wartime, What A Day That Was and Girlfriend is better are basically the same song, aren’t they?
Of course the words are different, as are some of the rhythms but they all have the surging Tina Weymouth bass line and sense of urgency. This is not meant as a criticism by the way. If a song is good, you should replay it as often as you can get away with.
CinePhil 