Tag Archives: Brian Eno

37 – Talking Heads: Born Under Punches


Can you dance in your head?

I can. There’s no limit to what’s possible up there. In a static bus queue, I’m body-popping with Michael Boogaloo Shrimp. Buying wine at the Co-op, I’m actually choreographing a Studio 54 freakout. Funny how when it’s real feet, hips and arms, I fall into the old ways. If you’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting me at a wedding, you’ll have been treated to the timid handclap, or the David Bowie knock-knee, or the shuggy boat (ask a Geordie). Of course, anything is acceptable at a private occasion. People expect the champagne to do the boogieing, and accept all manner of disgraceful manoeuvres with good grace. But this ain’t no party. This ain’t no disco. This ain’t no fooling around. Sometimes dancing isn’t just an urge, it’s an urgency.

In pop music, dance is sex, of course; but it’s also a raison d’etre . My parents’ generation invented pop music, and Bill Haley’s ‘Rock around the clock’ was the prototype, the first patent to be stamped. Mum would always reminisce about going to see ‘Rock’ at the cinema, and being turfed out for ‘bopping in the aisles’. There’s no clearer example of how pop music became a religion in the 1950s, with its own temples and devoted congregations. Nothing new there – for us bipods, the Terpsichorean impulse is as old as legs themselves, and it’s the essential motor that drives many a ritual. But the pop era has depended on multiple instances of dance being the only thing that matters. Dance is liberty itself.  ‘Only when I’m dancing can I feel this free’, chirped Madonna ecstatically. That’s what flailing and frugging meant in the 1980s. Have you ever seen Footloose? 1984: the year Indira Gandhi was assassinated by her bodyguards, miners were being battered by Thatcher’s truncheoned bullies and Ethiopian children were dying of famine. Oh, and somewhere in Oklahoma, kids were being denied their basic human right to jive. This is big stuff. Check out Re-flex’s sole hit from the same year: 100BPM recast as ideology. It brings a whole new meaning to party politics; no wonder Prince was warding off the apocalypse by dancing his life away.

There’s a tyranny of dance too though. It’s amazing how many songs actually order you to party. It’s all imperatives. Get into the groove! Everybody dance, too-da-loo-loo, clap your hands, clap your hands! Do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight! I love being ordered around by those haughty Chic girls. When they tell you that ‘these are the good times’, there’s no possibility of argument. Everything they sing is incontrovertible. That’s what makes those Rodgers and Edwards records so perfect – certainty, inevitability, the sheer rightness of disco. But what if you dance out of doubt? What if you bite your nails while you tap your toes? What if your dancing shoes don’t fit and there’s the possibility of blood on the heel? Dance may well be a vertical expression of a horizontal desire – but what if there’s never any release, only a climax moving ever further out of the field of possibility? The answer you get is Talking Heads’ album Remain in Light, a still mind-blowing hybrid of St Vitus jitter and high anxiety.  Never mind the Higsons putting the punk back into funk. Remain in Light puts the funk back into funk, by reminding us that way before the f-word rode on syncopations and slap bass, it denoted something more troubled: a cold sweat, a quandary. ‘Take a look at these hands’ screams David Byrne in ‘Born Under Punches’, the Lady Macbeth of the Bowery. Two funks battling it out to the death: Byrneham Wood coming to Dunsinane.

He’s got form here, has David. The earliest, pre-Eno Heads kicked off with ‘Psycho Killer’, a stalking Parisian cat of a record – less new wave, more nouvelle vague. Twitchy of tail and twinkly of eye, ‘Psycho Killer’ led to some of the finest moments of hyperventilation in pop music – the Heads’ spidery, suspicious remake of Al Green’s ‘Take me to the river’, for example, which trades creamy soul for postmodern urban nightmare: don’t fall in love with the surface reflections, Dave, or you’ll fall in and drown. ‘Found a job’, also from the first Eno-produced album More Songs about Buildings and Food, seeks refuge from these nuits blanches in cartoon-gang disco-lite. This incarnation of the Heads, with Tina Weymouth bobbing up and down on her bass and Chris Frantz grinning at the drum-stool, would lead directly to the Tom Tom Club and the classic ‘Wordy Rappinghood’ – white hip-hop sketched with bright crayons. 1979’s Fear of Music, though, reasserted David Byrne’s penchant for troubled funk, and began to ask questions of the dance. Can you give in to disco while still worrying about the world? There are furrowed brows aplenty – ‘Life During Wartime’ imagines imminent Cold War meltdown as a Secret Seven scenario of bomb shelters and stockpiles (‘I’ve got some groceries and peanut butter / To last a couple of days’). But there’s also ‘I Zimbra’, a mad mashup of kwela and Dada that almost – almost – gives itself in to the sheer joy of the beat. Eno throws in a bit of geometry towards the end – some abstract synth shapes for the brain to ponder – but it’s perilously close to bypassing the head altogether for the loins and ligaments. And this is the blueprint for Remain in Light, a series of songs that continually rub up against themselves, staging pitched battles between the uptight and the unfettered. The single ‘Once in a lifetime’ is a perfect example of this not-quite yin-yang. Byrne’s televangelist spiel is one of the great expressions of midlife crisis; a sort of John Updike story for the MTV generation. It’s so familiar to us now – the beautiful house, the beautiful wife – but it never loses its punch. There’s almost unbearable fear in it (what will this depressed suburbanite do behind the wheel of the large automobile, pull a Willy Loman?) But I always think there’s a beautiful glimmer of hope. When Byrne asks ‘Where does that highway go to?’, he’s peeking over the horizon; when he cries ‘My God, what have I done?’, it’s the moment he realises he’s driving away, on and into the terror of freedom. Maybe, just maybe, the wondrous music has put oil in his tank. For how could the song not be life-affirming? How could those fizzing keyboard lines, like bubbles constantly rising and popping in the glass, not go to the head? How could all those percolating polyrhythms fail to cure the arthritic pains of middle age or the weltschmerz of Middle America?

And so the Heads come to the power of dance through intellectual and spiritual crisis. Listening to the first side of Remain in Light (and this is definitely an LP with ‘sides’) is like seeing a man looking in one direction as his feet carry him in another. Byrne protests ‘but…but…’ while Harrison, Frantz and Weymouth (not to mention Eno) chivvy him constantly with the enchantments of rhythm. ‘Crosseyed and painless’ relates this very story. Byrne has ‘lost [his] shape, trying to act casual’; he seems obsessively worried that he is becoming untethered from ‘fact’, but then the pulse of the music convinces him eventually that ‘facts continue to change their shape’, and the brain can expand to incorporate the change. You can indeed go crosseyed, and it won’t be painful; if you lose control, you merely open up endless new possibilities. This was the ethos behind the creation of the album, and so ‘Crosseyed’ becomes a kind of meta-commentary on recording strategy. ‘Born Under Punches’, similarly , is the sound of a guy torn between being a ‘government man’ and a ‘tumbler’ – a man in a suit with an agenda in his briefcase, and a gymnast preparing to turn spontaneous somersaults. ‘All I want is to breathe’, sings Byrne, loosening his tie. The track is constantly teetering on this edge, between limit and licence, and to hear the corporate middle-manager bursting out of his confines is almost akin to hearing a body in the process of being created. One of the many moments I love in this track is at around 1:25, when Byrne does away with words altogether: “ng-zada, ng-zada, ng-zada”, he murmurs, as he attempts to keep speech moving through the propulsive groove only to get stuck on the beat and dribble into gobbledygook. It’s panic at the disco, for sure – a ‘my God, what have I done’ moment, or rather, ‘What the fuck am I saying here?’ Byrne also has to dodge the brickbat bass-guitar and boomeranging sonic effects, like an avatar in a videogame attempting to steer a course and get through to the bonus round. But by the end, I think he’s triumphed. He has conquered his fear of music and is ready for the next level.

Apart from this, it still just sounds bloody amazing. Adrian Belew’s unhinged, blibbety-bloop Morse code of a guitar solo; the mystical, spine-tingling backing vocals; the looped offbeats that always sound like they’re about to trip up the track by the boogie-shoelaces. It’s incredibly three-dimensional music, and your arms and legs expand to match it. I urge you take the punch (see, imperatives again!), and dance in your head to the Heads. Just make sure it doesn’t come onto your I-Pod while you’re in the Co-op, otherwise you might just find you’re a-tumble in the aisles.

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32 – Devo: (I can’t get no) Satisfaction


It’s one of those well-known, quirky facts that Delia Smith baked the gateau on the front of the Rolling Stones’ album Let it Bleed. Much as I love Delia, I’ve always hated that gaudy sleeve, with its glace cherries and pink icing. It’s like the cake in ‘Macarthur Park’, the one that someone left out in the rain. Maybe it’s meant to be ironic; the songs on Let it Bleed are about the darkest and profoundest the Stones ever recorded, and have little to do with bake sales. Unless it’s a nod to the wedding in ‘You can’t always get what you want’. I don’t think so, though. I think it’s deliberately awful, like most Stones album covers. All those Mick Jaggers in wigs on Some Girls – nightmarish. The graffitied toilet on Beggars Banquet – the model putrid loo of every dive venue you’ve ever gigged at. Worst of all are those nasty leather trousers on the front of Sticky Fingers. Yuck. As if anyone would want to pull down that infamous zip. Great tunes, guys, and congratulations on this year’s fiftieth anniversary, but you really are the ugliest band in pop history.

Now, Stones covers, on the other hand, are often rather ace. There’s a long history of fruity and zany takes on the Jagger-Richards canon. Being a huge teenage Bowie fan, I was disappointed to discover that the original ‘Let’s spend the night together’ was so mimsy and midtempo; the Aladdin Sane treatment, built around the mother of all piano tantrums and a hyperventilating Ziggy, prefigures Bowie’s subsequent Hollywood psychoses and remains the best non-original track he ever recorded. The Mo-dettes’ post-punk ‘Paint it black’ is another all round good thing, swapping the melodrama of the original for gleefully off-colour harmonies and ticklish bass; bright Dulux spatters instead of portentous brow-furrowing. But the wonkiest of all, and the cleverest of all, has to be a 1977 rendition of ‘Satisfaction’ from a load of high-school geeks with flowerpots on their heads.

Satisfaction’ is one of the original mythical outlaw songs of youth culture: a pillar, a monolith, a UNESCO world heritage site of rock ‘n’ roll. So ubiquitous, so emblematic is it, that it’s hard to reassess what makes it revolutionary. It undoubtedly marks a key cultural moment. Chuck Berry’s carefree road trips take an abrupt turn into Europe, and in the old, dark continent, having no particular place to go is seldom a liberation; it’s more like a burdensome angst you carry from one drizzly, ruined cityscape to another. All the base elements are there – cars, girls, cigarettes – but there’s no syncopation, no funky looseness, no air anywhere. The Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’ was designed for uptight white British men to dance to. Warping the Funk Brothers’ crashing Motown rhythm section, Charlie Watts’ rigid four-four tattoo instead spawned a legion of laddish terrace singalongs: the cock-waving karaoke of Primal Scream’s ‘Rocks’, the Carlsberg and ketamine hubris of The Stone Roses’ ‘I am the resurrection’. Pale imitations all, though uncannily on the button; when the wind’s in the right direction, that particular British arrogance that leads to a sort of triumphant failure can be thrilling for some, and the ‘I try, and I try, and I try’ of ‘Satisfaction’ makes effort sound so effortlessly sexy. Still, it’s a song that doesn’t recognise borders. Otis Redding’s early cover is a fantastic take. Just as Aretha redefined Otis’s own ‘Respect’ as a feminist rally, so does he translate ‘Satisfaction’ into a razor-sharp comment on African-American frustration and belatedness. The anarchic mid-seventies Residents version, on the other hand, makes a big meta-noise of it; only a power cut would bring satisfaction there. But for me, Devo’s reworking is a triumph of antiheroic nerdism, and a fantastic justification (as if any were needed) for the year-zero, deconstructivist stratagems of post-punk.

Devo’s reputation is a rather curious thing. In Britain, they registered early, but then only slightly. Their first album, the absurdist cult classic Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo sold well, and ‘Satisfaction’, as the lead-off single, just stalled outside the Top 40. In the USA, on the other hand, they attracted quite a following, and became an early MTV presence. Nevertheless, people didn’t really know what to do with them. They were a mutant pop act from a parallel universe, aliens who accidentally landed in America and found her cultural baggage and customs strange and ripe for rip-off. And America didn’t always approve. They were accused of being cold and calculated. They were fey and faggy, or else, fascist. No doubt this had something to do with their love of synthesizers, or their associations with Brian Eno (not to mention their sometime scout shirts and plastic Kennedy wigs combo). But if they were a kind of Ohioan Kraftwerk, their satire was way more gleeful than any deadpanned ode to motorways and pocket calculators. They were electro-pop as designed by Looney Tunes, blowing up an ACME bomb in the face of primetime network television. Meep meep! It’s Devo!

And who were the Wile Coyotes Devo sought to outwit? Carters. Reagans. Televangelists. Cowboys. Hipsters. Right-wingers, left-wingers, it was all fair game. The early highlight ‘Mongoloid’ looks awful on the track-listing, a hangover from a pre-PC age, and yet as soon as you play it you realise it’s a critique of bigotry. Still, the crunchy guitars and police-siren keyboards flirt with danger, so you never know; Devo’s songs are often double-messaged. Perhaps their most recognisable number (and certainly their most infamous video), ‘Whip it’, lashed through the mythology of the ranch and scored a blow against American machismo just as Ronnie made his way to the White House. It even deconstructed the riff from Roy Orbison’s ‘Pretty Woman’ (devo-lved it, as they would have it). Their cover of Lee Dorsey’s ‘Working in a coalmine’ is also vicious underneath the goofy surface. Miners here are all but dehumanised machines working to the metronome, and certainly no sentimentalised proletariat, that’s for sure; the dignity of labour is dead. These mid-period Devo anti-classics would be rather chilly were it not for their love of beefed-up Moogs and souped-up Korgs. Listen to ‘Jerkin’ back and forth’ and marvel at how big it sounds. I’ve been waiting for it to come on at clubs and get-togethers for years so I can flail around to its ludicrous largeness; looks like I’ll have to programme it into my party list, because no-one I know seems to have ever heard it. Shame really. Devo’s most consistent target for spoofery was always pop itself, as testified by that other tribal chant, ‘Through being cool’: ‘Eliminate the minis and the twist’, they order, taking a swipe at the iconography of the sixties and their own newfound cult celebrity in one fell blip-bloop.

Of course, they’d already done this on ‘Satisfaction’, which manages to deconstruct the Stones original to extraordinary levels while still sounding (just about) like pop. In an age of radical reinterpretations (The Slits skanking Marvin Gaye, the Flying Lizards doing ‘Money’ with teaspoons and rolling pins), it gets the gold medal for fearlessness, taking perhaps the most iconic rawk behemoth and, well, jerking it back and forth. As I mentioned earlier, the Stones’ original gains its libido not just from restlessness, but relentlessness. Devo turn this inside out. The rhythm section hits on a groove so single-minded, so tunnel-visioned, that it’s almost impossible for the guitars and the vocals to keep time with it. They slide on and off course, batted away by crisp hi-hats and toms that seem to be running at a completely different time signature, such that words carry odd emphases: backing vox get trapped into ‘sat-TIS-faction’, while Mark Mothersbaugh wonders how white his shirts ‘COULD’ be. Jagger’s lyrics begin to sound by turns surreal, by others inane, never more so than when the word ‘baby’ is repeated over twenty times in a rapid-fire spasm; the repetitions of rock cliché are condensed and intensified, and Devo’s ‘Satisfaction’ becomes a stuck record satirising all the other stuck records of rock history, a history barely twenty years old at the time of recording. Perhaps there’s a ‘baby’ for every one of those years, rock lock-jammed and gibbering, caught in a spiral of diminishing returns. The very fact that Devo are covering this song is symptomatic of this decline, this de-evolution.

But then it isn’t anything of the sort, is it? Because this ‘Satisfaction’ doesn’t sound like any other. It’s newly minted, diamond-hard and still feels radical to this day, fresh every time you hear it. Yes, it’s postmodern; yes, it’s ironic; yes, it takes the piss. But it can do all these things and still love what it’s doing. It enjoys fiddling with the beat and fucking with the legend. Mark’s yelps aren’t paranoid tics. They speak of a man who rather enjoys being goosed, rather likes being surprised by the tickling stick. And that’s what Devo did for moribund American rock; they reached out from the undergrowth and pinched its bum when it wasn’t looking. Their ‘Satisfaction’ is the sound of five grown men who should know better plunging their faces into that lurid Let it bleed gateau and licking the cream off each other’s noses. Just thank God they never got round to spoofing Delia Smith.  


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