Jonathan Lethem's new book celebrates the band's transitional, apocalyptic 1979 album.
When I was a high school freshman, in 1991, my struggling-artist uncle gave me the first four Talking Heads albums on vinyl, mumbling "You might like 'em."
If only he knew. Night after night I commandeered my parents' turntable to immerse myself in the band's first two albums, Talking Heads: 77 and More Songs About Buildings and Food. The attitude the band conveyed on these works—wry, intellectual, urban—provided a sharp contrast to the bland suburban environment it seemed some mistake of fate had landed me. Talking Heads' fourth album, Remain in Light, perplexed me, with its weird squalls of keyboards married to conga drums and cryptic lyrics delivered in what couldn't often be called singing—chanting, yes, but also, in some songs, moaning, yelling, preaching, and most troublingly, speaking in a monotone whose flatness trembled with inflection. It would take me till college to thread my way through that album's fantastically deep soundscape.
Somehow Fear of Music, Talking Heads' third studio album, got lost in the shuffle. While I loved "Life During Wartime" and "I Zimbra," most of its songs didn't rank with the personal, neurotic anthems of the first two releases, nor were they as alien yet undeniably grand as Remain in Light. In the history of the band's development, Fear of Music presented a transitional work, and as such, I believed, a minor one.
Not so for Jonathan Lethem, who, at the age of 15, encountered Fear of Music upon its release in 1979 and fell in—well, not love. That word comes up short in describing Lethem's relationship to the record. As he put it in his 2005 essay, "The Beards," "...my identification was so complete that I might have wished to wear the album Fear of Music in place of my head so as to be more clearly seen by those around me." He's further unpacked his interest in a book entitled Fear of Music, the latest in Continuum's 33 1/3 series of music scholarship. In it, he doesn't rescue the album from its status as transitional. Rather, he celebrates that status, postulating that the tensions at play within the work—the way in which Fear of Music marks a shift from one Talking Heads sound to another—make it great.
In the early '70s, singer and guitarist David Byrne and percussionist Chris Frantz began making loud, caustic music as art students at Rhode Island School of Design. Byrne dropped out and moved to New York City, and Frantz later joined him. Looking for a raw, unformed bass player, they persuaded Frantz's then girlfriend and later wife, Tina Weymouth, to pick up the instrument. Two days before their first gig, the trio took the name Talking Heads, a term they found used in TV Guide to describe a shoulders-up camera shot of a person speaking. Talking Heads added Jerry Harrison, one of the original members of Jonathan Richman's band The Modern Lovers, to play keyboard and additional guitar right before recording their debut album.
'Fear of Music' may be the last Talking Heads album, meaning it's the final record where the four members worked cooperatively as a quartet.
When Fear of Music was released, the group was on the verge of outgrowing local New York success and moving toward the arena-filling, ten piece musical funkanauts they would be circa 1984's concert doc Stop Making Sense. The success of their cover of Al Green's "Take Me to the River" and appearances on Saturday Night Live and American Bandstand had gained the group a wider audience, yet made them wary of selling out. This gave rise to a set of contradictions that would manifest even on Fear of Music's jacket: all black with raised worm-like shapes reminiscent of tire tread or, in Lethem's view, a steel door that evokes both a "chilly authority" and "desire to be stroked."
After a short preamble in which he makes clear that his will be a heavily invested interpretation, bringing with it his 15-year-old self's "awe" of Talking Heads and Fear of Music, Lethem puts the album on the turntable and lets it play, examining each track in turn. Unlike his previous venture into critical scholarship—a minute-by-minute analysis of John Carpenter's movie They Live—he brings few outside sources to bear on the material at hand. Instead, he draws the reader beside him as he examines the LP's tracks under a magnifying glass and then hangs them within relation to one another, occasionally pulling back to regard each song against the Heads' oeuvre.
He breaks away from this termite-work to shine various lights—Is Fear of Music a New York album? A science-fiction album? A paranoid album?—seeing what kind of shadows the questions make. Never does he posit that his reading defines how one should hear the album, or, even more foolishly, that this is how the album was intended to be heard. Rather, he wonders what is gained or lost by examining the album within each frame. Amid all of this, Lethem murmurs theories about how to understand a work of art and drops personal revelations about the way culture shaped him during adolescence, but these never occupy him long enough to drown out the music.
This slow approach yields big, as it reveals a record composed not of disparate songs, like, say, a short-story collection, but a "concept album" in the most abstract yet perhaps truest sense. Fear of Music tells no narrative, but weaves together its bleak motifs in such a way that a resonance chamber forms, the pop music equivalent of the postmodern, fractured books of Italo Calvino. Parts that at first seem only distantly related start to feel of a piece the further one goes and the closer one looks. The majority of the song titles act as a table of contents of sort—"Mind," "Paper," "Cities," "Air," "Heaven," "Animals," "Electric Guitar," "Drugs"—all riffing on themes of restlessness, dissolution, and instability. Crackpots, conspiracy theorists, criminals, and druggies emerge as characters, and a bleak landscape forms. Make no mistakes, it's the apocalypse.
Lethem pays particular attention to David Byrne's use of pronouns, finding the songwriter lets them slip not to imply, as in most rock music, informality or off-the-cuffness, but to disturb and unsettle. In "Mind," for example, with its chorus of "I need something to change your mind," Lethem wonders if the I and you of the song are not in fact the same: whether there's an edge of solipsistic madness to the enterprise, with the listener overhearing a nutter trying to convince himself of something—what, we're never sure. In "Life During Wartime," Byrne flips the first-person from the singular to plural: "We dress like students / We dress like housewives," he sings, masking his personality in a way that would play out more fully on Remain in Light, where the lyrics rarely reveal a narrative voice, let alone one that could be mistaken for "David Byrne."