Talking Heads—More Songs about Buildings and Food

Talking Heads—More Songs about Buildings and Food

More Songs about Buildings and Food—Perhaps it was foredestined that the follow-up to a debut like Talking Heads: 77 would become the band's forgotten boy. That's not to say people don't love More Songs about Buildings and Food, because they do, but its songs are generally eclipsed by those from any other Talking Heads album. If the self-deprecating title didn't do it, it may have just been because it was, in fact, exactly what it purported to be: a close examination reveals four of More Songs' eleven entries to date from the same time as 77 or even earlier, and the new songs don't stray far from that formula.

The key difference with the Heads' second record is production. Their first was handled to some degree by a pair of Bon Jovi associates (Lance Quinn and Jon's brother Tony), but More Songs began a more significant relationship with glam-turned-ambient musician Brian Eno. Already a generative artist and sideman, Eno had only a handful of production credits by 1978, though the distinction is sometimes trifling in his case; the main difference here is that where Eno's presence made an intrinsic impact on albums like David Bowie's Low, "Heroes" and Lodger, here he also leaves a particular glow on the whole of it: if 77 was fluorescent, More Songs is soft-white.

There is a sweetness to More Songs that was haphazardly approached on 77 in a limited capacity. Ironically, the title more aptly references the single "Love → Building on Fire" and perhaps "Sugar on My Tongue," neither of which appeared on the original release of 77, and in that case, More Songs is something like a backlog of songs too pretty to stand with ugly ducklings like "Psycho Killer." "Thank You for Sending Me an Angel" is a shimmering acclamation of some lyrical idea only half-realized—vocalist David Byrne's lyrics incite more double takes than than ever, ducking in and out of coherent ideas that sometimes form stories. "With Our Love" sounds as cryptic as Byrne's words; in addition to the quirky dissonance that pervaded the entirety of Talking Heads: 77, the band now has a more genuine minor-key dynamic to their songs. On this song, they provide a haunting chorus to stress uncertainty in a new way; on the other hand, "The Good Thing" is a feel-good, hyper-literal song that exhibits the underrated humor of Talking Heads, which succeeds by a sort of careful improvisation.

"Warning Sign" is an anti-lovesong for the ages, and probably the recording where Eno's influence can be most felt. Instead of guitars, the manipulated sounds of each instrument—Byrne's voice included—take the forefront, swirling into a sonic landscape that resembled the direction the Heads would take in coming years. "The Girls Want to Be with the Girls" is an update on the underrated "Tentative Decisions." "Found a Job," one of the major highlights, is frankly hilarious with Byrne's oddly-delivered dialogue over near-ska instrumentation. "Artists Only" is the band's stab at spy-movie music. "I'm Not in Love" is another old one and a typically subversive alienation rant; it's easy to see why "Stay Hungry" was also left off Talking Heads: 77, being more of a straightforward workout than a dense, winding Byrne platform. "Take Me to the River," the Al Green song and only single, is covered here fairly faithfully, though it now sounds like an aquatic baseball park jam. Despite this, the biggest surprise is perhaps "The Big Country," which borders on sentimentality—strange for a band that almost exclusively puts on a front of neuroticism.

It is questionable whether or not More Songs about Buildings and Food could be called the Talking Heads' best album, but on the simple notion of accessibility, it is less abrasive than Talking Heads: 77, more focused than Fear of Music, less intransigently cerebral than Remain in Light, and more purposeful than Speaking in Tongues or anything that followed. It is an excellent entry point to the band, and like its brethren, rewards repeated listening.

David Bowie—Low

David Bowie—Low

Low—David Bowie's persona can truly be called dissociative. The man has shown himself over time to be more or less of stable disposition, but his wide-ranging discography begs the question: Who is the real David Bowie? His lyrics, at times more personal than others, are professed to "jolly [the music] along" more often than not, so the listener must develop his or her ear—yet, ironically, Bowie never seemed one for instrumentals. Enter Brian Eno, emerging ambient musician, who in his own career was taking detours from guitar-dense art pop with the partially-instrumental Another Green World and wholly-wordless Discreet Music.

Bowie's collaboration with Eno has a distinct sense of complimentariness; the two employ similar styles of singing, and both come from a glam-rock background—Bowie with a plethora of glitter-laden rock and Eno being a former member of Roxy Music. When one listens to Bowie's Station to Station (1976) and Eno's Another Green World, there is the impression that the two artists were converging on similar points in their work. Rather than a joint billing, however, Eno takes a back seat to Bowie on Low, and it is Bowie's work, with the two sharing writing credits on only one song.

The art-rock of the mid-70s was approached by a similar process to jazz music. The scene had a collective of established musicians that had music to record, and other big names would often collude under the songwriter's name. Bowie here is the bandleader, just as Iggy Pop was when he and Bowie worked together on The Idiot, and the lack of ego is a refreshing feature; Bowie was ostensibly suffering from something akin to ego-loss, his latest character having been "The Thin White Duke," a nod to his excessive use of cocaine. He moved to Berlin for the very reason of quitting the drug which nearly destroyed him, and would record Low and its follow-up "Heroes" there (though in truth, the basic performances on Low were done mostly in France).

Where Station to Station was glossed like its soulful predecessor Young Americans (1976), Low is organic and often jagged. Its primal sound suggests a reconstruction of all things: Bowie's identity, lifestyle, and even his entire basic approach to making music. It can be postulated that Low represents Bowie in his most basic form, with little added flair and the lack of a flamboyant character gracing the LP's front cover, which instead simply shows a still photograph from The Man Who Fell to Earth. "Speed of Life," Bowie's probably-unwitting answer to Eno's "Sky Saw," is sparse, under-produced on first listen—a 30th-century jam, all aspects to be upheld throughout the record. "Breaking Glass" is led by the anfractuous guitar of Carlos Alomar and the halted drumming of Dennis Davis, processed by producer Tony Visconti, who did not see fit to divulge his technique; the result is something like a noise-canceling effect. Bowie's shadowy verse is self-referential: the artwork of Station to Station includes a photo of Bowie drawing the Sephirot on carpet.

"What in the World" is an inverted pop song, substituting freewheeling notions of love and harmony with glitchy lyrics and a warbling Iggy Pop. "Sound and Vision" rounds out the trio of songs with common themes of isolation, specifically staying in one's room. The drum track pops and fizzles, the guitar and Bowie's saxophone, once jazzy, now tumescent, snake around at their leisure as Bowie sings brightly about songwriting itself: his then-new trend of self-referentiality. It is, put simply, a work of recording genius. "Always Crashing in the Same Car" is characteristic of the apocalyptic feeling that affects the whole record, and actually, the song is a real story about Bowie ramming a drug dealer's car, then returning to his hotel to drive in circles.¹ "Be My Wife" is the odd one out from the set, a straightforward song that only remembers its context as it spins into oblivion led by the plodding piano. Bowie concludes the side with "A New Career in a New Town," another instrumental that evokes the setting sun from its distant harmonica and a carnival of sorts from its climbing piano, night-sky synth and soft kick of the bass drum; his title is self-explanatory.

The reputation of Low's second side often eclipses the actual music. The turn of the century has brought an era in music-listening in which compilations are often pushed as the essential purchase and rarely include instrumentals, if ever, provided that does not describe their entire body of work. Low's four side-two pieces often become lost in the noise of more catchy vocal songs, and are usually spoken about collectively, or in a manner that vitiates them. The Bowie-curated All Saints, sadly, is symptomatic of these phenomena, and obscures the relevance of the work, demoting them to curiosities. What is missed in the case of Low is the cohesive sound and the idea that Bowie intended the four compositions to be reflections of his experiences in Western and Central Europe. "Warszawa," for example, is meant to depict the still-rebuilding Warsaw, Poland: haunting, miasmic synthesizer pierced only by Bowie's overdubbed chanting.

"Art Decade," a picture of West Berlin—the Berlin Wall still standing at this time—is less dramatic, but still broken, unsure, almost dangerous. "Weeping Wall" instead focuses on the barrier itself, probably suggesting with its title that the wall itself cried out; in point of fact, some sections of graffiti on the Berlin Wall were long rows of grotesque faces. The song is more rhythm-oriented than the others, with Bowie playing the vibraphone and xylophone mixed in front of his wailing and guitar. "Subterraneans" was generated from a minor piece of music from Bowie's aborted The Man Who Fell to Earth soundtrack and is about "the people who got caught in East Berlin after the separation—hence the faint jazz saxophones representing the memory of what it was."² It is a fitting summation of the whole album's tone, including side one: another world, a dark future that has regressed to the primeval, instinctive, somber, and ominous.

Art sometimes loses relevance with time. The Berlin Wall has been eradicated and David Bowie is no longer the person he was or playing the role he did when he recorded Low. Despite this, its themes tease a deeper connection with human psyche, after all the static has been blown away with time, even if they are sometimes amorphous. Stripping down his sound allowed Bowie to rebuild his path in music, and though its words are sparse, Low exhibits Bowie at his most raw and pure. It remains not only his best album, but likely rock's greatest piece of art, and needless to say, a masterstroke.

---

12 Hugo Wilcken: 33⅓: Low