The first Talking Heads song I ever loved was “Nothing But Flowers”. I was seventeen years old and in a relationship with a quiet university guy who was obsessed with music. He lived in the same dorm as a friend of mine who’d graduated early and fled our boring suburb for the apparently superior environment of Queen’s University. I’d met the guy briefly when I’d been to visit my friend, and he soon after wrote me a letter and asked if I’d be his girlfriend. At that point in my life I’d had only a few short-lived relationships that I hadn’t enjoyed at all and I wasn’t particularly keen to be anyone’s girlfriend. But I didn’t really know how to let someone down easy, so I said yes and then just acted weird until I finally got up the courage to break up with him. Poor behavior sure, but fairly understandable from an awkard, anxious teenage girl in the early nineties. Later he wrote some mean personal essays about me on the internet, using my full name, which seems uncalled for. Anyway, the truly positive thing that came from that relationship was the mixtape he made for me early in our courtship, which featured “Nothing But Flowers” on side one.
Until I heard that song, I’d regarded Talking Heads as one of the bands that was too cool for me. I saw record store employees in downtown Toronto wearing worn t-shirts with the band’s album covers on them and heard musicians I admired citing them as an influence in interviews. But hearing “Nothing But Flowers” with its poppy music and clever lyrics, made me realize that Talking Heads was also a band for teenage girls. I wasn’t afraid of them anymore.
But while I enjoyed the bands songs in the ensuing years, I never felt like I actually needed them until the pandemic. Trapped at home, bogged down by uncertainty and sadness, Talking Heads became a big deal in my life. The song that I listened to the most, that seemed the most applicable to the state of our lives, was “Life During Wartime”. I muttered the chorus under my breath so many times I eventually bought a poster featuring the lyrics and hung it above our fireplace.
David Byrne in particular played a strong role in my life during this time. I kept my DVR recording of his performance on SNL for months after it aired, because it felt like one of the last things that I’d been excited about in the “before times”. When the live recording of his American Utopia show become available on HBO I stayed up late watching it one night while my family slept. I drank a small glass of scotch and huddled under blankets on my sofa, snow falling outside in the dark, laptop balanced on my knees. I’m sure watching it on a large screen would have enhanced the visual experience, but I’m hard pressed to complain about my own viewing experience. As acts of Revenge Bedtime Procrastination go, it was a good one.
But one thing I did want to see on a big screen was Talking Heads’ 1984 concert film, Stop Making Sense. I actually wanted this so badly I created a fictional scene in the first book I wrote during the pandemic, where the characters attended a screening of it in New York City. It seemed very far away from my own reality. But the gods of early 80’s art rock were smiling upon me, because earlier this month my friend Megan and I got see the film in a theatre. An IMAX theatre, no less. This was a part of the celebration of the film’s 40th anniversary, and included a live streamed (and painfully, painfully awkward) q&A with the four core band members afterwards. It was a weird little dream come true.
Uncomfortable q&a aside, the experience of seeing the movie on a big screen was absolutely incredible. It’s not just a concert film, it’s an art project, one that starts with a simple one-man performance and slowly uncoils into a rager of a live show, with band members looking for all the world like they were having the time of their lives. I know I sound phenomenally aged when I say this, but it was magical to see something recorded before the days of people watching concerts through their smart phone screens as they record it all for their Instagram feeds. Not because I begrudge anyone their own personal way of enjoying a show. But rather because this must have just been an absolute joy for Talking Heads fans to get to see when it came out. It was special because it was unique. People couldn’t just go to YouTube for concert footage. A movie like this must have been a gift. Seeing it forty years later, I felt the same way.
September 2023 Songs
My favourite song from American Utopia is “Everybody’s Coming to My House”. I like the live version better than the album version, which is rare for me. Also the story he tells about the song is very relatable.
To prove that I don’t only listen to music from the 70’s and 80’s, allow me to recommend The Globs, a band that my friend Sean Carswell wrote about in Razorcake this month. When I checked out the album after reading his column, it was instant love. Perfect, scrappy, poppy punk songs, two voices, engaging lyrics. I particularly like “Nobody Strange” and “What is the Sound of Nothing?”.
Looking at old mixed CDs this past week in an effort to organize my life, I was reminded of the song “Jet Ski Accidents” by The Blow which everyone I knew was obsessed with in the early 2000s. Listening to it again, I was delighted that its weird vibe has totally held up. When I saw The Blow at Saw Gallery how ever many decades ago it was a arty, silly, fun show, kind of like a (very) mini Stop Making Sense.
September 2023 Feelings
Back to romance recommendations this month. I have two very different but equally fun books to talk about. Just Another Love Song is the first Kerry Winfrey book I’ve read and I was sucked in right away by her excellent and vivid settings. This takes place in a very Stars Hollow-esque town, where the main character runs a garden centre and lives in a small, pretty house with her great dane. I mean… sold. On that alone, I would read this. But it has more to recommend it that just those details. The dialogue is hilarious, I laughed out loud frequently, and the friendships between the characters have more depth and detail than I see in some similar books. For romance readers who have preferences regarding sex scenes, just know that this is a “closed door” romance so if you’re waiting for a steamy scene, you will not get it. However, even if you usually read books with higher heat levels, this is worth it regardless. And hey, you can loan it to a teenager or to your mom! Bonus.
Definitely NOT in the “closed door” category is Rachel Lynn Solomon’s Business or Pleasure. But one thing that I have always appreciated about Solomon’s romance novels is how she makes her hotter scenes meaningful within the context of the plot. In this one, which takes place at various comic/sci fi cons in the Pacific Northwest, the main female character is ghost writing the main male character’s memoir. After a comically terrible one-night-stand, he ends up asking her to teach him how to get better at sex. The dialogue here is also funny and the friendship that evolves between the two characters is really sweet. I also appreciated the somewhat unconventional way Solomon handles the required third act break up. I really recommend this one. Also there are so many Sleater Kinney references which really delighted my riot grrrl heart.
Thanks for reading! See you next month.
J.W.
Instagram : @JenniferWhitefordWrites
Razorcake columns, reviews, interviews etc
My debut romance novel, MAKE ME A MIXTAPE is coming from Doubleday in 2024.