On his third solo album, 1994’s David Byrne, Byrne retreated from the world music flavorings of his previous releases in favor of a more spare, somber sound.
Many artists choose to self-title an album when it contains their most personal work, a glimpse into their inner workings. Byrne isn’t going down that road here. The lyrics are his typical opaque explorations of the human condition, following his usual obsessions with the minutiae and ugly-beautiful details of life.
After the unexpected brilliance of Rei Momo, David Byrne’s second solo album was a disappointment. 1992’s Uh-Oh felt far too processed… it lacked the organic feel of his first solo outing.
But, as the saying goes, the worst David Byrne album is still better than most albums, and Uh-Oh does have its share of worthy tracks. The best of them maintain the world music feel of his previous record while leaving room for his signature eccentricities.
And you have to admire the CD cover art, which depicts a Snoopy-like cartoon dog sitting on what appears to be God’s throne in Heaven.
Through 563 songs I’ve managed to highlight only one David Byrne track and one Talking Heads track, which seems akin to a criminal act. I’ll do my best to make up for that oversight by dedicating a theme week (plus a bonus Monday) to David Byrne’s solo career. And a Talking Heads theme is definitely in the cards down the road.
Following the release of 1988’s Naked, the final Talking Heads album, David Byrne kicked off his solo career with Rei Momo in 1989. I remember picking this album up from a bargain bin on a whim, figuring it might contain some worthwhile music given Byrne’s great work with Talking Heads.
David Byrne is one of the most talented and eccentric artists in my collection, and I own about 15 of his albums by now (including his work with Talking Heads). And yet I can’t say that I love his music the way I love stuff by, say, Paul Simon, Elvis Costello, Lyle Lovett, Lucinda Williams, and on and on.
I certainly appreciate his music, and when I listen to it I enjoy just about every minute. But I don’t find myself reaching for his CDs when loading up my car stereo.
So you’re probably wondering… why do you own 15 albums by somebody whose music you aren’t compelled to listen to very often? And that’s a fair question for which I don’t have a great answer.
Meet Me In Montauk 