One of the most well-regarded concert films, Stop Making Sense is a collaboration between the band Talking Heads and filmmaker Jonathan Demme.
I do not have much experience with concert films.
I had not really thought about it until I was writing about the Billie Eilish documentary, and realised I had no point of comparison or frame of reference.
When my local Arthouse advertised a series of classic concert docs, I jumped at the chance to expand my knowledge. It also gave a reason to do a deep dive into artists I had never really checked out.
I know a few Talking Heads songs, but outside recognising the big suit, I did not have much context.
The film opens with a piece of showmanship that feels designed to draw the viewer in, to tease fans, and initiate new ones.
We open on a close-up tracking shot of David Byrne’s feet walking onstage with a guitar and a boombox.
The latter is a prop - the beat is provided by an offscreen 808 drum machine - that sets out the band’s uncanny vibe.
Byrne then complicates this by playing ‘Psycho Killer’ on an acoustic guitar.
The juxtaposition of human musicianship and technology is the skeletal foundation of the band - it almost feels like the film is showing us how the Talking Heads build their sound.
Over the first couple of songs, the band slowly assembles onstage as the set-dressing is re-set around them. As the musicians fill out the space literally and sonically, the film takes time to put faces to each specific voice and sound - it is music as living organism, slowly growing and evolving in front of us.
There is something so joyous and communal about the way the camera-work captures the interplay between the musicians. There is a looseness and spontaneity to these found moments that fill out the song performance.
Watching them live also helped me work out how to describe the Talking Head sound: Recontextualising traditions and norms to reveal their inherent ridiculousness.
The out-sized suit exemplifies the sense of disconnect, of trying to exist in a world you can never fit into.
The songs are uniformly tight, looser and funkier (to my ears) compared with the recorded versions: ‘Once In A Lifetime’ feels even more discombobulating, the desperate plea of the chorus, juxtaposed with the imposing rhythm section.
David Byrne is the physical embodiment of the band’s sound, both incredibly loose and controlled.
This is easily one of the best first watches I have had in a long time. I was completely locked in, bobbing my head in time, and I caught myself clapping after certain songs.
The audience is rarely onscreen. Demme’s camera roves around the stage, never completely immersive but also never fully drawing attention to itself - a pretty good encapsulation of the band.
No comments:
Post a Comment