by Talking Heads

My memories of Friday nights when I was in high school center around two things: playing in the band at football games and watching late night TV while eating a much-delayed dinner afterwards. In the early part of the 1980s, the show that I tuned in was Wolfman Jack's Midnight Special, where I was first exposed to the music video form, since we lived outside of town and didn't have MTV. I recall seeing Nick Lowe's "Cruel to Be Kind," Elvis Costello's "Accidents Will Happen," Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody," Alice Cooper's "How You Gonna See Me Now," and Talking Heads' "Burning Down the House." These songs were staples of rock radio, even if the artists weren't, and the video portion did exactly what it was supposed to: increase my interest in the artist.

I didn't buy Speaking in Tongues until 1985, when most others had already moved on to other, newer, albums. But I was commuting back-and-forth between my home in Gatesville and community college in Killeen, a trip of roughly 40 minutes, and my soundtrack for that commute quickly became this album by Talking Heads which I had found in a used cassette store outside the local army base, Ft. Hood.

Why this album? A combination of circumstances surrounded it, making it appropos of the moment. I was living at home and attending Central Texas College because I had flunked out of the University of Texas at Austin, and the white-guy funk of David Byrne somehow matched the awkwardness of my situation, while being bouncy enough to keep my spirits up on that depressing commute, taking my mind off my failure and uncertain future. The fact that the lyrics of this album are an associative mass rather than a logical series allowed me to connect every song to my personal situation.

I can recall as if it were yesterday putting the steering wheel of a Ford Escort in my hands, bouncing in my seat as I sing-a-long with Byrne. From the gospelish chorus of "Swamp" to the infectious beat and call-and-response of "Slippery People," I would join in on each song, probably surprising a number of the pickups that passed me by with my spasmodic renditions of Bryne's stage moves.

And then there's that last song, a paeon to the comfort of home. Byrne sings, "Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there" perfectly captured my confusion of appreciating that I had this generous spot to fall-back on while at the same time wanting to be somewhere else (a home of my own, not one made by my parents). The song always seemed to be playing as I drove up the hill to the house, too. It, and the other songs on this album, never fail to take me back to that time, even now that I've moved far from that home. But then, isn't that one of the functions of music?