Better yet, their performances are visually unencumbered by cords, amplifiers, risers, or a lot of excess technical clutter. As Byrne emphasizes in introducing his fellow cast members, there are no playbacks or pre-recorded tracks. It was never lyrical, but the nasal tenor hits emotional touch points all the same through Byrne’s directness and precision.ĭirectness and precision are in fact the lodestars for the whole production. His voice remains incredibly strong, steady, and supple, even into the falsetto reaches. Nonetheless, he is, let there be no mistake, still very much a rock star. The electronic trance essence of the Remain in Light era flowered long ago into a buoyantly absurdist world-music party extravaganza with Byrne more circus master than spotlight-hogging rock star. Over the years, he’s shown us a lot of his cards, and we know him not just as the neurotic looking, “Psycho Killer”-playing art-school dropout but as an occasionally downright ecstatic Latin dance-band-loving hip-shaker who’s into bicycles. There’s a lovely, cheeky modesty to it all.Īt 68, Byrne has become a friendlier, if not exactly folksy, stage presence. And the dozen phenomenal musicians who accompany are dressed just the same, and they’re all barefoot. But his big white suit is now life-size and gray, as is he. Both feature pared-down staging, an avant-garde theatrical esthetic, a knowing performance-art vibe of interplanetary naivete. As accomplished as he is - with a half century of exploration, collaboration, and sound- and idea seeking - he clearly and inspiringly remains a work in progress.Īmerican Utopia feels like a bookend companion to the Talking Heads’ 1984 concert film Stop Making Sense. Throughout his career, Byrne’s music has felt like a form of psychoanalysis, and even as it takes this late open-armed civic turn, Byrne says that he, like the rest of us, must continue to change. With regard to his song “Everyone’s Coming to My House,” he contrasts a Detroit community choir’s upbeat, inviting version (which you’ll hear over the end credits) with his own introverted, ambivalent take. For an artist who has speculated that he is on the mild end of the autism spectrum, this preoccupation with connection has both personal and ideological resonance.
He explains that we lose cerebral synapses after infancy and wonders whether we just plateau into stupidity or if the connections that start within us extend outward between us. Like the upside-down poster lettering of the word “Utopia,” the production is tensely, tentatively optimistic - the implicit message being that America remains deeply, spasmodically screwed up, but that its better nature, its innocence, still pulses.īyrne begins Spalding Gray-ishly, sitting behind a desk and holding the model of a brain. The work is political without stridency, with Byrne celebrating the cast’s immigrant origins, urging the audience to vote, and pulling in “Hell You Talmbout,” Janelle Monae’s protest song against racist and police violence. The Broadway show has 21 tracks at 90 minutes, wrapping in decades of hits and lesser-known tunes from Talking Heads and solo projects. That included 10 tracks lasting shy of 40 minutes. In the midst of a pandemic, inviting him into our space - or being invited into his - is exactly the therapy the world needs.Īmerican Utopia is Spike Lee’s film of Byrne’s 2019 Broadway show, which was itself derived from a concert tour off his 2018 album. David Byrne’s artistry has always had a living-room intimacy, reflected in the delightful cover photos of the 1982 double-live album The Name of This Band Is the Talking Heads.
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