David Byrne
Feelings

"..And I miss America and sometimes she does too. And sometimes I think of her, when she is fucking you..I love America, yo siempre he confiado en ti. I love America, por que me tratas asi?"

"Snooping": to be curious, trying to know others' things and affairs, going around observing with curiosity. (source: The Newest Italian Language Dictionary, editor’s note)

David Byrne has never hidden his "curious" and scrutinizing nature, a subtly analytical eye open to the world and its diversities. Cultures so distant from the places where the Talking Head was born (Dumbarton, Scotland) and raised (in Maryland, the Rhode Island School Of Design, and NYC), they exerted a powerful and unique charm, something that went beyond simple and touristic exoticism. And what else to expect from a guy who would have liked to become a postman just to read other people's mail? Not very recommendable, certainly. But Byrne soon managed to transfer his voyeuristic urges to the purely musical sphere, overthrowing a myriad of clichés about Our and Their music, Western and Southern worlds, black and white. An investigative instinct that mixed rock instrumentation with the ancient sounds of what might then have seemed like a funny swear word, world-music. From the early days of the Talking Heads, through the pioneering collaboration with Brian Eno that would lead him to uncover the ethnic cauldron of Rei Momo, Byrne would apply the communicating vessels theory to a painstaking studio work. Happy and tireless, like a child playing with a box of Lego blocks.

I've always imagined that "Feelings" was the somewhat schizophrenic result (but quite a child of its author) of an abduction. Yes, you heard right and I'll be even more detailed: a sudden, absurd, and comic alien abduction. Of good old David, of course. It was 1997, the heyday of X-Files' ufological-conspiracy era (before Chris Carter burned out the few neurons he had left), and it goes without saying that in June of that year, I couldn’t explain the content of the disc in my hands otherwise. Okay, the eponymous work released in '94 was notable, solid in its Lou Reed minimalisms... But this time Rubber Face Byrne had baffled and intrigued me to snoop, just to please him. Only a shrewd intellectual disguised as a musician and abducted by a group of slouching aliens, tragically similar to Pierluigi Collina, could have written "The Gates Of Paradise". A frenzied mayonnaise of country-rock/jungle and cosmic guitars from Berlin-era Bowie, which just thinking about is a bit like pissing from a balcony, damn.

The syncopated start of "Fuzzy Freaky", a subdued electronic carpet polluted by sudden and acidic electric notes, makes it clear that this won't be a very comfortable nor relaxed journey. Like that winter night flight when a violent neon blue light swallowed the silhouette of placid David, who from his New York loft on Fifth Avenue was teleported inside a cigar-shaped airship. Where the former TH leader didn't know what awaited him, but the Pierluigi Collinas dressed as Geronimo Stilton awaited him curiously. They, after a CT scan and blood tests, made him fill out one of those questionnaires dear to Scientology (and military check-ups). Now I understand, the church of Ron Hubbard is run by damn aliens (headed by Cruise and Travolta). Byrne shrewdly reached an agreement, an album-dictionary of genres and styles in exchange for probationary liberty (especially economical, as Scientologists cost more than a course at Cepu). A sound toy that even an Italian bald and very pale referee would have been able to understand. Cuba, calypso, and the horns "que viva Mexico!" of dancing latin-pop "Miss America". The tribal meditative thrashing of "Dance On Vaseline" and the impossible country-folk mix with hip-hop scratches and Indian tablas "Daddy Go Down": Beck would have greatly appreciated it. The epileptic new-wave of "Wicked Little Doll", or the strong scent of "Eleanor Rigby (Finite=Alright)". The offbeat violas and violins of the singer-songwriter-esque "Burnt By The Sun", disturbed expressionism marked by smoky loops. Fellow adventurers: Morcheeba in their early steps, Greg Cohen, The Black Cat Orchestra, Mark Saunders, Mark Mothersbaugh, and Gerald Casale of Devo. A kaleidoscope of sensations and moods, which the Collina-UFOs would have enjoyed more than a documentary on breasts by Russ Meyer. If The Civil Wars explodes in a neurotic crossroads of electro pulses and hardcore drifts, the "fin" is literally a love letter and roses to the Paris of Charles Aznavour (the orchestral, romantic They Are In Love).

Curiosity remains a tough nut to crack, asleep on the landing: it can reveal to us that, deep down, we are also sentimental. Affectionate animals, perhaps pathetic, who observe others' things and facts here and there.

"..I am nothing like my sister. I am nothing like my mom. You can't see me in my father. Wonder where did I come from?"