Life During Wartime
Another Story From the Jukebox
From the documentary and album Stop Making Sense by Talking Heads
Sound of gunfire, off in the distance, I’m getting used to it now.
I was in grad school when Stop Making Sense hit the theater. That concert film changed my artistic life. I had seen the Woodstock movie, seen the early Allman Brothers, Laurie Anderson. Many other cutting edge performers. Considered myself cultured and savvy.
Send a message through the receiver, hope for an answer one day
Young David Byrne was a force of nature. The lighting, the choreography, the sheer energy of the production, opened my sensibilities to different level of understanding. And I was already acting and stage managing avant garde theater in Atlanta (we called our production lane OOPS - off off Peachtree St).
I got three passports, a couple of visas, don’t even know my real name.
It was a time of identity crisis in my life. My artistic life ran squarely into reality. A baby son on the way. The inevitable pressures of Living in the USA beginning to mount. Who am I? What do I want to be? How do I structure this life that promises, maybe threatens, to unfold before me?
This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no fooling around.
If you love music, and you haven’t seen Stop Making Sense, find it and watch it. Filmmaker Jonathan Demme produced a remarkable documentary of a singular set of performances. Scottish/American singer-songwriter David Byrne is at his absolute best. The band is simultaneously totally controlled and totally reckless. The songs still hold relevance. Life During Wartime has been described as Armagaeddon with a dance track. Seems appropriate.
I got some groceries, some peanut butter, to last a couple of days.
We lived in the moment. There were big plans, but not much daily planning happened. We were both in grad school, and we handled our business. But we had enough peanut butter to last a couple of days. And it was okay.
It wasn’t wartime, exactly. But our lives weren’t at peace either. Several years, and two kids later, we went our separate ways. That life was never easy. Atlanta was both the Yellow Brick Road and the Highway to Hell. Depended on the day. Depended on the hour.
Lived in a brownstone, lived in the ghetto, I’ve lived all over this town.
I grew up between Florida and North Carolina, but Atlanta is the place I call home. All my changes were there. Most of them, at least. And I lived all over that town. One of said sons lives there now.
Memory is a funny beast. We never really know if we have the past right, or if it is shifting even as we speak. I remember Stop Making Sense as a pivotal moment in my young life. A call to action. A mirror moment.
The irony is that it took about 40 years to play its way through my system.
I might not ever get home.
God, I miss Georgia