byrne baby

This is a week late, but that’s nothing new. I have a little bit of a time management issue. (And those of you close to me know who I’ve been spending my time with lately. That’s right. JP.)

And because JP will soon call me back, I’ll be fairly quick here. But I just wanted to share with you my latest solemn vow: I hereby swear that whenever David Byrne is playing within 50—no, let’s go with 100—miles of where I am, I will make every possible effort to see him.

Before last Friday (the 18th), I had seen Mr. Byrne in concert once—about 2 years ago, at First Ave. A week ago I saw him again, at the Walker’s Rock the Garden concert. I didn’t really know what to expect from the event itself, never having personally rocked this garden—or any garden—before. I will say that I took them rather too much at their word, picturing the stage literally down in the garden, maybe near the famous-and-much-loved-but-never-has-done-much-for-me Spoonbridge and Cherry sculpture. In retrospect, of course, this was a pretty stupid thing to picture. It was incompletely pictured, too. Where did I think we would all go? In the pond? On the sculpture? Clinging to the cherry stem?

Anyway, I was quickly disabused of that notion, and it was—as Byrne noted himself—more like “Rock the Driveway.” So the setting was pretty average after all, and the only alcohol was endless streams of Summit, and nary a corndog to be seen, and a staggering number of female shoulders draped in size 2 jean jackets. Nothing special, really.

And then he appeared.

I have to admit that I was a little alarmed by his hair at first. I swear it wasn’t so white last time I saw him. But I soon got over it. About the time he opened his mouth and began to sing, I think it was. God, what a voice. And it’s not that it’s perfect—it’s really not. Instead, it’s…perfectly imperfect. In his Byrney way, he sang an aria. And when his voice wavered in the middle of one note, he just smiled, placed a hand on his stomach as if to apologize, but never stopped or slowed. Perfectly imperfect.

PLUS, although I was plagued by the usual under-six-feet-tall disadvantage of being at any stand-up concert, I had a pretty good, pretty steady view of Byrne from the shoulders up. Even better, what with the bouncing and grooving—especially to the awesome versions of old Talking Heads tunes—every now and then the bounce and the groove would work together, like a moment of resonance, and the right gap would open up between the shoulders and the heads, and I’d catch a glorious glimpse of his wonderful, skinny little hips, wiggling and gyrating and swaying, his head thrown back, eyes closed, arms out.

The man makes my knees go weak.

Maybe I’d better make it 150 miles.