Saturday, May 17, 2008
He thinks for a moment. "I don't know if I shaved with beer, but I did cut myself."
"And at the same time, a girl was showing cue cards written in Russian?"
He nods. I ask, "The movie documents the last time the band played live. But I heard that you wanted the Talking Heads to perform songs from the film you directed, 'True Stories,' at drive-in movie theaters around the South. Is that true?"
Byrne nods. "There were so many of them -- out of commission. These just kind of empty spaces. It would be fun to play there and have people drive in. Roll down their windows. Sit on the hood of their car or whatever -- sit on their lawn chairs. And we'd play a show."
He laughs. (Byrne's laugh is not a chuckle or guffaw. It resembles the laugh of a very intelligent child who is quietly mischievous and doesn't want his parents to hear.)
"You were serious about this enterprise?" I ask.
"Serious enough that we did a budget. We found that you would have had to bring in a whole bunch of stuff. Drive-ins don't have any kind of sound system other than those little crappy speakers. It seemed to be too expensive."
Our food arrives. Unlike fancy joints, this restaurant makes you forget you're in a restaurant. Maybe it's Myrna Loy bringing your food. Maybe your mom. Maybe your wife, June Cleaver. Byrne's beer is singing, "Drink me! Drink me!" from across the table. "Do you care what people write about you?" I ask to get the beer to shut up.
"Probably," Byrne answers, then adds, "I wish I could say no. But the truthful answer is I probably do. And it wasn't until recently that I learned not to read reviews of, say, a new record or live shows when I'm on the road. It affects me and I would get emotional about it." He takes a bite. "It's really difficult because sometimes a genuine critic can talk about your work -- whether it's a performance or a record -- and give you creative criticism. If you haven't done something well they can help you find out why. They can push you to do something better next time. But just as often they've got some other kind of weird agenda and their comments are totally twisted."
We eat in silence for a bit. "Do you read rock biographies?" I ask.
"Not that often. Once in a while," he answers. "The last one I read was 'Generation Ecstasy,' all about the British rave scene. It had little mini-biographies in it. I read the Miles Davis biography several years ago. And the Mingus one. I like oral biographies like the one of Edie Sedgwick" -- the Andy Warhol model and the subject of the Bob Dylan song "Just Like a Woman."
"Do you think there is value in them?" I ask -- because I've wondered why Byrne is cooperating with my book on the Talking Heads.
"I once derived tremendous inspiration from reading how other performers and artists got through their lives," he says. "I was wondering, How did this person do this? What's their attitude toward living? How do they make life decisions in this kind of work? It's not like a 9-to-5 job. It's not, I'll just go and do my job and come home. You have to figure it out yourself. They don't teach you it in school. They get you started with the rudiments, but then you're on your own."
We eat a bit, then he asks, "How is your book doing?" He pauses. "My help is not contingent on what you say," he adds. Good. "I mean how is it going? Are there big gaping holes? Is it falling into shape?"
I tell him the book is going fine. Brian Eno is the only one who won't cooperate.
"That's understandable in some ways," he says thoughtfully. "But in other ways when he starts talking you can't stop him."
I tell him that I think the new Victor Bockris biography of Patti Smith is a real cut-and-paste slam job. "Do you know Patti Smith very well?" I ask.
"No," he answers. "I met her a couple of times and that's about it. Talking Heads used to see her play all the time. It was great. But I think she felt we were sort of arty and pretentious or something. We didn't have that rock 'n' roll romantic thing that she had. Maybe she felt that we didn't hold any of those values." He takes a bite of food, and adds, "Lenny Kaye, who was with her since day one, was real supportive of us. He saw one of our first shows and started calling other people to come see us."
I reach out and touch his sleeve. "I want to be your Victor Bockris." Byrne laughs -- a wicked child laugh. He knows I'm making a sinister joke -- Bockris seems rather sleazy. I then mention dancer Twyla Tharp's 1992 autobiography, "Push Comes to Shove." In it she reveals her affair with Byrne in 1981, during the period when they were working on "The Catherine Wheel." I ask if she sent him a manuscript of her autobiography. Or was it a surprise to see himself mentioned?
"She didn't send me a manuscript. I wondered if she was going to say something about me in it."
"Were you surprised that she did?"
"I thought the things she said were discreet and even-tempered. Very understanding. Our relationship crossed over the line from professional into personal. That's just sometimes inevitable. And sometimes it's not always good."
"Did you really court your wife at sumo wrestling matches?" I ask.
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