David Byrne at the Ear Inn

"Bonnie and I went to some sumo matches," he says. "They're really fascinating because when you go to a sumo wrestling match, at least half the time is spent in Shinto ritual. Actually the wresting is just boom, boom, boom, boom, boom -- it's over. Fifteen seconds or so. But there is all this elaborate ritual. The salt being thrown up in the air. And the priest coming in with this huge conical hat. And this indoor arena like a basketball court, but hung up around it are giant portraits of all the sumo families. It's medieval. And sumo is a dining experience. You sit in little stalls on teeny tiny tatami mats on the floor. There are no chairs or anything. You can order all kinds of food. Eel and rice. It's not just beer and popcorn."

I unconsciously eye his beer. The glass is more empty than full, but what's left still sings, "Drink me! Drink me!"

"You've been married for more than a decade," I say. "How much has married life changed you?"

"It's wonderful," he answers. "But I'm also constantly conflicted about it. I see myself as this free creative spirit -- and my image of married life is not what my married life is like. My mental image is something boring and conservative and completely, diametrically opposed to the free creative spirit that I am." He says this with no irony. "So all those mental pictures are in conflict."

"You're been married for more than 10 years?"

"Yes," he answers.

"The seven-year itch is long gone, buddy," I tell him. "Here you are married and the owner of a record company, Luaka Bop. It's like you're now in Seymour Stein's shoes," I say, referring to the president of Sire records, who was a guiding force in the Talking Heads' career.

"Sort of," Byrne admits. "Artists -- some young, some not so young -- hope that you're going to facilitate their career and you're not going to do things behind their back. You deal with all those same hopes and frustrations and things that these artists go through." He finishes his beer -- down the hatch -- and says, "Just yesterday ... I had this emotionally wrenching discussion with an artist we have on the label who feels that we've disrespected him. We've been unjust to him. How come he's never seen any money from his record sales?" Byrne pauses. "Well, the guy doesn't have any record sales to speak of."

"We try to have him do a record in a serious way as opposed to a lot of, quote, 'world music artists,' who go into the studio and are told, 'OK. We have one day. Play all your songs. And tomorrow we're going to mix them all.' And the record always sounds like it was done that way. We wanted to treat our artists as you would treat any other artist. 'Well, we're going to make a record. If you can sell this number of copies we can afford to pay this much for a record' -- but realistically they're not going to see royalties unless they sell above a certain mark. It's a painful thing. I'm not used to dealing with that thing with artists." He sighs. "I would love it to be simpler and it's not."

"Your natural sympathy is with artists," I say. "But are there times when your sympathies are closer to those of management?"

"Oh yeah," he says with a sad smile. "The stubbornness and bullheadedness. It's always easier to give advice than to take it."

"You remember all those interviews you did in the late 1970s when you railed against Tony Bongiovi, the producer of the first pre-Brian Eno Talking Heads album, 'Talking Heads 77'? Lately it seems you've mellowed."

"We didn't know anything about making records back then," Byrne says. "And I'm sure Tony was trying to make our songs a little more accessible. I figure, in retrospect, the poor guy took a lot of shit from us that at the time I thought was totally justified. The poor guy was just trying to help some kids make a record!"

Myrna Loy brings the check. Byrne makes for his wallet. I take the check and say, "In photos of yourself in your early 20s you look ..." I pause, then mutter, "a little geeky. But then several years later, in photographs by Richard Avedon and Helmut Newton, you're as beautiful as Gary Cooper. Did something in you click and you suddenly knew how to pose?"

"When the band was starting, I would get wrapped up in different ways of dressing. Leather pants one year. Dyed hair another year. Whatever. I was kind of naive about deportment. The whole thing of being onstage and presenting yourself -- being this adjunct to the music -- I didn't have a grasp of it. It's artificial in the same way that any acting or stage performances are artificial. But if you know how to do it, it's telling the same story as your other work. It's not like Robert Redford, who looks the same no matter what movie he's in. You never feel like he inhabits a role."

We head outside.

"As for Richard Avedon," he continues. "I just thought, I'm going to get my picture taken by Richard Avedon so I'm going to look as good as I possibly can. I was so totally bowled over that I probably lost all sense of my own personal direction." He mounts his bicycle. "Helmut Newton didn't seem like anything. He's known for pictures that to me are elaborate setups and electric lighting things, with the girls in their costumes and all the other stuff, but when he was doing my portrait it was like, 'David, the light is very nice. Just stand there for a second.' Click. 'That's great.'"

Before Byrne rides away I ask, "Have you ever done portraits yourself?"

"I did some in art school. I did some Polaroids with the Talking Heads. I haven't tried it since." He eyes traffic. "One part of it has nothing to do with photography. It's relaxing the subject. And then, boom, getting a million shots and hoping you're getting the one that's right. There are so many people striving to do that, yet put their personal stamp on the photo. It's kind of a crowded field. I don't think I'm going to go in there."

"But you take photos for the family photo album, don't you?" I ask. He does. "Can you separate the artist from the ..."

"Yes," he assures me.

And just before he pedals down the street he says, "I pull those out. Those don't get filed with the art pictures."

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