Overcome the outrage and confusion of The Heads and accept it for what it is. David Byrne left the rest of Talking Heads in a tight spot after announcing his departure from the band. What more was there to do, amid the bubbling tensions between the instrumentalists and frontman, than to split off? The Heads is not as much a continuation as it is a middle finger, made out of bitterness. What better groundwork is there for art? Spite is what coaxes the fire into a blaze, and for No Talking, Just Head, the series of favours and additions made to its songs is fascinating. From Debbie Harry and Shaun Ryder lending their vocal strengths to Chris Frantz, Tina Weymouth and Jerry Harrison playing around with a newfound, Brian Eno-less freedom, No Talking, Just Head is a fascinating encapsulation of excess in the face of forced liberation.
Because with all the tools at their disposal, free from their supposed Byrne-shaped shackles, the remainder of Talking Heads cannot rise to the occasion of besting him. While he salsa-danced away from the group which made a platform for his best works, two Tom Tom Club alumni and The Modern Lovers’ guitarist do not amount to much. Suggestive titles like The King Is Dead and Damage I’ve Done are just that, suggestions. For those hoping The Heads is a further knock at Byrne and Eno, the venom is reserved for titles and names alone. Frantz, Weymouth and Harrison cannot muster enough of a lyrical or instrumental spirit to further the hate. Instead, they are left with a rotating ensemble of guest singers. It works to their advantage on paper, having the likes of Andy Partridge and Maria McKee in there for consistent instrumental work is an interesting experience. Ascend from the anger and within No Talking, Just Head, is a dependable, charming collection of sounds.
From the moody flavours of opener Damage I’ve Done, its punk spirit a charming turn of form for members of a band out of step with their roots, to the joys of Ryder-featuring Don’t Take My Kindness for Weakness, there is a sense of The Heads building back their confidence. It is not like they had much of a say in the decisions of their old outfit in its last decade and No Talking, Just Head serves as a personalized liberation. Much of the album feels like a roaring, Pixies-influenced shot of energy more in touch with the roots of Frantz, Harrison and Weymouth’s earliest works. Much of it suffers from the weight of their former bandmate but the reactionary moments are filled with thrills like The King is Gone. Those fresh off the back of a Talking Heads binge may hate this, but give it time. It grows.
Ultimately a failure, but a success in reviving the alternative rock and new wave sound Talking Heads had abandoned in pursuit of new musical flavours. There is something heartwarming about the comfort The Heads find here. Never Mind has an instrumental groove to it which the rest of the album enjoys. A chance for the trio to shine is taken, and while we may take it for granted, the sound heard throughout The Heads is a fascinating display. Bitter but brilliant noises from the shock punk sounds of No Big Bang are just one of the many joys heard here. A collection of musicians benefitting from decades of artistic overlap, but challenging themselves to turn this venomous material into a clattering, bold experience. It works.
