This Must Be The Place

 It's 1984, and David Byrne and his art school friends are the soundtrack to my life.

When I struggle sleepily in to my carrel in the morning, someone in the common space has probably already started the tape of Stop Making Sense on the creaky old boombox. It's probably still playing when I'm back during my free period. That weekend, Remain In Light or More Songs About Buildings and Food are the background to another gathering at Phillip Abbott's house.

When the movie comes out, Phillip and I take the #16 bus over to the Skyway Theater to see it. In a dingy gray cinema with indescribably sticky seats we are enthralled, and at the end he asks "Shall we stay and see it again?" and so we do (it remains one of only two times I have technically snuck into  movie theater.).  I will never in my life be as cool as any of the Talking Heads.

Late this last Sunday, after a jam-packed weekend, Patrick and I go see the re-master at the Riverview. Sadly, my friend Dan who decided to meet us there had not taught us his secret code word and did not find us in the dark (apparently everyone needs a code word for such things). Tired as I was, the moment Byrne sets down that tape player on the stage, I'm immediately transfixed. I've gone back 40 years in the blink of an eye.

Stop Making Sense is still the OG concert movie and nothing you can say will change my mind.

Now my daughter struggles sleepily into school in the mornings. Two days a week she's there especially early for Summit Singers, like I was. She doesn't have a carrel yet (I don't think there are many left), but I hope she's finding her people. I hope she's finding something like Stop Making Sense in her life.

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