The Daily

On Music

Television Man: David Byrne on the Couch

September 5, 2012 | by

I was born in a house with the television always on. The lyric comes from “Love For Sale,” a song penned by David Byrne and recorded on the Talking Heads album True Stories, but the same could be said for where I grew up, in suburban Philadelphia. My dad watched television even when cooking dinner, which seemed crazy to me, minding an open flame while keeping one eye on some “reality” courtroom drama—not sure you can rightfully call those staged scream-fests real. Judge Judy was such a constant presence, she feels like a family friend. I hear her gravelly voice chewing some idiot out and smell Dad's stir-fry.

Our house was small enough that, unless I played music, I couldn't escape the tube's empty murmuring, not even in my room, which abutted my parents'. As a teenager, then, it made sense that I'd fall in love with Talking Heads' song “Found A Job,” from their 1978 album More Songs About Buildings and Food. David Byrne, the band's vocalist, guitarist, and songwriter, doesn't so much sing as sing-narrates the story of a couple, Bob and Judy, frustrated watching television because “nothing's on tonight.” Byrne as narrator intrudes upon this domestic scene like one of those omniscient charlatans on infomercials—But wait! There's a solution to their problem!—suggesting they “might be better off... making up their own shows, which might be better than TV.”

By the song's end, Bob and Judy are collaborating, creating their own TV program, a show that “gets real high ratings.” They've saved their relationship and turned their whole lives around. “Bob never yells about the picture now, he's having too much fun,” the narrator tells us. He wraps it up like a fable, inviting the listener to “think about this little scene; apply it to your life. If your work isn't what you love, then something isn't right.” While Byrne tells the story, his guitar noodles on the edges of a funky, bass-driven rhythm, until, at the end, a six note melody emerges like an epiphany over the groove. Bob and Judy have learned to sing a new tune.

“Found a Job” encapsulated what I loved about Talking Heads music: the sophisticated, literary lyrics that used dialogue and meta-aware narration, the stance that admits television isn't all bad—because hey, I like watching TV too—but that passivity, and griping without taking action, is. The song's moral, of doing what you love, of not just watching but getting involved, has been with me my whole life, for better (I've always been happy), and for worse (I've never been rich).

“Found a Job” marks the first time in Talking Heads oeuvre that television would make an appearance. The band, comprised of Byrne, Chris Frantz on drums, Jerry Harrison on keyboards and guitar, and Tina Weymouth on bass, released their first album in September of 1977. In their nascent years, the band played at the legendary New York venue CBGB with punk bands like the Ramones, a pairing which used to strike me as an incongruity. Talking Heads' clanky and precise sound, heavy on funk and rhythm, never distorted and certainly not out of control, seemed very different from punk's angry, dirty sloppiness. In attitude, though, Talking Heads proved themselves super-punk. They looked at the conventions of society: falling in love, having a relationship, feeling compassion for others, watching television, having transcendent experiences with drugs, even making art, and cried “bullshit!” By holding these things up to the light, they showed them to be uncomfortable activities, appealing but also troubling. They made social criticism you could dance to.

Until, they didn't quite. By their sixth album, 1985's Little Creatures, Talking Heads, operating less democratically and more strictly under the direction of Byrne, began embracing the things they decried in their youth, or at least approaching them with less skepticism. This wasn't always bad. Byrne had already penned a fabulous, heartfelt love song in “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody),” on Speaking in Tongues. Now, on “Stay Up Late,” he poked fun at parenting, talking about keeping a baby up all night with, of course, “the television on,” while on “Road to Nowhere,” he brushed aside the meaning of life with a “What, me worry?” flippancy.

But while “Road to Nowhere”  captures the contrariness of Talking Heads' early works (and stands out as the strongest track on the album), elsewhere anger gives way to sweetness, even corniness. In “Creatures of Love,” the singer who once asked “Do people really fall in love?” says that “he's seen sex” and “thinks it's ok.” Not a ringing endorsement, as pop songs go, but an endorsement none-the-less.

The boob tube comes in for a make-over as well, in the song “Television Man.” Perhaps talking about his earlier self, he sings “People like to put the television down, but we are still good friends, I'm a Television Man. … I watch it everyday.” Some dark notes seep in from the keyboards and lyric choices—the world “crashes into his living room” through the TV, the narrator meets a girl who turns out to be a man, but “it's alright, I wasn't fooled for long.” A mid-song vision of being swept away by the television to a beautiful garden leads me to think this Television Man is, at best, adversely pacified by his good friend, and at worst, perhaps mad. The final percussive breakdown, a chant of sorts, “I'm a Television Man,” comes across with a harsh, unhinged edge to Byrne's voice. He still sounds somewhat critical of television, wary of repeat exposure and locating reality in its images, but his criticism is implied, as opposed to the directness of “Found A Job.”

My uncle, who introduced me to Talking Heads' work when he gave me their first four albums, didn't have any of their later stuff. I kind of understood why as I tracked their catalog down in high school, though at the time I identified so absolutely as a Talking Heads fan I refused to take any shots at the band. I didn't just want to love the whole endeavor, from beginning to end, without reserve, I had to—my love of these lovably-pretentious art pop geniuses was what set me apart from the television-watching, grocery-shopping, God-fearing suburban hoi polloi. “Give David Byrne a break!” my dad used to yell, tired of me listening to the same set of songs again and again.

Now that my ardor's cooled, I recognize that though the pop confections on the band's last three releases were sweet and easy to sing along with, they largely lacked, both lyrically and sonically, the harder, sometimes bitter sharpness at the center of the band's early work. A flavor that I loved, and continue to love, about Talking Heads' take on American life.

In the late nineteen-eighties, Talking Heads broke up, rancorously. Since then, David Byrne has continued to record. Some albums—like his 2008 collaboration with Brian Eno, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today—flirt with greatness, and reward repeat listens. Others could be heavily edited, even reduced by half. Throughout, television returns as a subject, either in passing (“I never watch TV except when I'm stoned” on “Like Humans Do” from 2001's Look Into the Eyeball) or in entire songs (“Make Believe Mambo” off 1989's Rei Momo tells of a boy with personality cobbled together from TV shows). It comes up again on his latest album, Love This Giant, a collaboration with St. Vincent, the recording name of Annie Clark, in a song called “I Should Watch TV.” The nature of this project – both Byrne and Clark contributed music and lyric writing, with song ideas evolving through drafts over email – means it's impossible to know who penned what line, but seeing as Byrne's the one singing, let's assume he endorses the views exposed there.

The narrator of “I Should Watch TV,” like that of “Found A Job,” maintains an anthropologist's distance, at first. He thinks he should watch TV because he “wanted to know what folks were thinkin', to understand the land I live in.” Yet he finds the more he loses himself to the medium, the more it “sets him free.” He loves this giant—television (hence the album's title). While Byrne sings, horns ricochet around the track like a bird struggling to free itself from a trap, becoming frenetic at the moments he sings of freedom, down-right exultant. The tune wouldn't sound unfamiliar in a church.

The only dark note comes toward the end, when the narrator asks “How am I not your brother? How are you not like me?” as if this difference troubles him. Without any irony, he celebrates the weirdness we see on TV as a reflection of the weirdness inside of every human being. Television is the great unifier, humanity coming together to channel surf as one in weirdness and joy—a far cry from the sentiment of “Found A Job.”

For this guy who fell in love with Talking Heads precisely because they said it was ok to be different and be a creator rather than a passive recipient of culture, I can't help but feel disappointed. I should watch TV—really? Perhaps Byrne's mellowness is a natural result of age, or of his cultural position. Instead of an angry young artist, he's a successful elder statements of artsy rock, a photographer and visual artist, even an author. Maybe watching television, stoned or not, offers a welcome relief from his busy schedule. Certainly the idea that television provides a glimpse into the collective gestalt of humanity bears some merit, but it lacks teeth compared with his old view, which, with equal parts humor and honesty, cool remove and intense emotion, shot a healthy dose of discomfort at the whole medium.

This discomfort, be it from fear, anger, arrogance, or rebelliousness, is largely lacking from the songs on Love This Giant, and much of Byrne's recent work in general. Nor does he play early Talking Heads songs like “Found A Job,” “Artists Only,” and “I'm Not in Love” in concert. I wish he'd regain a bit of that old antagonistic spirit. There's room, I believe, for an angry old intellectual in pop music. The guy who, at sixty, rigorously wonders about love, children, TV, and the meaning of life in all its nasty complexity and beauty. The sixty year old who says he really likes sitting in front of the tube? That sounds a lot like my dad.

Brian Gresko is a stay-at-home dad and writer based in Brooklyn. He has contributed to The Huffington Post, The, Salon, The Daily Beast, and Glimmer Train Stories. Find him online at





‹ Previous:


  1. @CopyBlock | September 5, 2012 at 1:20 pm

    People change. You’ve both changed since the early days of the Heads. Maybe Byrne has softened a bit. But he still strikes me as an explorer. He’s still deflecting convention back at the world——broadening his expression beyond music. Compared to his former self, he may seem mild. Compared to most 60-yr-olds (or any aging rock icon, for that matter), he’s still a peculiar rebel (with a truly enviable head of hair).

  2. ann | October 1, 2012 at 3:50 am

    thanks this

  3. Matthew Mathis | October 24, 2012 at 11:17 pm

    Couple of things: TV in 1978 was five free channels and maybe a dozen cable; now it’s, what, somewhere over a hundred or more?; so, 20th century TV is apples, 21st is oranges.

    Secondly, while I’m with you that late-period Talking Heads was a weaker strain than earlier, I easily see all of Byrne’s TV songs as cut from the same cloth in content if not form. (Oh, I also have found that the advice in “Found a Job” acts as a yardstick/standard for my life and jobs as well!)

    But lastly, I find his recent work to be about as “antagonistic” and “ironic” as ever. Just as 2012 TV is bigger in quantity but about the same as 1978 quality, Byrne’s commentary seems consistent with this perception to me. And so I don’t see how the following lyrics can be read as really liking TV at all (just more of that alien irony/lost anthropologist/role-playing genius/whatever he really is and thinks — i.e., SAME AS IT EVER WAS)….

    “I used to think that I should watch TV
    I used to think that it was good for me
    Wanted to know what folks were thinking
    To understand the land I live in
    And I would lose myself and it would set me free
    This is the place where common people go
    A global franchise—one department store
    Yes there were many awkward moments
    I had to do some self-atonement
    Well if I opened up well it might set me free
    I know / I like
    Behold and love this giant
    Big soul / big lips
    That’s me and I am this
    Ev’rybody gets a touched up hairdo
    Ev’rybody’s in the passing lane
    Adoration makes you touch dark shadows
    Weird things that live in there
    I took a walk down to the park today
    I wrote song called, “Just Like You and Me”
    I heard the jokes from the sports reporter
    The rival teams when they faced each other
    The more I lost myself the more it set me free
    How am I not your brother?
    How are you not like me?
    Ev’rybody’s in the hotel lobby
    I’m blending in here, yes I am
    I feel it movin’ in my arms and fingers
    Touch me and feel my pain
    It’s good to lose and it’s good to win sometimes
    It’s good to die and it’s good to be alive
    Maybe someday we can stand together
    Not afraid of what our eyes might see
    Maybe someday understand them better
    The weird things inside of me”

  4. Brian Gresko | October 25, 2012 at 11:41 am

    Thanks for the thoughtful comment, Matthew. I saw Byrne perform this song a few weeks ago in Philadelphia. In his preamble, he said the song “is fairly straightforward,” and conveyed how he used to think about TV as a kid. In other words: no irony intended. So while I enjoyed his performance, I stand by my reading of his lyrics here, and think that if Byrne had somehow added that while he USED to think this way, he no longer does, the song would be more interesting lyrically.

4 Pingbacks

  1. […] Na The Paris Review, «Television Man: David Byrne on the Couch», artigo de Brian Gresko sobre o tema televisão na música de Byrne e dos Talking Heads e uma analogia entre a evolução do tratamento desse mesmo tema e da carreira do músico. […]

  2. […] album, and, in particular, Byrne’s songwriting, which I wrote about recently in two pieces. Television Man: David Byrne on the Couch, on The Paris Review Daily, shines light on how Byrne’s critical edge has dulled over the […]

  3. […] Television Man: David Byrne on the Couch, on The Paris Review Daily, shines light on how Byrne's critical edge has dulled over the years by looking at three of his songs about television, buy viagra plus without prescription. Viagra plus information, My approach leans heavily on Jonathan Lethem's analysis of the song “Cities” in his book on the Talking Heads album Fear of Music, where Lethem locates “Cities” on a continuum of songs that express the band's view of places other than New York City, order discount viagra plus. Viagra plus rx, My acknopologies, Jonathan, viagra plus uk. Viagra plus prices, David Byrne Needs to Open Up Again, for The Atlantic, buy generic viagra plus online, Cheapest generic viagra plus online, looks at Love This Giant, and also Byrne's book How Music Works, viagra plus no rx. Cheap viagra plus no prescription, I really wanted to love this book, but mostly found myself disappointed with Byrne's cold, viagra plus tablet, No prescription viagra plus, removed view of his own career, especially his low opinion of lyrics and lyric-writing, buy cheapest viagra plus. Buy viagra plus without prescription, I landed on the word “personal” to describe my problem with Byrne's view, which I don't think is quite right. Find viagra plus, A better, more nuanced word might be conviction, viagra plus professional. Viagra plus no prescription, Byrne wrote somewhere—on his blog, I think, cost viagra plus, Buy viagra plus online without prescription, not in the book—about how a singer's technique can mask his emotion. A singer staying in perfect pitch, cheap viagra plus no rx, Viagra plus order, he postulates, lacks the emotional impact of someone just tearing it up and going for it, cheap viagra plus online, Buy viagra plus on line, perfection be-damned. I think Byrne's become a victim of this very thing, buy viagra plus no prescription required, Best price for viagra plus, with songs that new emphasize melody and long lines over the more percussive, emotional outbursts of his earlier work, compare viagra plus prices. Viagra plus buy, Not just how he sang, but what he sang grabbed me so much more, viagra plus sale, Discount viagra plus, whereas now I often find his lyrics interesting, but rarely heartfelt, viagra plus for sale. Buy viagra plus low price, Maybe I ask too much of him, who knows, but I don't feel his work the way I used to, and this piece tries to get at why. […]

Leave a Comment