{"id":163318,"date":"2023-02-16T14:00:02","date_gmt":"2023-02-16T19:00:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=163318"},"modified":"2023-02-17T10:37:03","modified_gmt":"2023-02-17T15:37:03","slug":"love-songs-this-must-be-the-place-naive-melody","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/02\/16\/love-songs-this-must-be-the-place-naive-melody\/","title":{"rendered":"Love Songs: \u201cThis Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

David Byrne, 1978. Photograph by Michael Markos. Wikimedia Commons<\/a>, Licensed under CCO 2.0.<\/p><\/div>\n

This week,<\/em> the<\/em> Review is publishing a series of short reflections on love songs, broadly defined.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

I think the best love songs are simple. They\u2019re simple because love isn\u2019t, simple because we need to dream a little. Complexity, ambiguity, doubt\u2014they can have their place in novels or in the movies. A love song lets you live in the fantasy of the absolute; maybe that\u2019s also why they last only a couple of minutes. And that\u2019s why we carry them with us, play and replay them until they wear out like old clothes. They stand for too much.<\/p>\n

I have many songs that mark the time of particular relationships, both their highs and the lows of their dissolution. I\u2019ve played songs on repeat enough to drive people crazy, and I\u2019ve locked myself in my room to listen to late-period Billie Holiday with the lights off. But I have only one renewable love song, which I\u2019ve brought with me through all my relationships: the Talking Heads\u2019 \u201cThis Must Be the Place (Naive Melody).\u201d That\u2019s probably because, although it pains me slightly to say this, it began for me as a family romance. When my parents were young and childless and living in Seattle, they saw a sign for the movie Stop Making Sense<\/em>, Jonathan Demme\u2019s Talking Heads concert film, at a theater near the Pike Place Market. I don\u2019t think my parents were particularly interested in the hip music of the eighties\u2014they just liked the name of the movie. They bought tickets on a whim and went inside.<\/p>\n

So the cassette-tape soundtrack of Stop Making Sense<\/em> was a sonic canvas of my childhood. But it wasn\u2019t until I saw the movie for myself, in high school\u2014watching it with a girl, making feeble couch-based sexual advances\u2014that I was reawakened to the song. It\u2019s unusual for the Heads, who are better known for blending angular, art-school\/CBGB cool with African polyrhythm borrowings. The song is very straightforward. Sentimental, even. But a great love song should be sentimental. Why wouldn\u2019t you try to feel everything you possibly can? The groove begins straightaway\u2014simple drums, the bounce of the bassline, some light synth stabs. A perfect little loop. After a couple of repeats, a bubbling riff kicks in, with a soft, pipelike quality to its pitch-shifting. It reminds me of a calliope, although I\u2019ve never listened to one in real life\u2014it\u2019s children\u2019s music from some other, unlived existence: \u201cLove me till my heart stops \/ love me till I\u2019m dead.\u201d<\/p>\n

That\u2019s the naive part, and isn\u2019t accessing innocence without curdling one of the most difficult things art can do? In the movie, David Byrne is the avatar of unrepressed feelings: gesticulating, shaking, yelping, and squawking. As he says in a promotional interview for the film, wearing his now-famous big gray suit, the body gets bigger so the head can get smaller. In the film\u2019s performance of \u201cNaive Melody,\u201d he performs a pas de deux with a floor lamp, elegant and absurd and melancholy-ordinary. Still, despite the naivete, there\u2019s something sophisticated about the rest of the title, that \u201cthis\u201d must<\/em> (emphatically) be the place. Where is \u201cthis\u201d? It\u2019s anywhere we point to, anywhere we call home. We try it out and see if it works. There\u2019s something beautiful and agonizing about recognizing love as a placeholder, a space we\u2019re always trying to fill. Every day we have to conduct the experiment of calling that love our own. You could be anyone. You could be mine.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

David Schurman Wallace is a writer living in New York City. He is an advisory editor of the<\/em> Review.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cThe best love songs are simple. They\u2019re simple because love isn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2328,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1187],"tags":[1415,67827,15449,17993,17128],"class_list":["post-163318","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-music","tag-david-byrne","tag-featured","tag-innocence","tag-love-songs","tag-talking-heads"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLove Songs: \u201cThis Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)\u201d by David S. Wallace<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"February 16, 2023 \u2013 \u201cThe best love songs are simple. 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