I'm off to the coast tomorrow for a few days, but I wanted to get in a blog about the David Byrne show I saw with Geeta last night at Carnegie Hall. Byrne is 52 now and he looks like a million bucks, with that same distinguished-older-guy look that Morrissey is sporting these days, but Byrne looks healthier and more youthful (even with the white hair). Dude can dance like a lost Menudo; we've known that for decades, but he's suaver than I've ever seen him. I love him when he indulges his latent Vegas ham (I wish he'd chuck the small stuffy chamber orchestras and get some big gloopy glittery disco strings and replace the trusta hi-I-study-Javanese-gamelan-at-the-New-School percussionist with some Sheila E. action) and it seems like to some extent he realizes how well-suited he is for this. At least a third of the set was Talking Heads songs (this is good and bad: Byrne's such an outstanding performer that it reinforces how packed to the gills those songs are with groove and melody and good ideas, and yet there was something really lacking about the band and its name was Tina Weymouth). Heads songs played: "I Zimbra," "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)" (my favorite!), "Blind," "Heaven," "Road to Nowhere," "Once In a Lifetime," "Psycho Killer," and "Life During Wartime." The crowd was all "DAVID I LOVE YOU! THANK YOU!" and he was positively beaming during the 5-minute standing ovation but he possibly seemed a little embarrassed by the attention too. Which is the difference between him and, oh, Sting, who would have a Jumbotron overhead goading on the applause while he went backstage for a shiatsu.