Disco Inferno (Byrne, Baby, Byrne)
You kind of want to smack me for that title, don’t you? I could hardly fault you for it.
Tell me that David Byrne and Fatboy Slim have collaborated on a project, and I am going to personally flock to it on principle. The details hardly matter. It could be an album based on a particularly tasty recipe for zucchini bread, or a retroactive soundtrack to Norman Cook’s favorite episode of M*A*S*H. Or the life and times of Imelda Marcos.
. . . Say:
Yea, for it is a multimedia extravaganza! Two discs, a book, and a DVD. I, of course, initially popped the shrink wrap and began gyrating to the music without following along in the literature — I’m sure there’s a special circle of hell reserved for people like me — but after the first track, my sense of guilt won out. As I read Byrne’s explanatory intro passage, this artistic jaunt simply grew more bizarre. Apparently he came up with the concept first, and then researched Imelda “to see if there was a story.” Fair enough; to each his own creative process. And apparently the whole presentation was originally devised to be a theatrical installation in a discotheque . . . ? Or something? And all to make a statement about the indelible connection between discos and powerful rulers. And such.
Aw, shucks — like I said, they had me at “Hello.” This thing is like an abridged Rolodex of the vocally hip (Sharon Jones, Santigold, Florence Welch, Sia, Róisín Murphy . . . ). The title track is boppy-catchy-fun, and would be deliciously anachronistic in any time period. The next tune . . . hmm. I need to give it some thought.
The one after that . . . hmm.
Okay, I seem to like about every third or fourth song. Not that I dislike the others, it’s just that the narrative has these very literal moments, with surprisingly obvious lyrics, and they are, well, distracting. It turns out that yes, I do prefer my dance music vague and universally applicable — just as Byrne was hoping I wouldn’t. (I knew it: I am what David Byrne has been fighting against all this time.)
Undeniably, the Sharon Jones tune, “Dancing Together,” kicks a fair amount of ass.
Okay, now, hang on. Along comes “American Troglodyte,” a complaint song about the pervasion of American culture, which Byrne makes virtually no attempt to link to the Marcos arc in his glorified liner notes. Were we to attempt to insert this track into the story — to which I could have sworn we were adhering — it would nestle somewhere in the 1960s. But the lyrics point out America’s penchant for internet use and the popularity of 50 Cent. Shenanigans!
Unsurprisingly, Byrne sings this one himself. As the “Ensemble” (in their first and only appearance). The result is a rather desperate-seeming, I’ll-make-my-point-if-it-kills-me effect. Disappointing.
I approach the DVD in hopes that it will offer footage of the two “lightly staged” performances Byrne and Slim put on — one at Carnegie Hall and one at the Adelaide Festival of Arts in Australia — because I still think I am missing some important piece of the ultimate Concept. But the visuals are instead historical footage that he collected to accompany the live performances. Nothing terribly illuminating, apart from Imelda’s approach to sleeves.
All in all, I feel wistful. A veritable Halley’s Comet of assembled talent, and I find myself just wishing they’d all been there to sing something else. And I wish Byrne would go back to exploring global existentialism with Brian Eno and wearing comically oversized suits.
