The Civil Wars Lyrics. The Cowboy Mambo Lyrics. The Dream Police Lyrics. The Gates Of Paradise Lyrics. The Great Intoxication Lyrics. The Great Western Road Lyrics. The Jezebel Spirit Lyrics. The Moment Of Conception Lyrics. The Red House Lyrics. The Revolution Lyrics. The Rose Tattoo Lyrics. The Sound Of Business Lyrics. They Are In Love Lyrics.
This Is That Lyrics. Tiny Apocalypse Lyrics. Tiny Town Lyrics. Twistin' In The Wind Lyrics. Jesus Lyrics. Un Di Felice, Eterea Lyrics. Under Heavy Manners Lyrics. Untitled Track Lyrics. Walk On Water Lyrics. Waters Of March Lyrics. Wicked Little Doll Lyrics. Women Vs. Men Lyrics. You Don't Know Me Lyrics. America Is Waiting Lyrics. Desconocido Soy Lyrics.
Monkey Man Lyrics. Why Lyrics. Other David Byrne songs. Bonnie Raitt. Burning Down The House. Brian Eno. America Is Waiting. Moonlight In Glory. Its Alright. Living Colour. Memories Cant Wait. Peter Gabriel. I Dont Remember. Listening Wind. Shawn Colvin. Simply Red. One Of These Days.
Talking Heads. A Clean Break. Artists Only. Big Daddy. Cool Water. Crosseyed And Painless. Dont Worry About The Government. Houses In Motion. I Zimbra. Im Not In Love. You oughta know not to stand by the window Somebody see you up there. I got some groceries, some peanut butter, To last a couple of days But I ain't got no speakers, ain't got no headphones, Ain't got no records to play. Why stay in college? Why go to night school?
Gonna be different this time Can't write a letter, can't send no postcard, I ain't got time for that now. Trouble in transit, got through the roadblock, We blended in with the crowd We got computers, we're tapping phone lines, I know that that ain't allowed. We dress like students, we dress like housewives, Or in a suit and a tie I changed my hairstyle, so many times now, I don't know what I look like!
You make me shiver, I feel so tender, We make a pretty good team Don't get exhausted, I'll do some driving, You ought to get you some sleep. Burned all my notebooks, what good are notebooks? They won't help me survive My chest is aching, burns like a furnace, The burning keeps me alive. Lost my shape-Trying to act casual! Can't stop-I might end up in the hospital I'm changing my shape-I feel like an accident They're back! I'm ready to leave-I push the fact in front of me Facts lost-Facts are never what they seem to be Nothing there!
I'm still waiting The island of doubt-It's like the taste of medicine Working by hindsight-Got the message from the oxygen Making a list-Find the cost of opportunity Doing it right-Facts are useless in emergencies. Facts are simple and facts are straight Facts are lazy and facts are late Facts all come with points of view Facts don't do what I want them to Facts just twist the truth around Facts are living turned inside out Facts are getting the best of them Facts are nothing on the face of things Facts don't stain the furniture Facts go out and slam the door Facts are written all over your face Facts continue to change their shape.
And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack And you may find yourself in another part of the world And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife And you may ask yourself Well How did I get here? Letting the days go by Let the water hold me down Letting the days go by Water flowing underground Into the blue again After the money's gone Once in a lifetime Water flowing underground.
And you may ask yourself How do I work this? And you may ask yourself Where is that large automobile? And you may tell yourself This is not my beautiful house And you may tell yourself This is not my beautiful wife.
Same as it ever was Water dissolving Letting the days go by Let the water hold me down Letting the days go by Water flowing underground Into the blue again Into the silent water Under the rocks and stones There is water underground. And you may ask yourself What is that beautiful house? And you may ask yourself Where does that highway go to? And you may ask yourself Am I right?
Am I wrong? And you may say to yourself My God! What have I done?! Look where my hand was Time isn't holding up Time is an asterisk Same as it ever was Yeah, the twister comes Here comes the twister Same as it ever was Watch out, you might get what you're after Cool babies, strange but not a stranger I'm an ordinary guy Burning down the house. Hold tight Wait 'til the party's over Hold tight We're in for nasty weather There has got to be a way Burning down the house.
Here's your ticket pack your bags Time for jumpin' overboard The transportation is here Close enough but not too far, Maybe you know where you are Fightin' fire with fire. All wet, hey, you might need a raincoat Shakedown, dreams walking in broad daylight Three hundred sixty five degrees Burning down the house.
It was once upon a place, Sometimes I listen to myself Gonna come in first place People on their way to work, Baby, what did you expect? Gonna burst into flame. My house's out of the ordinary That's right Don't want to hurt nobody Some things sure can sweep me off my feet Burning down the house.
No visible means of support And you have not seen nothin' yet Everything's stuck together And I don't know what you expect Staring into the TV set Fighting fire with fire. Home is where I want to be Pick me up and turn me around I feel numb, burn with a weak heart Guess I must be having fun.
The less we say about it the better Make it up as we go along Feet on the ground, head in the sky It's okay, I know nothing's wrong, nothing. I got plenty of time You got light in your eyes And you're standing here beside me I love the passing of time Never for money, always for love Cover up and say goodnight, say goodnight. Home, is where I want to be But I guess I'm already there I come home, she lifted up her wings I guess that this must be the place. Byrne was the funkiest white man in pop until Flea showed up.
But most of the iTunes generation has never heard it. Indeed, while Talking Heads can be detected in so much music today, from Radiohead to Vampire Weekend, years-old dust covers most of their catalogue. Probably not recently. Thirty years old this year, the song has slowly but surely embedded itself in the American songbook.
There are books named for it. Hip brides march down the aisle to it. This is all very improbable. Between and , Talking Heads posted one of the great learning curves in rock history, releasing five albums, each an elaboration on the one before it.
Byrne and two Rhode Island School of Design classmates, Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth, had formed The Artistics with the idea of combining conceptual and performance art with popular music their sound earned them the nickname The Autistics. They were a different organism, however, incorporating elements of Motown, punk, African music, funk, and minimalism, all while gigging in collared shirts and corduroys.
To the disappointment of his engineer father, Byrne had chosen art school over Carnegie Mellon, because, he explained, the former had better graffiti in the halls. There was that current of fear in the early songs—of music, technology, animals, the air—the stuff of an Asperger diagnosis, at least. Byrne, who moved around the stage like a hasty votive offering, was a one-man rebuke not just to the Gibb brothers but also to E.
The band played the cosseted prodigy set loose in a decaying America. Maybe, but by the nineteen-eighties anyone who was cool and left home at night loved Talking Heads. Their international tours were selling out, with members from groups as diverse a Parliament-Funkadelic and King Crimson joining up, feeling some apostolic tug.
They were at the center of a scene that for a decade had been confined to a few neighborhoods south of Fourteenth Street and now was a global commodity. Jean Michel Basquiat was at their shows. Madonna joined them on Sire Records. As with Warhol, they were wrong.
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