Talking Heads - Little Creatures (LP)

Talking Heads pared things back on Little Creatures, released in June 1985 on Sire. After the layered polyrhythms of Remain in Light and the slick, celebratory rush of Speaking in Tongues, this record feels like the band turning the lights up, opening the windows and writing pop songs you can actually hum on the walk home. It is still unmistakably them, just more direct, with country, gospel and doo‑wop colours that suit David Byrne’s wry, domestic miniatures.

You hear the shift straight away with And She Was. Byrne sings about a woman levitating over suburban streets, and the guitars ring with a buoyant clarity that keeps the whole thing afloat. The video, a collage‑heavy gem directed by Jim Blashfield, helped it become an MTV regular, but the song doesn’t need pictures to land. The hooks are that sharp. The Lady Don’t Mind follows with a breezy sway, Tina Weymouth’s bass nudging everything forward while Jerry Harrison paints the edges with organ and bright guitar figures. It sounds like New York in summer, humid sidewalks and all.

A lot of the album circles intimate subjects that pop bands usually dodge or treat with a wink. Creatures of Love muses on biology and desire in plain language, no myth‑making required. Stay Up Late is a goofy, affectionate ode to a newborn that somehow never curdles into novelty. Part of the trick is the rhythm section. Chris Frantz plays right in the pocket, unfussy but springy, and Weymouth locks in with him so the songs feel light on their feet. By the time Perfect World rolls through, you can feel how confident the band is with restraint. They leave space, then make that space sing.

Give Me Back My Name might be the sleeper here, a patient, slightly eerie tune about identity that feels more pointed the older it gets. Then Walk It Down and Television Man lean into a chug that harks back to the group’s CBGB roots, only warmer. Byrne never abandons his curious, anthropologist eye, he just points it at kitchens and bedrooms instead of corporate tribes and heady metaphysics. In interviews around the time, he talked about focusing on everyday life. You can hear that decision thread through the whole set.

Road to Nowhere closes the album with a grin and a shrug. It starts with a faux‑gospel intro, slides into a marching beat and piles on accordion and handclaps until the street turns into a parade. Byrne directed the video himself, a kinetic, surreal loop that did laps on MTV, and the song became a global sing‑along. It is arm‑in‑arm apocalyptic, catchy as anything they ever recorded, and it lands as both satire and comfort.

The sound is part of the charm. Cut in New York at Sigma Sound with the band producing and Eric Thorngren at the controls, Little Creatures favours clean lines and clear voices. You can follow every guitar strum and shaker. That suits these songs, which don’t rely on density for their power. And then there is the sleeve. The cover painting by Georgia folk artist and preacher Howard Finster turns the band into tiny figures in a teeming, colourful scene of factories, animals and angels. It is one of those jackets you can stare at while the needle spins, then find some new little figure on the next pass.

If you are crate‑digging for Talking Heads vinyl, this is the record that sneaks up on you. Little Creatures vinyl pressings tend to be lively and punchy, which flatters the rhythm section and those chiming guitars. It also makes a great entry point for anyone who only knows Stop Making Sense. If you buy Talking Heads records online, you will find plenty of clean copies, and it sits nicely alongside the more experimental Talking Heads albums on vinyl. I have spotted well‑loved copies in more than one Melbourne record store, and it is a common request among folks hunting for classic vinyl records Australia wide who want something immediate, not intimidating.

Some critics at the time were surprised by how pop this sounded, but the songs have outlasted any debate. And She Was and Road to Nowhere are still fixtures on radio for good reason. The album is tight, funny, humane and quietly radical in its own way. Talking Heads didn’t need to shout to be strange. On Little Creatures they found new ways to be generous with their oddness, and it remains one of their most purely enjoyable records to live with, needle drop to run‑out groove.