I firmly believe that, in regards to music, nothing tops the live experience. Music is meant to be experienced in-person. It’s not just about hearing the sound – it’s about feeling the vibrations of that sound around you, of witnessing it being created and sculpted there in that moment. Most importantly, enjoying the magic of the musical moment brings all present together. When conditions are right, listeners, dancers, and musicians themselves share in a communal experience that elevates the moment from a mere performance to something approaching the divine. Whether it be in a concert hall or cafe, live music creates an atmosphere that you can’t experience anywhere, or anytime, else.

It’s with this mindset that I went to go see A24’s remastered rerelease of director Jonathan Demme’s 1984 documentary of the Talking Heads in concert, Stop Making Sense. As an avid music fan, I’ve seen plenty of concert docs. Some of them are quite good (The Band’s The Last Waltz, Woodstock, The Grateful Dead Movie) but so many others just feel rote. Train the camera on the stage, and let the band do their thing. If you like the artist, you will enjoy the music and the chance to see them perform. But viewing a filmed concert almost always sets the viewer at a remove. There is the feeling of observing, but not of being a part. All I’ve ever heard is that Stop Making Sense is an exception to all this, that it’s “the best concert film ever.” I’m generally wary of such hyperbolic praise, but I love the Heads’ funky new wave and was excited to see it on the big screen and determine if it lives up to the hype.

It left the hype in the dust. The hype was so far behind that we couldn’t even see it, then it eventually came back around to meet the hype again, this time completely earned. The mind-blowing thing about Stop Making Sense isn’t that it’s a film that captures the live show for those who weren’t there. It’s a film that captures the live show that ALSO is supposed to be viewed as a film. What I mean by this is that it isn’t just static shots of the band playing. Frontman David Byrne designed the show to be an actual show, with themes and a rising action. There is always something happening, and Demme edits the proceedings with an efficiency and grace that allows you to see and feel it all.

The show begins with Byrne on an empty stage with an acoustic guitar and a boombox. He turns on the boombox to play a beat, and performs a solo version of early band hit “Psycho Killer.” The beat is really cool, and sounds much more modern than I would have expected. The whole thing made me think of some weird performance art piece you’d see today at a warehouse expo or (very good) house party.

Gradually, stage hands move equipment onto the stage, and the band builds itself. We have bassist Tina Weymouth and backup vocalists Lynn Mabry and Edna Holt join Byrne for a beautiful rendition of “Heaven,” then drummer Chris Frantz for the next number. Finally keyboardist/guitarist Jerry Harrison rounds out the core group for an exciting run through “Found a Job” that most captures what they sounded like seven or eight years prior getting their start at CBGB’s. 

But it’s not over yet. Stagehands roll out even more equipment to make room for percussionist Steve Scales, guitarist Alex Weir, and keyboardist Bernie Worrell. (Yes, that Bernie Worrell, of Parliament-Funkadelic.) 

Now fully fleshed out, the band kicks it into overdrive. Powerful versions of such classics as “Burning Down the House” and “Life During Wartime” are stretched out just enough to engulf the viewer deep into the groove, but never so much that the performances wear out their welcome. The climax, to me, comes in the twofer of “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)” and “Once In a Lifetime.” The first is a beautifully happy song about finding a kindred weirdo with whom you can feel at home with. The latter is one of the band’s defining songs, a life affirming anthem. Byrne delivers the words shrouded in blue lightning like a preacher, or a shaman. It’s immensely powerful and uplifting. 

But they aren’t finished yet. Next comes “Genius of Love,” sung by Tina Weymouth (always amazing) and her husband Chris Frantz (more annoyingly), with super cool strobe effects. Then Byrne reemerges in his iconic giant suit to lead the band in a concluding triptych of goodness: the triumphant “Girlfriend is Better,” the note-perfect cover of Al Green’s “Take Me to the River,” and the frantic “Crosseyed and Painless.” During the last song, the camera finally pans out to the crowd to reveal a sweaty mass of people gyrating, dancing, lifting balloons and stuffed animals, and generally having a freaking blast.

The audience isn’t alone. My friends and I all agreed afterwards that it had been genuinely difficult to not get up and dance in the theater, so infectious is the music. It’s remastered better than ever, with every single instrument being audible in the mix. I can’t stress this enough. I hate when music just sounds like a wall of sound; I love when I can pick out the contributions of each person on the stage. Likewise, we see the musicians contributing. So often (especially in decades past) cameras would train on the frontman, or the guitarist’s face (??) as they play a solo. Not so here. In Stop Making Sense, the camera is always where it’s meant to be, showing us the players playing, dancing, interacting. The camera swoops around the stage as the band moves around. We see them from the back, the front, the side. The camera adds so much to the feel of kinetic freedom that compliments the music. More than that, we get a feel for them as people themselves. We see the band members sweat and smile, exchange glances and play to the crowd. We see them dance themselves.

Speaking of dancing, the energy of David Byrne is absolutely insane. One of the greatest frontmen ever, he moves like a man possessed, jerking his body like a robot trying to dance, sprinting circles around the stage, smacking himself in the head in between lines. It makes me wonder how much is choreographed, and how much is spur of the moment. There’s some aspects that are clearly scripted, such as his wiggly microphone bisection during “Life During Wartime,” and all the moving parts – cameramen, stagehands, musicians, lights – highlight the meticulous planning that went into the production. Yet there’s such a joi de vivre to everything that much of it must be spur of the moment. It reflects one of the running themes of the Talking Heads’ catalog: the line between artifice and reality, quirky humans reaching out for warmth in the morass of a cold, clinical society. This is reflected by the seemingly ordinary random phrases and concepts projected behind the band, or the relative bareness of the stage (save for a lamp). Ultimately, Stop Making Sense posits, artistic expression and joyful collaboration transcend the banalities of modern life. Novelty and warmth is found in music: in playing music together, in listening to that music being performed, in dancing to it and dancing with others. As they say in “Once In a Lifetime,” the days go by, then we are into the blue again. It’s a call to action: to be conscious in the moment, and experience joy where you can. Jonathan Demme and the Talking Heads capture that joy in this film, and share it with every audience that sits down (or stands up) to watch it. We can in turn bring that joy out into our own lives, and in turn share it with anyone else who is willing to share in it. Same as it ever was.