IN 1975, in New York City, at the back of a narrow, dark room called the Lower Manhattan
Ocean Club, a triad of misfits tentatively took the stage. Their leader announced in a reed-thin voice, “The name of this band is Talking Heads,” and then they launched into a devastating set.
The bass was pumped by a moppet who stared from fretboard to stage front through doleful eyes and blond bangs. The drum kit was pounded by a tousle-haired boy in a rugby shirt, whose unflinching ear-to-ear grin could be spied just above the hi-hat.
Up front, the wiry singer pulsed in place. His guitar swung from his neck like a noose; his resemblance to Tony Perkins only added to the menace. The trio could have been dropped from an alien aircraft, or taken a hard left off the Yellow Brick Road.
Photography: Jeff Rusnak