A and I had tickets to the St. Vincent / David Byrne show on the Williamsburg waterfront a few weeks back and were hurrying down to the show, frantically trying to park bikes when we saw our friends Sam and Viki scurrying in. They'd just been handed free tickets from a woman on the street, while hearing the lyrics to This Must Be The Place emanating through the windscreens in the fence -- the same song Sam's sister read as poetry this summer at their wedding. The moon was bright and full but unknowable with the cloud cover, the rain just barely holding off, sending in a cool, breezy, early autumn air in its place.
David Byrne has, as anyone who has seen him perform live knows, what is fondly known of as stage presence. White suit, signature dance moves, impeccable crown of shock white hair. That VOICE. After the double encore and the uproarious applause, the moon peaked out for just a fleeting moment, revealing it to be full and hued with orange, only in the final seconds of the show. It was one of those New York nights where all of the day's serendipities add up to overwhelming feeling of total cosmic alignment.
Gil Inoue offers us a glance into David Byrne's studio with a brief series of photographs on his website. It's a minor revelation into the work of a man who bares himself in such a multitude of mediums, but ultimately makes us feel best for not being afraid to dance like no one else does. (Inoue also has other fantastic portraits, essays, commissions and fashion photos on his site).