My friends and I went to see David Byrne—formerly of the Talking Heads—at the Uptown Theatre last Wednesday. The evening started off as a challenge. One thing I hate about Westport is that parking is a disaster. Everything is either privately owned (with tow trucks idling nearby, just waiting to haul away offenders), or charging exorbitant sums for a spot that is barely wide enough to squeeze in a Mini Cooper. Plus, whenever you manage to find a place, you will inevitably have to walk the gauntlet of panhandlers to get to your destination. (One told me he was trying to raise a down payment for a cheeseburger.) We finally arrived at the designated pub, ate a mediocre pre-show dinner, and then made our way to the theatre.

There was a buzz of excitement—and other evidence of onomatopoeia—as we located our seats. We were restless. We asked each other over and over again what we thought he would play. But no bets were placed. If there's one consistent thing about David Byrne, it's that you never know what he's going to do.

Then came the man himself, all decked out in brown shirt and trousers like a punk UPS man. His hair was a ghostly white, and if it had been a little longer he might have been the spitting image of Andy Warhol. He acknowledged the crowd with a brief bow and began to sing. O brave new world that has such voices in it! When you've heard his songs on the radio for years and years, you can sort of forget what an amazing voice he really has. There's a resonance to it that is elusive; recordings don't do it justice. And so much energy! The man was all over the stage, dancing in that weird lurching way of his, flinging his leg around like a pinwheel or swinging his skinny hips. Sometimes he was simply jumping up and down. It reminded me of an already manic child who's just eaten an entire sack full of Halloween candy.

On several songs, Byrne combined operatic pieces by Bizet and Verdi with Latin rhythms. The result was unimaginably cool, if slightly surreal. Playing with him was the six-piece Tosca Strings group from Austin. These operatice pieces were interspersed with some of his earlier work, and there was a goodly amount of Talking Heads material, so even people who'd never heard his solo stuff couldn't walk away disappointed.

To my immense delight, he employed plenty of his trademark eccentric banter between songs. He prefaced one of the Italian arias with a story about how a guy and a girl in his office (what office would that be exactly?) had a little romance, and he wrote this song to the girl. "I don't think they know the song's about them," he said, totally deadpan. "But they may know." This is just the kind of bizarre palaver you might have seen if you watched his guest spot on Space Ghost Coast to Coast a few years ago. If you saw that episode, you'll remember David with his long, black hair, gravely explaining that, much like foam packing material, croutons were often used to inflate the size of a salad. If you didn't see it, then you'll just have to trust me when I tell you that it was damn funny.

I was sitting next to a Baby Boomer couple through most of the night. The male part of this duo was almost as entertaining as the show. Just imagine every stereotype you've ever seen of the sweetly dorky 50-something dancing to the music of his youth. He was swaying all around, shouting "Whoo! Whoo!" every so often as his beer sloshed over the sides of his glass. He nearly injured himself undulating to "Psycho-Killer." This fellow wasn't alone, either. Between songs, the crowd periodically burst into sustained applause and cries of appreciation that went on for upwards of two minutes at a time. David would just stand there smiling graciously, maybe giving us his little-boy bow, and wait until we were finished.

My conclusion?

He's the same as he ever was, same as he ever was.

But better than ever.