By Janeen McCrae — 28 Dec 2025

It's the Vinyl Countdown: #3 "Who is the Sky?" by David Byrne

Curiosity bites. With baby teeth.

Imagine a toddler. See that grubby, little cherubic face, standing at your feet in the kitchen, looking up at you. Quizzical and curious with the squint of a question in their eye. This is the beginning of a three-foot-high Spanish inquisition which, you know, no one ever expects.

Questions. So many questions.

Why? They ask, repeating the word every time you turn around. Why does that? Why won’t this? Why? Pointing at the dog. Why? Clutching their hand after touching a hot faucet. Why? Observing their goldfish floating atop the bowl.

Why? This. That. The other. Who and where and why again.

Curiosity bites. With baby teeth.

“Who is the Sky”—and please, don’t take this the wrong way—is the work of the world’s oldest, and potentially most eccentric, toddler.

It a curious record, and I don’t mean I can’t make head-nor-tail of it. I mean it is a record filled with questions, and sometimes potential answers to a question you didn’t think to ask.

Tis a glorious thing, to be open and bold enough to ask questions. Like a child. Like a toddler. Like an answer-seeking citizen of the human condition.

What sort of questions would a septuagenarian toddler ask? We’ll get to that.

I don’t know if this was its intent, but I find it to be an incredibly uplifting record. It puts a pep in your step and a bop to your shop. It had me singing in the car. It had me singing in the kitchen. It had me singing on my bicycle as I noodled around in the Santa Cruz mountains, a place where, incidentally, questions abound.

Why do banana slugs exist? Why is it always that I will I see no cars for hours, then get two crossing paths on a narrow blind corner EXACTLY where I am, forcing me to defend my existence?

Existence. Is that what it’s about? Partly.

The biggest take away for me was that in the questioning of things you can find a kind of joy. That it is possible to reconnect with the creative freedom of a toddler—to essentially have no fear of asking. There is no question too dumb for a toddler. They'll question the every of everything.

So, look around. Really look. Don’t be afraid to ask questions about the world. About how it works. About why we’re here. About love. You need to ask questions of yourself. To reveal your self.

Now. The record. Don’t get fooled by the colorful patterns and lively—and life-affirming—feel of the music in what is a simple, short, and to-the point record (it romps in at a blistering 38-ish minutes). That’s just surface level. You want to go deeper. You want to get past the colorful façade.

I tell ya, it’s a major work of philosophy!

OK, that may be overstating it. But if you think of the toddler brain as only being dumb rather than curious, you’re already falling into the trap of Side B’s tale about a rather effective lotion. Again. We’ll get to that.

First.

I think if I were to question myself as to why I chose this record as a final five, Vinyl Countdown pick, it would be a combination of things.

Thematically—and I’m talking about myself, and partly about the record, I guess—I tend to gravitate toward works that push me to think differently. Because we need to look at things we may not understand. To appreciate the human condition and question the why of why we respond to things the way we do. To question, knowing that there may not be an answer. Or there will be but we might not understand it.

That it’s ok to NOT understand. The important part is the question.

This record is comprised of many components. The songs, the packaging, and the performance. I always appreciate a good, holistic vision. Not just the songs and lyrics, but the design of the cover art, the choices made, the viiiiibe, and how that is expressed in the performance.

If you’ve seen any of the corresponding tour imagery, you’ll know about the colorful overalls, and the vibrance and energy of it. It’s an art record from an art mind. Everything’s been thought of. Of how it all fits together. I, rather foolishly, did not go see a show. I’m still kicking myself.

This is an incredibly playful record, with what looks to be a playful tour with playful performers and just a sense of pure joy in the being together in the theatre. Look at us! Here. Together. Caught in the great grand colorful mess of life. Isn’t it great?!

Speaking of color.

The cover art is a swirl of it. Like a kaleidoscope with David at the center, in some kind of weirdly delightful costume, peering out. Is that a question in his eye? His expression in amongst the spikes is curious and I’m not quite sure if it implies discomfort or if he’s just wondering if you can see him in there.

“Yes, you can see me. But can you REALLY see me?”

When you flip the record cover over, the back of it is the back of this outfit—a hedgehog of spiky looking things and I think the blur of a swirl on the front is a representation of what it might look like if he spun around fast. It’s a trip. Here is David dancing in it. (I think my favorite comment on that video is “When will he ever do something original?!”)

The second image of David is in the pullout poster which unfolds to reveal him inside of some weird contraption or apparatus. It looks like some sort of construction toy. Like a mutant toddler Meccano. Connector beads and rope and colorful plastic… to be honest, I don’t even know how to explain them.

What do these images represent? What are they trying to convey? Questions!

My first-blush interpretation would be that we shouldn’t get caught up in the exterior. What we’re seeing is this shell or colorful veneer that we erect to protect ourselves. To distract. As a viewer we need to go deeper. As a person, like David inside of these outfits, we should ask the questions that will reveal more to us, of us. To go beyond our spikes.

Is it the jailbreak of the self? They may protect, but they may also be prisons. Maybe. Maybe it doesn’t mean shit? We’ll get to that. But the colors, man. The colors. The flashy exteriors, the sleights of hand.

It’s the joyful noise of life. Break free!

Both outfits were designed by Belgian artist, Tom Van Der Borght, and are incredible. The graphic design vision was brought to life by Shira Inbar.

I loves me a good old fashioned art record. And we can always trust our favorite bicycle-riding musician to deliver. The costumes, the music, the graphics, the art. I didn’t buy the lenticular version, but having now seen it, I wish I did.

Before we launch into the songs, I just want to say it is a joyful record. A playful record. A run-through-a-room record. Quirk, flair, and ceremony, wrapped up in a delicious palette of color.

David Byrne and the Ghost Train Orchestra have delivered me some love of life this year. Pure, inquisitive, exuberant love, paired with joyful beats, enchanting strings, percussion that wiggles, and words that are so simple you feel compelled to flip them over to see how they’re wired.

Questions.

Questions of the inner. Questions of the outer.

It’s bright. It’s colorful. It’s DESIGNED. And it’s just straight up fun. And Dog knows, we need fun. If yesterday was all about rainy-day gloom and records that fit that mood, today is about vibrance and color and zest and brightness.

It’s about art and art-music projects that blend sound and choreography and design elements and work together as a question-filled exploration of humanity.

Wow!

Let’s dive in.

Having just set up that this is a record about asking questions, Side A, Track 1, “Everybody Laughs” reads more like an answer. An answer to the uber-mega-why of the minutia that peppers the universal existence of humans. It culminates in a simple truth. Everybody goes through the same shit at some point. But instead of wondering why these things happen to the individual, we should celebrate that collectively, we’re not that different.

These things are human. It’s neat to be a human.

In a way, it makes me think of how we’re all connected. Time, place, circumstance. Everybody has questions. Everybody is searching for answers. Everybody is going through the garbage, either literally looking for inspiration in it, or trying to clear out the shit (That last bit is me saying that. The lyric doesn't say that.)

To put it bluntly—you’re not that special. Your problems aren’t unique. Everybody gets writer's block, Janeen, and everybody has to deal with life changing, and everybody, everybody, everybody.

And that’s what special. It’s glorious. What a mess is the human condition!

I think when you realize that everyone is struggling, and everyone feels alone sometimes it helps bring us together. Which is a hopelessly naïve thing to say but I’m putting it on a sign and sticking it on my lawn. This FOMO world where we see these stylized and idolized versions of people’s lives can disconnect us. Look behind that Instagram. You have no idea what’s really going on.

In the song, the list resolves. I think it's telling us to let our anxiety go. We’re all rushing around and doing shit and sometimes it’s good shit and sometimes its shit shit, but we’re all going through the changes so why not ditch the stress about the little things and celebrate that we're alive and in it together?

To drive home the point, the song melts into a joyful coming together for the close. It’s a bouncy bounce, chug-along song. A rhyming list song. Short and sweet and a perfect thematic setup for the record.

Fun fact, (and one he lists very early on): Everybody dies.

My takeaway? You might as well dance and get on with it.

Side A, Track 2, “When we are Singing”

“We’ve got one foot in the pearly gates and
One foot in the flames.”

This for me is talking about performance. The two sides of it. The spiritual and the risk.

I don’t sing in public because I don’t like the flame part. (Also, I can't sing, but let's not get into that.)

The song draws attention to the singer's face when they are the ‘the zone’ or perhaps having that out of body experience which is akin to being in heaven or at the ‘pearly gates’ (I don’t think this is a stretch.).

As a singer, you are both in and out of this world. As a singer, if you are committing to the energy and technique of singing, you will invariably be twisting your face into some sing-type positions. If you start thinking about what your face looks like, you might get self-conscious about how weird it looks and not do it.

Take the risk. Put your foot in the flames.

Well, that’s how I interpreted it. It’s like guitar face. Or sports face. You can’t think about it. You just have to hope the photographer who captures it is kind.

My favorite bit of this song might be the wee-ooos. The strange noises David makes that sound a bit like vocal warmups mixed with a bunch of rubbish. Toddler talk. They're the kind of sounds where you can picture his face as he’s making them. I laugh.

When we are singing
I know the way we look
Swimming, drifting, floating on
And everything is true

If you are being true to the performance and committing to the performance, you can’t really think about how you look doing it. Swimming, drifting, floating on. There’s a transcendence to it.

It is what it is.

And it’s called... Professional.

Well, now, this is something I’ve never thought about: one of the most intimate relationships you have is with your living space. In the case of Side A, Track 3, “My Apartment is My Friend” David Byrne’s living space is his apartment, but I guess you could apply the same sentiment to your house. Or your roof-top tent.

It’s true. My apartment has seen me doing some of the dumbest shit ever.

My apartment KNOWS more than just stuff about me—it KNOWS ME! (That should freak me out since one of my greatest fears is TO BE KNOWN).

My apartment knows I talk to myself.

My apartment’s seen me have a good cry at a bad movie I’ve seen ten times before.

My apartment has seen me when I’ve been at my absolute lowest. And highest.

My apartment knows my secrets and lies. It also knows my truths.

My apartment knew me back when I used to drink. It’s seen the state of me when I’ve been in the state of me. No need to call a cab for your bestie when she’s already home.

My apartment has seen me dump the coffee grounds into the trash without making the coffee first. It's seen me calling myself some horrible names for wasting expensive beans.

My apartment has remained silent as I’ve chosen to cut a box open by pulling the knife towards me and not even smirked at the inevitable result. My apartment holds the band aids without complaint.

My apartment knows where my keys are but won't tell me where I put them. It's a fun game.

My apartment never makes me feel guilty for being late or for still being in my pajamas at 4 in the afternoon. It doesn't complain that it's been a while since I've instructed the Roomba to clean its floors. It’s been two weeks.

My apartment doesn’t have eyes, but… it’s seen me naked.

Think about it. All the stuff you don’t want other people to know about– about what you do when you’re alone—your apartment knows.

It remains an ever-faithful barrier between you and the outside world. A fierce protector. A staunch and reliable ally. A safe place. A place where you’re comfortable. Where you can always be yourself.

I think I saw on the socials that David Byrne said this song was about the isolation of Covid. A love letter to his apartment. In the song, he says he knows every part of his apartment. I don’t have that same confidence: one time sewage came up through the shower drain. I didn’t know my apartment could do that.

During Covid, I ‘sheltered in place’ by myself because I’m a lone wolf at the gates of dawn, and lonely? I don’t get lonely. Hoooowwwlll! It was an incredibly lonely time. I can tell you right here and right now that I did not give my apartment any props for being there for me when that year was done and dusted. And now, I feel guilty about that.

I’ve never thought of singing a song of loving devotion and acknowledgment of our divine friendship before, and I guess that’s why David Byrne is David Byrne and I’m just some hayseed writing words that three people will read. Maybe four.

Note to my apartment: I hope that me singing this song while tidying you up and getting ready to press start on Reggie the Roomba makes up for it. Even if it’s just a little.

I’ll put my hands up to it: I’m not entirely sure I know what Side A, Track 4, “A Door Called No” is on about. The stop and go of progress? That you may get a No door for a long time, but don’t give up? The door is closed, but maybe not forever?

“Don’t open me, sir.
There’s a reason I’m closed.”

What is the reason the door is closed? VIP event? Is there a body inside? Is corruption going on? Is Timothee Chalamet in there?

You can’t go in when the door says “No” sounds a bit authoritarian.

Hmm. So now he meets and girl and his world opens. There are 'Yes' doors out there, so maybe he is saying we should stop jiggling at ‘No’ doors.

You know what. I think it’s a 'find a way to find yes doors' theme. And that maybe the more yes doors open, the more no doors will become yes doors, and let’s just be happy that “The change, it has come, it is forever ‘yes'" and leave it at that.

It’s a gentle ease in with an orchestral richness. Quite short. And for some reason I flashed to Yoko Ono and one of her instructional art pieces where you climb the ladder and use a magnifying glass to look at a word on the ceiling. And you guessed it, that word is:

"YES."

And we're back with the questions with Side A, Track 5, “What is the reason for it?” In this instance, they’re questions pointed squarely at one topic: Love. Why? Why does it exist? What’s the point? Why do we subject ourselves to this torture? Why is it never the same twice? Why does it come and go?

Or tl;dr: What is the reason for it?

He sings this one with the gal from Paramore, and it’s more pop-y then I’d expect from David Byrne but I ain’t mad about it. I’m not super familiar with Hayley Williams—I don’t think she’s my demographic—but they seem to work together well in this. IMHO, as they say.

“Is it my body or my brain?”

Good question, toddler David. Love is both, young/old man. And there’s chemicals involved. Or so I've read.

For a song that just hammers on its prime directive—to ask why and how and what—it doesn’t overstay its welcome. And a phrase like ‘doesn’t overstay its welcome’ sounds like some kind of garbage a music critic would say to which I say:

What is the reason for that?

By the way, ‘where does it go when we’re asleep’ is an EXCELLENT question. Is the cat in or out of the box? Does the tree of our love in the forest exist if we fall asleep and no one is receiving it?

Speaking of questions, here we are at my absolute favorite song on “Who is the sky?” Side A’s, Track 6, “I met the Buddha at a Downtown Party.”

If I’d thought of that title, I would spend the rest of the day walking around, congratulating myself.

This is the song that made me buy the record. It’s right up Quirky Alley in the heart of downtown Philosophical Thoughts Town.

The thought of the Buddha at some downtown party, stuffing his face and filling his plate at the canapés table, just tickles the hell out of me.

It’s a clever and fun little story, top to bottom. Gossipy. Like, what did he say? What was he wearing? Was he with anyone?

That the narrator thinks he can just start questioning the buddha's actions (Side note: everyone knows if you meet the buddha you should kill him. Or is that only if you meet him on the road?) is quite a ballsy move. Rude. He immediately starts judging him.

I said, "Dude, should you really be eating
All of that unhealthy stuff?
And you, being so enlightened and all
Don't you think you've had enough?"

Notice David peppering someone with twenty questions again? I told you the theme of this record is: stay curious. But having said that, what business is it of yours, David?

Actually. I take that back. The buddha has put it out there about how enlightened his is. But speaking of standing on business, the buddha doesn’t take offense and delivers the best line of the piece:

"I had to retire from that enlightenment biz”

Let’s talk about the questions. Most of the time, the buddha is hit with questions about the meaning of life or how to live life. How to respect life. Mantras and sutras and meditation and transcendence. But now he's retired—now what?

I firmly believe that ol’ downtown Buddha there is playing a bit of reverse psychology on everyone. Telling someone to enjoy a blueberry tart. That’s a lesson, right? Let go. Experience the joy of the moment. Be present.

Is the meaning of life as simple as enjoying a slice of blueberry tart?

Because I'm a woo-woo girl at times, my favorite bit is:

Now I don't exist
And neither do you
So you're damned if you don't
And damned if you do

I can’t help myself and always have a good ol’ sing along at that bit. Sneaky buddha, getting a mind-melting jab in there between the pigs in blankets and the blueberry tart.

The beat of the song feels like a mantra.

The joy of the song is in the story.

The existence of the song is a blessing. Or maybe it never existed at all…?

We kick off Side B with Track 1, “Don’t be like that.” Having just experienced the joy of meeting the Buddha, I'm telling you, it's hard to come back from that high. But let's give it go.

It’s another list song, but this time, it’s a list of don’ts.

In the first verse, they seem to be societal don’ts. You can’t laugh at people. You can’t wear those clothes (or someone will say you asked to be treated like that, maybe?) Don’t make that face. Having been randomly told to smile on E71st Street once, when I was having a totally lovely day, I felt that one.

The second verse takes a different tack. All the don’ts seem to be related to things one person doesn’t want the other person to do because... I’m guessing it’s distracting. Making them react or respond to help, or comfort, or… kiss? I think I’m reading that right.

Fair enough. Perhaps they’re trying to concentrate on disarming a bomb and don’t want to cut the wrong wire? Have some respect.

The chorus is nice and catchy. Keep your promises, people!

As an aside, this some has some lovely Byrne-ian wee-ooos again. He’s good at the wee-ooos.

Side B, Track 2, “The Avante Guard” is an absolute delight.

As someone who likes to be challenged by art, I will admit that I have also been (justifiably at times) enraged by some of the things I’ve seen. But I forgive it. I always say that if you’re having a response to it, even it’s pure unadulterated hate, you are in the presence of the conceit of art.

Whatever that means.

Just because it’s art, doesn’t mean it’s good. It also doesn’t have to be.

Does that make you angry? Your feelings are valid. Sometimes it feels like that if you stick the label ‘avant garde’ on things, you can get away with some atrocious shit.

It’s the emotion of it—of that struggle to decide if you like something or not, or if it’s good or not—that makes me love it. It’s why I love this song.

If you should remember one thing from this song, it’s this:

It's deceptively weighty, profoundly absurd
Now, it's whatever fits
It's the avant garde
And it doesn't mean shit
It's the avant garde

And it doesn’t mean shit sometimes, because sometimes it IS shit. But it can also be the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen. That idea. That came out of someone. Incredible!

“I wanna go there.”

That’s the appeal. That’s the draw. That's that one time you go and you are amazed and surprised by what you have witnessed.

If you know someone like this, that wants to go there and take you with them, go.

Take a chance on art. You’ll have questions—again, this whole album is questions—stop trying to find meaning in everything. Sometimes it’s not that deep. No need to overthink it.

He has given you the answer to your discomfort in the words of this song.

It doesn’t mean shit.
It’s the avant garde.

Side B, Track 3, “Moisturizing thing” I’ve been calling this the Benajmin Button song. Our culture, I think you will admit, is a little obsessed with outward appearances. Injections and surgeries and lotions that plump here or reduce there. Ones that exfoliate and moisturize and contain special made-up words and weird elements with trademarked names to de-age and rejuvenate.

In this song, David is encouraged to try some special moisturizer that is going to do wonders for his skin. He applies. He goes to sleep. The scene is set.

When he wakes up, this magical lotion has worked so well, he looks like a baby. There are benefits to this, of course. His skin for starters—his skin looks incredible.

But it's a cautionary tale. When the exterior no longer matches the interior there are bound to be drawbacks. And more than someone carding you.

People treat him differently. They treat him like a baby (perhaps a... toddler? Call-back!). They treat him like a baby because he looks like one. You can tell the joy he felt at the start of the song is fast fading. In the bridge, he complains:

They act like I'm stupid
It's a fucking cliché
Like I don't understand
Everything that they say

No-one takes him seriously. That would be frustrating.

“I look like a baby but I’m still me.”

Here comes the message of the song to walk us out.

People judge us by the way that we look
Look at the cover, and they don't read the book

That settles it. I’m gonna stop baby-talking to three-year-olds, just in case there’s an ex-Talking Head locked in there.

Side B, Track 4, “I’m an Outsider”

I like the concept of this one. Trying to get inside someone’s head and thinking of it as being a nightclub you can’t get into. One with a velvet rope and a bouncer at the door.

And just like that exclusive club you couldn't get into in the meat-packing district, once you’re denied entry, you can’t help but wonder what’s going on in there. Wondering what you’re missing out on. Denial of entry doesn’t make you go away. It makes you more curious than ever.

Is it members only?
The exclusive kind
Is it too expensive?
The world of your mind

Again, here we are with all the questions. But this time, the questions he’s asking are ones created in his imagination. What’s it like in there? In that other person’s head. What kind of dreams, creatures, or magical thoughts does he or she have? Is it like Las Vegas? Or a library in there?

At the start of the relationship, you want to know everything. You want to figure out what makes someone tick. You need to get into that head. But you need to be let in. You need permission.

I wouldn’t advocate for slipping some cash to the bouncer. He’ll just pocket your money, and it might lock the door permanently. And we've already heard about these yes and no doors.

Good luck getting in!

Coming in at a snappy 2 minutes and 19 seconds is the shortest tune on the record, Side B, Track 5, “She explains things to me.” Efficient.

I love the premise of this—or the question her presents. Because I've asked the same question. Why are some people just more adept at picking up on what’s going on in a film? Why can some people understand poetry without having it explained to them?

“Why is that funny? Can you explain it to me?”

I think it comes down to differences in perception settings. Some people notice more. Some process information in a different way while others will come around to things from a weird and long-winded direction.

But I think what I like most about this song is that he seems to bear no animosity toward her for her effortless ability to just get it. He approaches this difference between them with a kind of detached curiosity: ‘Well, how come it’s so obvious to her?”

He’s more puzzled than anything.

He’s also not afraid to show he doesn’t understand and asks, you guessed it, questions. So many questions!

Toddler on the lose again. In a septuagenarian’s body.

Moving on.

"As fragile as toast."

Now there’s a line. The last song on the album, Side B, Track 6, “The Truth” bucks the pattern of the record and contains zero questions. It had me asking some, though.

I tried for quite a while to figure out what this one meant. Unlike David in the previous song, I don’t have anyone to explain this to me and I’m not going to watch that video where he explains each song until after I publish this. I’m a daredevil. The link to that is below.

Let's focus on this bit:

We're poor little things
Pathetic young dears
As fragile as toast
And driven by fear

If I take the first lines of the song where he talks of the truth being the last thing a a man wants to hear, I guess he's saying they can be too emotionally young to handle it? But then he talks to the surprise of it being the issue. Sometimes it can catch you off guard. Someone being brutally honest and not pulling the punch. You just need to get over the shock before you can process it, maybe?

Toward the end of the song, I think he's saying that if you have support you can get through anything. Not sure I nailed this one. It didn’t have any questions and perhaps I couldn’t handle the truth of it. Perhaps it is I who is as fragile as toast? I’m gonna adjust my settings to more crunch-toasty, less flop-bready.

In closing, while I might not fully understand it (and again, it's OK to not understand things—ask the questions!) I love the feel of this one. The percussion. Is that a marimba?

We're done! (For the day). That’s my number three choice in my favorite records of 2025. Two to go.

Curiosity is playful. We often credit children with having supple and curious minds and lament the loss of our playful imaginations when we don't tend to them as adults. If I remember correctly, the age between toddler and... 5/6 maybe, is when the questions come thick and fast. The world is so full. Everything is color. The imagination is firing. Vibrance and energy is all around.

Just like this record.

Is it old-head music? I dunno. It feels young and old at the same time. It feels traditional and modern. It feels ceremonial and out of control, like a toddler in a bounce house.

It feels—to put it bluntly—fun. I like fun.

“Who is the Sky?” is the perfect name for this record. Not what is the sky, but who. It’s a non-sensical, philosophical, toddler-vibe question that, for some reason you feel compelled, to try and answer.

Who is the sky?

Because is the door.

Exactly.