Talking Heads' platinum sellout nor their masterpiece. It is the loosest and least complex record they've done; David Byrne's strange-but-true vignettes of suburban eccentricity are given warmth and credibility by the rest of the group. Byrne has never sounded more excited – or less detached.

On the rollicking "Love for Sale," he declares, "I was born in a house with the television always on/Guess I grew up too fast/And I forgot my name," restating the theme of Little Creatures' "Give Me Back My Name" in more specific, personal terms. Byrne leaps gracefully from swamp-man growls in the verses to a mannered, glam-rock pant on the chorus, and the rhythm section of Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth tempers the guitar fury with their signature funky kick. The groove segues neatly into "Puzzlin' Evidence," where the guitars give way to an extended Jerry Harrison organ intro, which sweeps and hums like a cross between his Farfisa work on the Modern Lovers' first LP and a Sunday-morning gospel broadcast. With the help of the Bert Cross Choir, Byrne turns the lyrics into a celebration of contradiction; he lays out the pieces of the puzzle, then gleefully tosses them up in the air: "I'm seeing puzzlin' evidence!" Hey, why fight it?

Talking Heads continue to delve into their American musical roots, and for my money it's a more sensible and successful mission than their pith-helmeted foray into Africa on Remain in Light. "Hey Now" pits the singsong insistence of early R&B with the hop-along kick of Tex-Mex; it's like setting "Mockingbird" loose at the Galleria: "Take me to the shopping mall/Buy me a rubber ball!" "Radio Head" is somewhat confusing lyrically (I think it's about a kid who receives radio transmissions – "the sound of a brand-new world" – on his teeth), but it clomps along compellingly, paced by a wheezing accordion. And "Papa Legba" is a total mystery: Byme's opening cries ring like an Arabic call to prayer, the percussion vibrates, hollow and spooky, and the cries become a chant intoned quietly in Spanish. It's all so weirdly melodic and eerily rhythmic that it's hard not to be enchanted. Maybe this kind of ethnic experiment works best when the results aren't too exact.

But even Talking Heads occasionally fall back on tried-and-true recipes. "Wild Wild Life" is pretty tame, an ironic, midtempo rocker that's the closest Talking Heads have ever c