Film director Jonathan Demme passed away late last month, to the dismay of many; Twitter and the rest of the internet was hit with a deluge of tributes. Actors, critics, fellow directors, and just about everyone else expressed their grief, citing The Silence of the Lambs, Philadelphia, and Something Wild, among others, as favorites of theirs.

Read any music or film critic’s list of “the greatest concert movies ever” and you’re bound to find Stop Making Sense, Demme’s much-lauded film showcasing Talking Heads’ 1983 live tour, at or near the top. It’s rightfully regarded as a classic, and it’s easy to see why.

The film, released in 1984, begins with audience murmur and opening credits over a stark, empty stage. David Byrne, minimalist in speech and appearance, first walks out, boombox in hand, and says, “Hi. I’ve got a tape I want to play.” Backed only with a drum track ostensibly coming from the boombox, he delivers a jittery acoustic rendition of one of the group’s most iconic hits, “Psycho Killer.”

Gradually, the ensemble increases. During the breakdown of “Psycho Killer,” crew members wheel equipment out behind Byrne, and eventually, Tina Weymouth emerges - Byrne’s acoustic guitar is now accompanied by rubbery basslines for the next song, “Heaven.” Then, drummer Chris Frantz comes out to bring his robust snare beat to “Thank You for Sending Me an Angel,” and finally, guitarist Jerry Harrison joins the three for “Found a Job,” with his delicate picking and plucking. It’s a novel way to highlight the importance of each individual component of a musical group, and the way they gel together - a topic David Byrne has always been interested in.

This growth continues beyond the core members of the band, adding backup singers Lynn Mabry and Ednah Holt (very visibly having the times of their lives), guitarist Alex Weir (ditto - great dancer), keyboardist Bernie Worrell (who, sadly, passed away last summer), and multi-percussionist Steve Scales (without whom the renditions would be significantly less groovy), culminating in a high-energy, nine-person performance of “Burning Down the House,” and here’s the part of the article where I inject my own personal beliefs - I seriously think this is the best live performance of any song, ever. Musically and theatrically, it’s unmatched. The chemistry of everyone involved is unbelievable, and a joy to watch; look at how they cavort and mingle with each other. I get the best kind of chills every time, to the point that I never listen to or watch this just once - I always rewatch it.

And then, after “Burning Down the House” and as if it wasn’t enough, the band follows with “Life During Wartime,” which is so good it’s about to make me momentarily disregard my literary inhibitions and oh my Christ it’s so fucking great how can a band be this great holy shit holy shit go watch it right now. Sorry, couldn’t resist. You get the point by now - I hold this in very high regard.

The incredible energy is complemented perfectly by a great deal of attention to artistic detail and creativity - as the funky “Making Flippy Floppy” starts large screens behind the ensemble broadcast banal words in plain, cold font: “ONIONS,” “GRITS,” “DOG,” “TIME CLOCK,” echoing the band’s strange fascination with the mundanities of the everyday American lifestyle, inviting the viewer to recognize the absurdity of it all. For “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody),” Byrne dances with a lamp, evoking the unique sense of living room hominess the song conveys (a comforting vibe almost disrupted by the close-ups of belly buttons and bare asses displayed on the screens behind him). The most famous visual from this film, undoubtedly, is the big suit. In a film full of surrealism, it stands out as the most bewildering element. Byrne’s reasoning for this odd choice says it all: "I wanted my head to appear smaller and the easiest way to do that was to make my body bigger, because music is very physical and often the body understands it before the head."

Demme’s cinematic techniques go hand in hand with the group’s musical flourishes. In place of hyper-stylized editing and unnecessary fluff, among other unfortunate hallmarks of traditional concert films (here’s looking at you,

The Song Remains the Same), are long shots and slow-paced pans that facilitate focus on the nuances of the band’s performance - Byrne’s quirks, Weymouth’s bounces and struts, Harrison’s workmanlike vigor, Frantz’s sheer enjoyment of his instrument. This is where Stop Making Sense sets itself apart the most notably - its simplicity. There are no frills, no MTV video gimmicks, no bullshit - just the show, as it was meant to be seen. It likely would have been a much different experience with any other director - Demme makes it, at once, uniquely Talking Heads and uniquely his own.