You may ask yourself: what were they thinking? You may say to yourself: This is not my beautiful band. This is a watered-down-for-the-'90s, indie-rock-credibility-obsessed facsimile on the road to nowhere. In the words of "Psycho Killer," "Say something once, why say it again?"

At least the name of this band is not Talking Heads. The Heads may be the surviving rhythm section of that once-potent band – drummer Chris Frantz, bassist Tina Weymouth and guitarist and keyboardist Jerry Harrison – but the music they make nowadays is a dim echo of the free-associative, slightly unhinged spirit of the original group. The Heads have actually created an album as embarrassing as the bloated, '70s corporate-rock product that first drove Talking Heads into action. Weren't those art-school types supposed to be smarter than this?

The concept: The Heads team up with a guitarist named Blast and delegate vocal duties to a variety of punk refugees and post-punk celebrities that includes Richard Hell, Debbie Harry, Johnette Napolitano from Concrete Blonde, INXS' Michael Hutchence, Andy Partridge of XTC and Ed Kowalczyk of Live. The singers (with the exception of Harry) provide their own lyrics, but they're still stuck with the half-baked rhythm ideas provided by the Heads.

Therein lies the problem. Minus the presence and vision of someone like David Byrne, Frantz, Weymouth and Harrison prove to be an underachieving, undergrooving backing band, displaying little emotional connection to its material. The music drifts aimlessly from noisy rock to detached Euro disco to self-obsessed melancholia; the Heads just sound like a lounge band desperate for work.

No Talking Just Head is a diffuse mess that tarnishes the legacy of a late, great group and evokes that line from "Life During Wartime" with a less ironic ring: "This ain't no party." (RS 745)

TOM MOON