ANDY PRIEBOY

Why did you write it, and what is it about? 
– Owen Hammer

Between the years 1985 and 1993, Wall of Voodoo was under contract to MCA Music Publishing. One of the many perks of this arrangement was they had two in-house recording studios for their staff writers and artists to record demos, free. Back then, one would kill for cheap studio time, let alone free. Free tape and free staff engineers. Free coffee, snacks and sodas! At one time there was even free beer, but I think Voodoo persuaded them that was stupid . The idea was, "Hey, have a beer!" Not “Drink it all!”

Not Her Head began in Studio B which was a drab office big enough to demo in. It was upstairs on the third floor of MCA Publishing HQ. It contained a small 24-track board, a couple of keyboard racks, and a tape machine. We could come in at 5PM, stay there writing and working until the staff come in the next day. 

Studio B also had a window that looked across the driveway at another multi-story corporate hive of offices in of the Universal Megaverse. 

So, Ned and I were at work; headphones on, a mic for me, a drum machine for him and keyboards in front of us. It was night, and the awful overhead office lights were on. We had been at it for an hour or so when Ned looked up, and squinted. A light had gone on in an office across the way. Odd for this time of night. 

It barely registered to me and I kept playing. Ned, on the other hand had stopped working. 

"I think there's a guy and a woman in that office…” Ned said. I kept playing but looked up and squinted. 
I shrugged. 

Ned was fixated. 

"I… think they are sitting on the couch!” He said. 
I kept playing… 

"Are... they making out!? I can't tell”, he fretted. He walked over to the light switch and turned off the lights in our room to cut the glare. Now we could see more clearly.

Inspired, Ned began to sing louder, 
"That must be her 
I could swear 
Those beautiful eyes! That flaxen hair! 
I thought I knew her anywhere. 
Maybe that's not her head."

With that, we gave up watching, turned the lights back on and sang that idiotic refrain over and over.

ENTER SCOTT THUNES 

During this time, I renewed my old SF friendship with Scott Thunes. A musical master, he was Frank Zappa's bassist. As Frank was not touring, Scott's schedule was as wide open as ours. When I had a session at MCA, Scott was always welcome to come down, play, or just add some guidance. 

So, on that night a week later, I had booked the studio to start working on a new song. And as Ned, Scott, and I were hanging around, waiting for the engineer to set up, Ned started singing "Maybe That's Not Her Head." 
Scott stared slack-jawed. "What is this!?" 
We explained. 
"It's so fucking stupid! You should record it right now!” 
“It's not done”, I protested. "It's just a chorus.” 

Scott sneered at me, and leaned in close, almost touching nose-to-nose. 

“You are a songwriter. Right?”
I said I was.
"So write a fucking song". 
And within a few hours, Ned and I - with a lot of direction from Scott, were done. We had a socko, boffo, uplifting ending to a nonexistent musical comedy.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN? 

The song is in media res. That is, we have you arriving in the middle of a presumed narrative. Scott, Ned, and I took sadistic joy in knowing you'd be trying to keep up. And failing. 

But wait! 

After that delightful evening, we all made cassettes and... well, nothing. The song sat in the can for another two years. By that time, Voodoo had gotten drunk and wandered off, I had completed my first solo album and now needed a few more songs for the Montezuma EP. Head would be a perfect curve ball.

However, I felt it needed something. A place where the song existed. A reason why it's there. Got it!
We are fiddling with the radio dial looking something interesting. 

News? Nahh. Talk shows? Nope. Pop music? Yuk. Then hey, I hear laughter and a punchline... Something about Noodlehouse. Huh! The audience sounds thrilled. The song starts and we, who have apparently arrived late are way too late. We have missed the rest of the musical, and thus the premise. Maybe if we just listen, we will catch on! By the time an aged Turkish man's half assed joke falls flat, we are getting antsy. 

We stay for the big ending and, well, fuck this. Whatever. We twiddle the dial and search for something that if not interesting, then is at least comprehendible.