Celebrating Brian Eno, born on this day in 1948. —Ed.
What a divine creature: In the first half of the 1970s the pre-ambient Brian Eno flitted about England’s glitter rock scene in fantastical glam attire, making an indelible mark on Roxy Music’s first two LPs with his VCS3 synthesizer and “tape effects” before moving on to create two utterly idiosyncratic art rock masterpieces with Here Come the Warm Jets and Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy, both released in 1974.
On the former album, Eno utilized a boldly original approach to recording that placed a high premium on happy accidents that were not really accidental; Eno very deliberately lined up a cast of studio musicians he felt would be incompatible with one another just to see what would happen. In his own words he organized the situation “with the knowledge that there might be accidents, accidents which will be more interesting than what I had intended.” He then doubled down on the oddness by “treating” instruments and doing a lot of heavy condensing and mixing of the recorded tracks, some of which ended up sounding nothing like what the musicians played in the studio.
In short Eno puts chance in charge, and like any good gambler chance works in his favor. Marcel Duchamp abandoned art to play chess; if Eno were to retire, he would no doubt take up craps. Not enough random variables in the game of kings.
Art Rock with a sense of humor and none of the grandiosity, Here Come the Warm Jets is a collection of beautifully textured songs filled with staggering performances by the slew of stellar performers Eno gathered together because he thought they didn’t belong together. All of Roxy Music (excepting Bryan Ferry) were on hand, as were guitar aces Chris Spedding and Robert Fripp; other players included members of King Crimson, Hawkwind, Pink Fairies, and Matching Mole. They don’t seem like such an incongruous bunch to me–Spedding excepted, there’s a decided tilt towards art- and prog-rock–but if Eno considered ‘em an Odd Bunch, well, he’s the guys with the ears.
Great lyrics, many of them of the Dada school, lots of varied moods, and the aforementioned dizzying performances by all make Here Come the Warm Jets a delirious (and refreshingly timeless) listening experience. Rockers and screamers rub elbows with lush aural soundscapes and a couple of songs (“Dead Finks Don’t Talk,” “The Paw Paw Negro Blowtorch”) that defy easy categorization. On a few numbers (most notably the title track) the performances have been mixed into a magnificent blur; on others (“Baby’s on Fire,” “Frank Blank”) the sound is crisp and the players’ individual instrumental turns stand out.
There are no bad songs on Here Come the Warm Jets, but I have my favorites. The heavily syncopated “Baby’s on Fire” is a delirious lark about, well, setting a baby on fire; Eno swipes a line from W.H. Auden for the song’s unforgettable conclusion (“But baby’s on fire/And all the instruments agree that/Her temperature’s rising/But any idiot would know that”) while Robert Fripp turns in one of the most hair-raising ax performances you’ll ever hear. (Evidently there’s some debate about whether that’s him or the Pink Fairies’ Paul Rudolph on guitar, or both–but it sure sounds like Fripp to me.) Hawkwind’s Simon King does amazing things on drums; Eno is at his snotty best on vocals; and the results sound as audacious in 2018 as they did in 1974.
Album opener “Needles in the Camel’s Eye” takes the opposite tack; instead of highlighting individual performances, Eno blends everything together into a careering, pureed musical onslaught, although he does briefly put Spedding’s climbing and falling guitar up front. Who cares if the words are indistinct–sound is meant to trump sense on this one. It’s followed by “The Negro Paw Paw Blowtorch,” which features a very animated Eno on vocals (“sub-Sti-Toot!”), some maniacally funny synth blurt, and more wonderful guitar by Spedding.
It speaks well of Spedding’s guitar wank that Eno saw fit to put his two contributions at the very start of the album, especially given Fripp’s brilliant playing on the LP. On “Frank Blank,” Fripp plays more savage guitar over a pronounced Bo Diddley beat; if shred is your notion of a very good time, “Frank Blank” can’t be beat. And Eno’s organ playing, which brings the Velvet Underground to mind, is not to be missed. And the same goes for Eno’s demented vocals; he hangs on to the final notes like a man clinging to a cliff by his fingernails.
And if Eno sounds off-kilter on “Frank Blank,” on the piano-driven, mid-tempo “Dead Finks Don’t Talk” the weird goes pro. Eno talks, invents new voices, backs himself up with even stranger new voices (“Oh no! Oh no! Oh no oh no oh no oh no!”) and in general turns in a vocal performance worthy of the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band’s Vivian Stanshall. He even goes Elvis for a moment. And he plays some very fuzzy “snake guitar” while he’s at it before taking the song out with some very happy-making static. “Some of Them Are Old” reminds me of John Cale, but I’ll be damned if I know who influenced who; what I do know is that it’s a hushed and atmospheric song gingered up by some lush vocals and some very nice steel guitar by folk-rocker Lloyd Watson, making his soul appearance on the LP.
The title track sounds like a bunch of very stoned musicians trying to play some obscure Balkan nation’s national anthem. Like I said before Eno has turned this one into mulch, but it’s a fine mulch and very good for your ears. On “Needles in the Camel’s Eye” Eno brings Spedding to the forefront; on this one the honors go to Simon King on drums. “Cindy Tells Me” is a sprightly pop number with doo-wop tendencies and also reminds me of John Cale; I recommend it primarily for Eno’s vocals, his pneumatic piano, and the synthesized locust noise he throws over the proceedings. Oh, and Roxy’s Phil Manzanera’s brief but thrilling turn on guitar.
“Driving Me Backwards” is an against-the-wind slice of deranged psychedelia and sounds like a stubborn slog up a steep hill; Eno makes his piano playing sound like hard work, and “The March of the Volga Boatmen” can’t be far off. Fripp throws in some discreet guitar fillips; Eno sounds like he’s singing from very, very far away and he doesn’t sound very happy about it either. This one reminds me of the Beatles at their most experimental, and is a far cry from “On Some Faraway Beach,” which also comes at you from a great remove but in a happy and nostalgic way. This is the sound of a good time being had 1,000 miles away; lovers dance on a remote tropical shore, coconuts fall, and everybody sings a song that needs no words–they just go la la la la la while Eno’s soaring synthesizer delivers them to some easier, gladder place. But then Eno does sing, and every time I hear him I go Wow.
Eno would go on to do great things, that is if your idea of great things runs towards aural landscapes of the sort that make “On a Faraway Beach” sound positively action packed. I hear his berserker organ turn on “Frank Blank” and I swoon; I turn on his ambient LPs and I think how very nice and how very boring and turn them off. The world is full of people who get off on Eno’s soothing soundscapes, but I don’t see the point of listening to wallpaper. I live on anxiety, and tranquility gets on my nerves.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A
