Not sure why but the only Brian Eno thing I’ve ever owned is that old compilation record No New York. Still got it, too, all old and battered and vinyl. He was the producer and didn’t play anything on it, but he made Mars sound like the weirdest band in the world. And listening to it now, they still do.
I bring this up only because I’ve seen about three hundred posts today wishing him a happy birthday. Apparently Brian Eno makes people feel all warm and fuzzy inside and they just have to wish him a happy birthday. When “Baby’s On Fire” was on regular rotation on KNAC way back when–it was a hit on that station at least–the last thing that I thought of was wishing him a happy birthday. I just thought wow, weird, and jacked up the volume. But my friends have gotten so soft and squeezable in their dotage. All sweet memories and gabba gabba hey. But I love them anyway. And I like Brian Eno. I just don’t understand the Facebook thing where everyone wishes people they don’t actually know a Happy Birthday. It seems weird to me, but they’re all terribly sincere about it. Happy Birthday famous person! they say. And all their Facebook friends chime in. Happy Birthday! Ten years ago this would seem really weird. Now it’s obligatory. I never wish people I don’t know a Happy Birthday. It’s silly and meaningless and, well, weird. Odd at least. Though if I ever met Brian Eno I’d probably wish him a happy birthday. Especially if it wasn’t anywhere near his birthday.
Sigh…..I’m sorry an essay entitled Brian Eno isn’t really about Brian Eno. I mean I like Brian Eno. But I get caught up in tangents, like riptides they yank a narrative right out of my hands and sweep it along who knows where. No free will at all. Just the free flowing rush of random connections and puns that appear out of nothing at all. Writing as Brownian motion. Sometimes I think the only time I speak is in incomprehensible proverbs But any idiot would know that.