Review Summary: Has Christ done it again? I believe so.
I admit that I admire Brian Eno, if not for his hair (those who've been paying attention will undoubtedly have noticed his baldness in recent years), then, in part, and primarily marked by, those frequent sonic-lump quasi-intellectual pre-hospitalization albums that comprise his "Artist Supremus" stage, to put it in the words of an Eno scholar.
Brian Eno creates meaning while scoffing at it, uttering meaningless phrases but nevertheless forming a surprisingly cohesive sonic cake that pleases the Birthday Boy in us all; the most delightful moments come in freezeframes, where the sensibilities that led to the birth of ambient music in a whiny hospital bitch-bed drone, and Time eclipses itself in what may be referred to and processed as the "Eno Continuum," a vacuum of noise and suspicion that revels in absurdity and rocking-tunes.
"Art rock; socks, chicken pox." - Brian Eno
It's very much a '70s thing; one may call it groovy. There is an instance of controversial Indian-rhythmic drumming, a hint of the ribald cultural appropriation that would smear Paul Simon's apartheid-mocking gravestone of an album twelve years later. The man, one may notice at times, and not without some sadness, has a silly voice, but his heart is true. His music rules, and it is cohesive, and it is groovy. It has been written, and so it shall be.
