A look at a forthcoming documentary and look back at a 1983 Downbeat interview
A new documentary on Brian Eno, the visionary and hugely influential British musician-producer and self-described “sonic landscaper,” is currently being hailed as “Groundbreaking” (Rolling Stone), “Revolutionary” (Screen Daily), “Remarkable” (Forbes) and “A template for how cinema can be re-defined in the digital era (Quietus). Of course it is. The former member of the early ‘70s Brit art-rock band Roxy Music, collaborator with Robert Fripp, producer of David Bowie, Devo, U2, Talking Heads, Laurie Anderson and pioneer of ambient music would never let himself be associated with anything less than innovative.
Gary Hustwit’s film, Eno employs generative software (designed with creative technologist Brendan Dawes) to sequence scenes and create transitions out of his original interviews with Eno as well as the subject’s rich archive of hundreds of hours of never-before-seen footage and unreleased music. So it’s never the same film twice, like the proverbial river.
As Hustwit explained, “What I’m trying to do is to create a cinematic experience that’s as innovative as Brian’s approach to music and art. I want everyone to have their own version. I don’t want to be the one dictating the version people will see. What we’re concentrating on now is innovating the technology to make it possible to release the film in the way we think it should be released.”
As The New York Times’ reviewer Alissa Wilkinson put it: “Every version of the movie you see is different, generated by a set of rules that dictate some things about the film, while leaving others to chance. I’ve seen it twice, and maybe half the same material appeared across both films. Writ large, it’s a meditation on creativity. There’s a pure joy to this documentary, a sense that creativity is miraculous and we ought to be grateful that we get to participate in it.”
The generative and infinitely iterative quality of Eno, which had its world premiere at the 2024 Sundance Film Festival and is currently screening at special live eventsworldwide, resonates with the artist’s own creative practice of chance music and use of so-called Oblique Strategies, topics I explored with him — along with thoughts on the influence of Samuel Beckett and LaMonte Young, Jackson Pollack and Cézanne, holograms and hosts — in an interview for a June 1983 cover story for Downbeatmagazine:
“The things I think about mostly when I’m recording now don’t seem to be musical considerations at all. . . more like descriptive thoughts…an aural picture.”
First, a few random facts about the enigmatic Eno:
He does not read music, and for years has insisted that he is not a musician at all, preferring to think of himself as a systems manipulator.
He doesn’t have a band, never tours, and his albums on the independently distributed Editions EG label sell in modest figures (positively anemic by major label standards).
His most recent album, On Land, was inspired by such a diverse range of elements as Frederico Fellini’s Amarcord, Teo Macero’s sparse production on Miles Davis’ He Loved Him Madly, and the sound of croaking frogs on Lantern Marsh, a place only a few miles from where he was born 35 years ago in East Anglia, England.
He is leery of grants and collaborations, after being bombarded by bogus requests from artists and musicians all over the world.
His current musical projects include soundtracks for a film about the opium trade in Burma, a documentary about the NASA Apollo moon missions, and an Australian film about a valley in the Himalayas that has more species of flowers per acre than any other place on the planet.
His current video project is an upcoming exhibit in Japan, sponsored by Sony, which involves 35 tv decks and monitors.
His full name is Brian Peter George St. John Le Baptiste De La Salle Eno (really).
By the time Beatlemania swept through England, carrying off a whole generation of susceptible adolescents in its tide, Brian Eno was safely tucked away in the cerebral solitude of the Ipswich Art School. It was there, at the age of 16, that he came under the spell of something far more intoxicating to him than John, Paul, George, & Ringo. At Ipswich, Brian Eno discovered the tape recorder. It was perhaps the single most important find of his life, launching an ongoing journey of sound experimentation which continues to this day.
Eno was encouraged to use the school sound taping facilities by the Ipswich faculty, a group of artistic revolutionaries bent on upsetting the preconceived notions about art that more conventional teachers espoused. They too played no small part in shaping Eno’s view of the world. He thrived in this environment of “We’re not going to tell you what is possible or isn’t,” as he continued to entertain all kinds of possibilities for both sound and visuals. At the Winchester School of Art, where he earned his degree in fine arts between 1966 and 1969, he became president of the student union and spent the union funds on having prestigious avant garde musicians such as Cornelius Cardew, Christian Wolff, John Tilbury, and Morton Feldman come to lecture. Influenced by Cardew’s School-Time Composition, by John Cage’s book Silence, and by the notions of other systems artists (“Their emphasis is on the procedure rather than the end product,” Eno explained), he was brought to Reading University by Andy Mackay to lecture the students there. Years later, when Mackay and Bryan Ferry were forming the art-rock group Roxy Music, Eno was invited to join, playing Mackay’s VCS3 synthesizer and mixing their sound.
It was the height of the glam era in England. Marc Bolan and T Rex were hitting big with “Bang It On (Get It On),” David Bowie was in his Ziggy Stardust phase, Elton John had just released Honky Chateau to critical acclaim, and Roxy Music was opening for groups like Alice Cooper and Gary Glitter. With his own flair for visuals, Eno jumped into the movement with enthusiasm, sporting pancake makeup, eye shadow, rouge, and lip gloss on stage. It was 1972, and Eno had become a full-fledged rock star.
But to balance these pop pretentions, he maintained a sort of Jekyll & Hyde outlet for his “serious stuff.” As early as 1972, Eno began conducting sound experiments in his home studio with King Crimson guitarist Robert Fripp, later culminating in two LPs — 1973’s No Pussyfooting and 1975’s Evening Star. From the beginning, these collaborations explored a zen-like flow of sound, combining Fripp's tone clusters and unremitting sustains on guitar with Eno’s seemingly infinite capacity for programming tape loops via synthesizer. This risk-taking approach was clearly at odds with Eno’s standing as a pop star, and his management objected vigorously. Yet, the experiments continued.
With his celebrated split from Roxy Music in 1973, Eno began producing his own solo albums, beginning with Here Come The Warm Jets, followed by Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy) in 1974. These were both ambitious, clever and dynamic pop projects, featuring Eno’s vocals on all tracks. They are generally considered to be among the most adventurous and compelling statements ‘70s rock produced, though Eno now considers them a bit naive. His third solo album, Another Green World, marked a significant transition in his career. On this icy, evocative album (which features few vocals), Eno The Pop Star and Eno The Artist were beginning to merge. Eno would make one more pop-oriented album, Before And After Science in 1977, before discarding his pop persona altogether. Some of his comments about the rock star syndrome have since been quite critical.
Over the years he has been investigating sounds that encourage a dynamic relationship between people and their surroundings — music that responds to and enhances ambience. Functioning as an alternative to the bland pop arrangements of Muzak, this ambient music is intended to induce calm and create a space in which to think. “The idea of making music that in some way related to a sense of place — landscape or environment — had occurred to me many times over the last 12 years,” he says in his notes to On Land. “My conscious exploration of this way of thinking about music probably began with Another Green World in 1975. Since then I have become interested in exaggerating and inventing rather than replicating spaces, and experimenting with various techniques of time distortion.”
When not occupied with his own ambient music projects, Eno has found time to produce a number of albums — three by David Bowie, three by Talking Heads, a funk/found rap tape collage collaboration with Head-man David Byrne, a pair with minimalist composer/pianist Harold Budd, one with the Third World-inspired trumpeter Jon Hassell, and albums by several new wave bands, including Television, Devo, Ultravox, and the Lower East Side (Manhattan) bands featured on the Antilles No New York compilation. His most recent production credit is an album by Edikanfo, a group of African musicians from Ghana.
Bill Milkowski: You’ve made some anti-synthesizer statements over the years, yet you’re often associated with them.
Brian Eno: People are always trying to sell me complicated synthesizers, or they write letters asking me what I think are the best synthesizers on the market... all this junk that people seem to think I know about. I haven’t a bloody clue what the best synthesizer is to the others. I’m just not excited by them at all. I’m not thrilled by something that does exactly the same thing over and over. Why people are is beyond me. I mean, they’re not excited by assembly lines. If that’s the kind of thing you want, go to the Ford motor factory and watch the car shells come off the assembly line.
To me, synthesizers are a little bit like formica. If you see it from a distance, it looks great — this big panel of blue or pink or whatever that fits in well with your designer home. But when you get close to the surface of formica and start looking at it, it’s not interesting; nothing’s going on there. Contrast this with a natural material like wood, which looks good from a distance but also is still interesting at any level of microscopic inspection; its atomic structure is even strangely interesting as opposed to formica, which is regular and crystalline. Think of the forest, for instance. You look at it from the air and it’s rich, complex and diverse. You come in closer and look at one tree and it’s still rich, complex and diverse. You look at one leaf, it’s rich and complicated. You look at one molecule, it’s different from every other molecule. The thing permits you any level of scrutiny. And more and more, I want to make things that have that same quality — things that allow you to enter them as far as you could imagine going, yet don’t suddenly reveal themselves to be composed of paper-thin, synthetic materials.
BM: So you aren’t interested in the high technology hardware like the Fairlight or the Synclavier?
BE: Not at the moment. I’ve been moving more in the direction of very low technology — found objects and other things that have some kind of interesting inherent sound to them. Just anything lying around, really. I spend a lot of time around Canal Street [a long stretch of junk shops and flea markets located in the NYC Bowery] hitting things and listening to what this little bolt might sound like or this metal pot or whatever. As for high technology, all of the work I’ve heard from those machines is so unbelievably awful to me. Boring things like yet another synthesizer version of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons…who needs it?
BM: What synthesizer are you currently using?
BE: One of my favorite instruments is the Yamaha CS-80, one of the first polyphonic synthesizers ever made. It’s so simple — doesn’t do anything like sequence or hasn’t got any digital apparatus. It was actually a development from the organ, so it’s very much like an electric organ with a sort of synthesizer panel, capable of really lovely sounds. It’s perfect for me. I’d rather have six beautiful sounds from a synthesizer than a possible infinity of mediocre sounds.
BM: You mentioned that you’ve gotten very suspicious of records lately. Can you elaborate?
BE: I don’t like the form very much anymore. I’ve become more and more interested in music that has a location of some kind, like gospel music, where you go somewhere and you become part of something in order to experience the music. You enter a whole different social and acoustic setting. There’s a whole context that goes with the music. Just sitting in your living room and sticking on some record is a whole other thing.
I think one of the things we have to do now is realize that the products of recording studios are another form of art. That’s not music. There’s been a break between the traditional idea of music — which still continues in many forms — and what we do now on records. That’s something different. It’s just like…at the birth of photography in the middle of the 19th century, what people started off doing was to try to make cheap portraits; it was a way of replacing a portrait painter by getting similar results, but much more cheaply. And, in fact, to this end they used canvas-textured paper and they would tint the things and arrange everything to make it look as much like a portrait as they could. Similarly with film — the first films were just recordings of theater pieces. So film was really nothing more than the traveling version of a play. And the same thing happened when records we'e invented. They were invented to give everyone a chance to be at a Caruso performance, or something like that. Or to sell Caruso in a wider way than he had ever been sold before. Well, with each of those forms, a point was reached where it became realized that this medium had its own strengths and limitations, and therefore could become a different form through its own rules.
I think that’s true of records as well. They’ve got nothing to do now with performances. It’s now possible to make records that have music that was never performed or never could be performed and in fact doesn’t exist outside of that record. And if that’s the area you work in, then I think you really have to consider that as part of your working philosophy. So for quite a while now I’ve been thinking that if I make records, I want to think not in terms of evoking a memory of a performance, which never existed in fact, but to think in terms of making a piece of sound which is going to be heard in a type of location, usually someone’s house. So I think, “This is going to be played in a house, not on a stage, not on the radio.”
BM: So with your recent works, particularly the Ambient Series, you are more or less providing a stimulus for listeners to project into.
BE: Yes, it’s a different approach. It’s an understanding that the record is only one part of the whole process, that actually what we’re dealing with is the recording studio, this black thing in the middle called a record, and someone’s hi-fi system. Of course, the assumptions you can make about how someone sits down and listens are a bit limited. In my case, I assume they’re sitting very comfortably and not expecting to dance. The way most producers work is like this; they say, “Here’s the listener sitting here, so we’ll have a guitar here, bass there, drums over there, horns there, vocals over here…” and soon. They’re seeing in two-dimensional terms, like a cinema screen. But I’ve been trying to get rid of the screen altogether. Forget about having this nice logical arrangement of things. I’ve become more interested in transferring a visual sense to music. What I want to do is create a field of sound that the listener is plopped inside of and within which he isn’t given any particular sense of values about things. It’s much more like being in a real environment, where your choices are what determine the priority at a given time.
BM: The first time I listened to Discreet Music, I was at work, the day had ended, all the other people in the office had gone home, so the place was completely empty. During the day the atmosphere was generally hectic, with phones ringing and people rushing about, arguing, typing, talking. But this night it was so quiet I could even hear the florescent lights humming. I was sitting comfortably in a reclining chair and I put on your record, not having any idea about what kind of music it was. It not only put me into a state of total relaxation, but it also sparked the most vivid memories of a special friend I hadn’t seen in years — places we had been together, the smell of the air, the colors of the sunset.
BE: You know, a lot of people have said the same thing that you’re saying now about On Land as well, which was definitely the impetus for that record, for me. When I was working in the studio, I always found that a piece would begin to come to life at the point where it would put me in that kind of mood, where I suddenly was in some way connecting with another place or another time. And as the piece developed, I’d get a stronger and stronger sense of the geography of that place and the time of day, the temperature, whether it was a windy or wet place or whatever. I was developing the pieces almost entirely in terms of a set of feelings that one normally wouldn’t consider to be musical, not in terms of “Is this a nice tune? Is this a catchy rhythm?” Instead, I was always trying to develop this sense of the place of the music. It was and still is very hard to articulate because it’s not part of the normal musical vocabulary.
I’m working on a piece now about an evening that I remember from a very long time ago in which nothing in particular happened, actually. For some reason this evening just stuck in my mind. I went for a walk — I was about 14 — and where I lived, in Woodbridge, there’s a dike that dams up the river. And there’s a narrow path on top of it that goes for miles, just wide enough for one person to walk along. One night I went for a walk on it, and there was a low fog hanging over the marshes, just about at the level of this pathway so the effect was exactly like walking on top of this cloud. But above, the air was absolutely clear. And it was one of those deep blue nights with a lot of stars. So I started working on a piece of music, and something about it kept taking me back to that night. I don’t think I had ever remembered it before. It was as though the piece suddenly reminded me of that. And the problem all the time was I had to get those stars in there somewhere. I kept thinking, “How do you make in music the feeling of a lot of stars?” You know, there's no sense in just having some cliche twinkling sounds or whatever.
BM: Cue the star machine.
BE: Right, so that was a problem. I worked on that for four or five days, experimenting with different things, and I had no idea where to start. There’s no sort of tradition for making star sounds in music. Anyway, I came up with something that I like quite a lot. To me, it certainly gives that feeling of a huge space with lots of remote bodies that sort of cluster in apparently meaningful ways with one another. So that’s the kind of thing that I think about mostly when I’m recording now. They don’t seem to be musical considerations at all. They’re more like descriptive thoughts. I think of it as figurative music in a certain way, where I’m actually trying to paint a picture of something. Well, people have said that for years. But I mean that in a fairly accurate way…an aural picture of some type.
BM: Could you explain how you developed your so-called hologram theory of music?
BE: I think two things started it. There was a book by Samuel Beckett that came out two years ago called Company. It’s about a 90-page book with very big type, so in ordinary novel-size type it would probably be about 30 pages long or less. And for me, it’s a great book. It’s almost the same few phrases being permutated, the same things being said over and over again in slightly different ways. Almost all the material that appears in the book is there within the first two pages. Once you’ve seen the first two pages, you’ve effectively read the entire book. But he keeps putting them together in different ways. And one of the things that struck me about the book was you could take half a sentence from it, and first of all know instantly that it was Beckett, just something about the way the words were strung together. Also, from that half-sentence you would have a foggy impression of the feeling of the whole book. And that, in turn, reminded me of two things: When I was in school — I went to a Catholic school — we were told that the host, the thing you get at Holy Communion, could be broken into any number of minute parts and that each part was still the complete body of Jesus Christ, even if it was only a tiny fragment. This always puzzled me. I thought about that a lot as a fine theological point. And then when I was about 18, I went to a lecture by Dennis Gabor, who invented the hologram; he said that one of the things that’s interesting about the hologram is that if you shatter it and you take a fragment from the whole, you will still see the complete image from that piece, only it will be a much less distinct and fuzzier version. It’s not like a photograph, you see, where if you tear off one corner, all you see is that corner. The whole of the image is encoded over the whole of the surface, so the tiniest part will still be the whole of that image. And I thought this was such a fantastically grand idea, and for the first time it gave me some understanding of the Catholic idea of the host; there was some scientific parallel to it.
So, those two ideas stuck in my mind for a long time. And when I started looking at this series of Cézanne paintings, I got the same feeling. You could take a square inch of one of those Cezanne paintings and somehow there was the same intensity and feeling and style within that one piece as there was within the whole picture. It’s as if you saw the whole painting in that one piece because every brush stroke was charged just like the whole painting was charged — similarly with the Beckett book.
So I thought, “This is really how I want to work from now on. I don’t want to just fill in spaces anymore.” You know, a lot of the hard-edged paintings from the mid-’60s had to do with geometry and clarity of shape and so on, and the thing that made it disappointing as a movement for me was the fact that a lot of what those guys were doing was purely mechanical, just filling in colors, almost like following a blueprint or a paint-by-numbers. It seemed to me they were cheating themselves because I think every stage of the procedure should be as vital as every other stage. There shouldn’t be one stage where you just fill in, where it’s too predetermined. At that point, it’s just hack work. You can farm it out to assistants, which is what a lot of them did. In fact, I was an assistant to a painter for a while. I painted his pictures for him, and it was a similar-type thing, where he just had color areas sketched out that had to be filled in. It’s done, but that’s not what I want to do. I want to be alive every stage of doing any project.
BM: Besides the obvious influence of painters on your work, you’ve mentioned such names as Philip Glass, Steve Reich, Terry Riley.
BE: And LaMonte Young.
He was sort of the conceptual father of that whole minimalist school, I suppose. At least in music. It’s interesting, though, because that movement actually happened in painting before it did in music…this idea of a kind of continuum. Jackson Pollock and Barnett Newman are two good examples. But in music, LaMonte Young began experimenting with very long drones and continuous musical environments in the early ‘60s. He had a thing called Dream House, which was a series of generators that repeated single notes. These were very carefully built generators so they didn’t waver at all. The notes were as constant as possible. This contraption was actually running for months and months. It was an idea that I’m very sympathetic to now. It was a piece of music that you walked into and you stayed for a while and you left it again. That was what Music For Airports was meant to be.
BM: That idea of a continuum has been a running theme in your music since your first collaboration with Robert Fripp back on No Pussyfooting. Using the analogy of painting, how would you say your own brush stroke has changed from that early work to your most recent ambient album, On Land?
BE: Well, I think the palette is much broader now. There’s a wider choice of colors, if you will. Pussyfooting is very much an album of musical types of sound — discernable guitar, electric instruments, mutable harmonies, chord clusters and so on. What’s happened, then, with On Land, a lot of that has been broken down. There are far more types of sounds that aren’t musical in a traditional sense. They’re not sounds that you connect with any particular instrument or with any particular object. As an aside to this, whenever I release an album, it has to be copyrighted, so someone has to try to score this stuff. I saw a bit of the score for On Land, and the poor guy obviously had a real problem with it. You can’t express it in notation; it doesn’t work. So it rather came out as a kind of painting — a red spot here and a sort of blue stripe going across here and a roughly green area. So the difference is that at the time of Pussyfooting, I actually thought I was making music. Now with this new stuff, I feel that the connection has more to do with the experience of paintings or films or even non- cultural artifacts, like places. I’m quite inarticulate about it because I don’t quite know what it is. There isn’t any tradition for it.
With Pussyfooting it’s almost like being in some sort of tunnel. You don’t have many choices about your direction within that. You sort of move forward as the piece streams along, and you can go a bit to the side as you're going. But with this landscape stuff, your direction can be really quite different on each listening. Maybe the first time you listen to it you find it interesting but strange; you are disoriented within it. As you listen to it more and more, you attach yourself to certain little clusters that happen that you may recognize. You can then start making the choice about which journey you take through that music. The problem is always calling it music. I wish there were another word for it.
BM: Do you feel that musicians are too preoccupied with technique and results?
BE: I think it’s more a case of whenever you get into a spot, you can make yourself feel better by doing something clever. It’s almost a sort of symptom of nervousness. I’ve seen musicians stuck for an idea, and what they’ll do between takes is just diddle around, playing the blues or whatever, just to reassure themselves that, “Hey, I’m not useless. Look, I can do this!” But I believe that to have that to fall back on is an illusion. It’s better to say, “I’m useless,” and start from that position. I think the way technique gets in the way is by fooling you into thinking that you are doing something when you actually are not.
BM: As you strip down your process from album to album, has it become more difficult for you to work in the studio with other musicians?
BE: I think it’s getting harder for me to work with musicians who don’t understand recording studios. Most musicians have their own idea about what the ingredients of a piece of music are. And one of the things that most of them think is that it's got to have a few tricky licks in it — something skillful — so they sit down and get all their ingredients together and sort of stick them all into a pot, thinking a piece of music will come out of it. It’s like the recipe book without the procedure, where you just get the list of ingredients, but you don’t bother to read about how to put them together or how to prepare them. You just bung them all into the pot and hope that you’ll get lemon soufflé out of it in the end. Sure, you can work with the same set of ingredients all the time, but if you are going to keep yourself interested in it, then the procedure is where you have to direct your attention. So I don’t like this ingredient way of working. It’s like the formula disco style where it has to have this or that and it has to have the girls doing a refrain. You hear so much of this junk coming out all the time.
The difficult thing about working with skillful musicians is that sometimes I just can't explain to them the potential of something. Sometimes I know when I hear something that there are a series of operations that I can perform on it that will make it fabulous. This involves studio manipulation. And those kinds of manipulations, since they are in themselves ways of generating complexity out of sound, seem to work best on sounds that are initially quite simple. If the sound is musically complex to begin with, it’s already a restrictive form to work with. So the problem with musicians is always telling them to have confidence in a simple and beautiful thing, to know that there’s a whole world that can be extracted from a simple sound. And if they’re not familiar with studios, they come in and give you some complex mess to work with, and then you have to spend two or three hours erasing all of that just to be left with this simple, beautiful thing. But to tell a musician, who is confident of his abilities and knows he can do lots of better things…sometimes people feel a bit insulted; they think you don’t trust their intelligence. I think you can do the simplest thing well or badly. It's not that because it’s simple, any idiot can do it. There’s sensitivity in the way you can strike just one note. Funk bass players know this very well.
BM: How does that relate to your work with Talking Heads?
BE: Well, I did this a lot with Talking Heads, extracting from simple things. For instance, I would take just the snare drum and use it to trigger one of my synthesizers, and then I’d put that output on a complicated delay. This allowed me to make cross-rhythms by using only that snare, just taking something that was there and shifting it in time, really, and putting it back into the mix again. And you weren’t muddying the picture with these cross-rhythms, because as long as that snare drum stayed in time, this other fabricated rhythm stayed in relative time — it couldn’t shift — so a lot of the cross-rhythms you hear on Talking Heads records are actually from the original instruments, but are being delayed or treated in various ways. Sometimes we would run the tape backwards and delay the sound backwards so you hear the echo before the beat, that kind of thing.
BM: Did working with Edikanfo in Ghana have any effect on your ideas about working with Talking Heads?
BE: Yes, but after the event. Watching those guys playing and seeing the relationship they had with rhythm was so totally disheartening for me. After seeing Edikanfo, I thought, “There just isn’t a chance of ever even approaching this.” They were good musicians, but not great musicians. But just seeing how they worked with rhythm made me want to give up right away. All the interactions between players and all the kind of funny things going on with the rhythm…there’s a lot of humor in it. And then when I started listening to the stuff that we did with Talking Heads, it was just so wooden by comparison. I couldn’t get very excited by it anymore. I could still get excited about it in other terms, but not in rhythmic terms anymore. It seemed to be really naive.
It’s like the same way I feel about the African sense of melody. Take King Sunny Ade, whom everyone is making a real big thing about lately. He has a great band, I must say, but I find him melodically quite uninteresting. I find his slide player, whom everyone is impressed by, quite boring. I’ve heard nine-year-old slide players who play better than that. It’s like, if I want to hear great slide guitar, there are 150 bluegrass players who can really play that thing and play it with a kind of feeling for the instrument that the guy in Sunny Ade’s band is never gonna have. Just like they play their drums with a feeling that I’m never gonna have, that I’m only beginning to understand. My good friend Robert Wyatt once said: “You commit yourself to what you’re left with.” It’s very true. After all the trial and error, you realize that you end up with one or two things you think you can do. So I’m not terribly thrilled by all the trans-cultural things going on at the moment. They seem to be well-intentioned, but…
BM: Like mixing woodgrains and formica.
BE: Yeah, it’s a bit like that, you know. It seems that too often you get the worst of both worlds rather than the best.
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