Brian Eno: Fullness of Wind

Q: WHAT DO ENO NOW? ENO: So, for many decades I have been interested in what I call “generative music” and it occurred to me I could save time by generating interviews as well. Since I really give the same interview over and over, I thought it keen to identify motifs, as it were, and send them on “thought loops.” I usually begin by referencing some gasbag that no one has heard of such as Stafford Beer, the noted cybernetician, that is, noted by me. I then observe that the evolutionary process is complex things generate from simple things, such as Stafford Beer and the like. Next is a seemingly profound statement such as “I am far more interested in seeing Michelangelo’s colour palette than

Crappy Cars 2: Safety Last

In 1967, a chain car collision in Louisiana would impact traffic safety rules. A mosquito fogging truck slowed down a tractor-trailer. Behind it, a pink Cadillac under rode the tractor-trailer and crashed. Tragically, a lap dog was killed. Also killed was Jayne Mansfield, an actress with large breasts. The public was shocked and alerted to the danger of cars crashing under trucks. The feeling was, If Jayne Mansfield's huge boobs couldn’t cushion the force of a collision, what hope is there for the rest of us? The Highway Traffic Safety Administration mandated that semi truck trailers be outfitted with a rear under-ride bar. This bar became forever known as "The Jayne Mansfield Bar" (and wha

Crappy Cars of the 1970s

An American poet named Sammy Hagar wrote a passionate song titled I Can't Drive 55! Ironically released in 1984, Mr. Hagar warns of the Orwellian oppression of lowered speed limits. In his poem, Mr. Hagar clearly believes his precious time to be a valuable commodity! He laments, What used to take two hours now takes all day/ Huh, it took me 16 hours to get to L.A. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Hagar was not rushing back to Cedars-Sinai to conduct a heart transplant; instead, he was racing to S.I.R. studios to practice more of his pig-squealing guitar solos. Such depravations for headbangers! From his bucket seat, the libertarian laments, Write me up for 125/Post my face wanted dead or alive/Take my

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