Mr. Eno can fill
an hour like nobody else can.
Maybe he has tapped into some deep reserve in the unconscious, one that has deeply familiarized him with the meaningless nature of time.
Perhaps it's an affect of his sensory perception, one that distances him from the subjective experience of duration.
And what is even more impressive is that he is capable of consistently expressing his inner mystery through the calibrated striking of tensioned cable.
Were it not for this, perhaps his greatest miracle, we could never share in this deeply private experience.
His skill doesn't seem to diminish with age, since his work in
Thursday Afternoon is equally atemporal.
In a return to the concretist, I'm pretty sure this is a widely available album.