Kitty and Michael write a poem about a double sound-painting, and keep looking out for words …
It‘s bit like „Walter and Conny“*
(laughter)
*distant TV memory mode
… looking out for words
in the ether
in charming pictures
in empty light house theatres
in hanging gardens –
with a hush-hush, with the thing that‘s golden (ah, they don‘t say the word).
Kitty and Michael go on. There‘s desert sand, there‘s snow, there‘s an intimate conversation. The joy to return to a collection of fleeting delights. The unforgettable kind of fleeting (hasty, hasty, perfunctory).
Sketches by Roger on the keyboard at the beginning.
Good old piano. All baggage lifted. Dissolved.
Never talkative, nearly falling into (they don‘t say the word).
Brian then works on them, preferably on trains, on long distant train rides.
It feels like an analog record, each note having a furry
furry
furry
aura.
Furry, no.
A breathing to the margins.
The eerie „Obsidian“ takes a familiar church organ and repurposes it creepily. (Sounds like a matter of fact, where‘s the poetry, hon?)
Look, Michael, Kitty adds (she‘s in description mode now), „Wintergreen“ builds gradually to a peak that recalls Brian‘s old collaborators, Harmonia – minus the German band’s regular motorik beat, of course.
Mhmm, says Michael. But, Kitty, this is not really a poem. More a conversational thing –
in the ether
in charming pictures
in empty light house theatres
in hanging gardens.
They don‘t say the word.
(„Mixing Colours“, by Roger and Brian Eno is out now. The title of these lines is a (not really hidden) homage to the unforgettable delights of listening to the one irresistible F.R. David song on air, time and time again, in 1982)