Saturday, 10 February 2007

Enya

Enya creates breathy music for spirits floating in clouds. That is to say her music is damp, cold and without any libido, to use the Jungian meaning of the word.

She is the leading proponent of that ghastly branch of the recording industry: New Age. You know the stuff, crystals, rainbows, angels, eating your placenta and giving birth in a paddling pool.

I can't really bring myself to expend too much energy on critically flaying the poor soggy dear, because merely thinking about her and her castrated-music-for-medicated-grannies saps the life from me.

Wait, I'll muster some gall.

It's over-produced. She has a voice, and not a bad one, but you wouldn't know listening to most of her songs because it's multiplied to overdubbed infinity, robbing her pipes of any semblance of diaphragm they might have once possessed. There are no dynamics, merely the very occasional "boonk" sound as her synthesisers struggle to replicate the sound of a pizzicato orchestra, something she could well afford to employ considering how successful she is. Notes never attack, they fade in, fade out and reverberate slightly, dulling the sound to a warbling flutter.

I'll let on that I actually like one of her songs, Exile. Why? It's got a good tune, simple instrumentation, and her voice is raw and alive, and it actually seems to be coming from somewhere other than a pack of tampons. But that was on Watermark, long, long time ago.

In truth, I feel tepid about her tepid music. But what I hate is her persistent deification by pleb media in "spiritual" scenes.

It's not spiritual music, you twits, it's DEAD music. There are so many tasteful options in the "sacred music" bin, Tavener, Gorecki, Penderecki, Part, even Schoenberg on occasion, why the hell do you always use Enya?

Ugh.

Also, she pinched most of her ideas from Cocteau Twins, ironically from their weakest period. You know, Elizabeth Frazer, the other vocalist on the Fellowship of the Ring Soundtrack? The good vocalist? Never mind.

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