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Rating: This is an album that seems not to enjoy privileged attention when it comes to the most famous "inventor" in the history of rock, and I think the time has come to pay him the rightful tribute and due importance, because, let's be clear, these are masterpieces for which the very word "review" is an unforgivable offense and impudence.
A few years ago, Todd Haynes and Michael Stipe already thought about giving new luster to Brian Eno's debut album by including the two glam classics "Needle In The Camel's Eye" (steeped in dandy nostalgia and with the essential support of Phil Manzanera) and "Baby's On Fire" (a perverse and tribal divertissement sonically "spoiled" by Robert Fripp) in the soundtrack of the controversial "Velvet Goldmine," but the fact remains that compared to other works like "Another Green World" or "Before And After Science", "Here Comes The Warm Jets" (which, for what it's worth, is on record the best-selling album of solo Eno) certainly occupies a position of lesser prominence in musical critic considerations.
A fact, in my opinion, absolutely inexplicable.
Lightyears ahead of contemporaries (Roxy Music, who indeed veered towards chart-topping soul funk, and Bowie included), tracks like "Dead Finks Don't Talk" or the superb "The Paw Paw Negro Blowtorch" (to which "Boys Keep Swinging" by the White Duke owes much) leave me open-mouthed for their originality of arrangements and production, the freshness of the melodies, their actuality which has remained virtually unchanged over the years (and more than 30 years have passed).
These are sparkling tracks, in which Eno uses the pop song format to delve into his experimental versatility, finding the right compromise between captivating solutions, glam aesthetics, and sound exploration, reaching in this "disequilibrium" paradoxically a perfect balance, where despite everything happening sound-wise, the lightness of the songs is not distorted in the least but rather enriched, tantalized.
In particular, I find it fantastic that Eno tried to write seemingly frivolous hits while simultaneously conducting bold experiments... according to my theory that a great artist must be able to write three-minute pop songs that never bore, Eno proves to be an absolute genius: in the title track he even manages to move by always using the same riff and starting the vocals after two minutes.
This is because, as I often maintain, it's much easier to have 8 minutes at your disposal to put in as much extravagant stuff as possible than to condense it all into three minutes without putting melody and immediacy at risk... for example, Brian Eno's pop songs have this merit, and this is where the great value of his music is measured.
In conclusion, I almost regret having discovered this great album so late, even though my mom had the tape of this album (because in the '70s it was fashionable to "pass tapes" among friends, not cassettes, but tapes!) but it was all worn out....yet she told me that Brian Eno did his best work when he wore eyeliner and, as always, she was right.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
02 The Paw Paw Negro Blowtorch (03:00)
My, my, my, we're treating each other just like strangers
I can ignore the significance of these changes
But you can't treat it lightly, and you'll have to face the consequences
All my worst fears are grounded
You have to make the choice between the Paw Paw Negro Blowtorch and me (no, no, no).
By this time I got to looking for a kind of substitute
I can't tell you who I found, except that it rhymes with dissolute
But my baby's so lazy, she is almost unable, and it's driving me crazy
And her loving's just a fable that we try, with passion, to recall
Send for an ambulance or an accident investigator
He's breathing like a furnace
So I'll see you later, alligator
He'll set the sheets on fire
Mmm, quite a burning lover
Now he'll barbeque your kitten
He is just another learner lover
You have to make the choice between the Paw Paw Negro Blowtorch and me.
04 Cindy Tells Me (03:30)
Cindy tells me, the rich girls are weeping
Cindy tells me, they've given up sleeping alone
And now they're so confused by their new freedoms
And she tells me they're selling up their maisonettes
Left the Hotpoints to rust in the kitchenettes
And they're saving their labour for insane reading.
Some of them lose - and some of them lose
But that's what they want - and that's what they choose
It's a burden - such a burden
Oh what a burden to be so relied on.
Cindy tell me, what will they do with their lives
Living quietly like labourer's wives
Perhaps they'll re-acquire those things they've all disposed of.
06 On Some Faraway Beach (04:40)
Given the chance
I'll die like a baby
On some far away beach
When the season's over.
Unlikely
I'll be remembered
As the tide brushes sand in my eyes
I'll drift away.
Cast up on a plateau
With only one memory
A single syllable
Oh lie low lie low.
07 Blank Frank (03:35)
Blank Frank is the messenger of your doom and your destruction
Yes, he is the one who will set you up as nothing
And he is one who will look at you sideways
His particular skill is leaving bombs in people's driveways.
Blank Frank has a memory that's as cold as an iceberg
The only time he speaks is in incomprehensible proverbs
Blank Frank is the siren, he's the air-raid, he's the crater
He's on the menu, on the table, he's the knife and he's the waiter
09 Some of Them Are Old (04:40)
People come and go and forget to close the door
And they leave their stains and cigarette butts trampled on the floor
And when they do, remember me, remember me.
Some of them are old, some of them are new
Some of them will turn up when you least expect them to
And when they do, remember me, remember me.
Lucy you're my girl, Lucy you're a star
Lucy please be still and put your madness in a jar
But do beware, it will follow you, it will follow you.
Some of them are old but it would help if you could smile
To earn a crooked sixpence you'll walk many crooked miles
And as you do, remember me, remember me.
10 Here Come the Warm Jets (04:00)
[...Inaudible...]
[Further] we make claims on [our teas]
[Dawn inner here] for we've nowhere to be
Nowhere to be
Nowhere to be
[Father stains], we're all on our knees
Down on our words and we've nothing to be
Nothing to be
Nothing to be
Further down we're all on our [sails]
[Paid to upheed] though we've nothing these days
Nothing these days
Nothing these days
[Further still, their stall in a daze]
We're down on our knees and we've nothing to say
Nothing to say
Nothing to say...
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Other reviews
By luludia
A melody like a magic lantern or crystal ball, then the aristocratic ennui of the voice.
Here we inhabit a world between chance and control, between the wheel of fortune and science.
By Nevadagaz
Here come the Warm Jets reveals something new with every listen and paves the way for an incredible musical career.
Eno was brilliantly tuned to the Glam Rock wavelength and soon would have been onto New Wave and Punk too, a casual or conscious precursor of the sounds that would come.
