Enya
And Winter Came...

The saying "a winning team should not be changed" encompasses a certain wisdom, but it might be wise not to apply it too literally. More ruinous than Berlusconi's polls, the sales of the latest albums have led Enya to plough ahead like a Caterpillar, once again practically unchanged, with what I would call the "Watermark formula", named after the album in which it was first applied, back in 1988. Regarding the validity of this formula, I once spoke with absolute enthusiasm, an encomium extended also to its ability to withstand the test of time, generating other highly worthy "clones" (foremost among them "Shepherd Moons", nearly perfect like the first) with one excellent variation ("The Celts").

But as there are politicians who consider it "a precise duty to live to 120 years to govern for another 50" (brrr...!), even the finest string cannot be stretched indefinitely. As could easily be predicted, the flaws seen in "A Day Without Rain", confirmed more evidently in "Amarantine", have reappeared spread like an oil stain in the just-released "And Winter Came". By now, not even the undeniable refined technique and savvy craftswomanship of the (former?) Irish muse can mask an increasingly dangerous lack of ideas.

Let us thus remember in passing that Enya is of similar age to Barack Obama and therefore by definition is "young, beautiful and... ?" Well, not exactly tanned: she rather tends to a waxy white. In any case, she is in a phase of life where one should not have set aside all curiosity, even if in her partial defense, it must be recognized that the particular musical genre she proposes does not lend itself to daring stylistic shifts nor to bold experiments.

Probably I will be proven wrong by the usual truckload (as much as the current market allows) of sold albums, but I find this rigid insistence on the usual model counterproductive. On one side, there is the possibility to win over a superficial audience sensitive to trends, with very doubtful loyalty, who probably doesn't even know her early records, thus unable to make a comparison. On the other hand, there is the risk, if not almost certainty, of alienating old admirers out of boredom and weariness, among whom I gladly include myself.

Describing the album becomes almost routine, knowing the precedents. Those who, unlike me, know Greek would say that certain well-defined "topoi" recur in Enyan's works, which mere mortals identify more or less with "clichés".

There is, for example, the classic atmospheric piano piece, rarefied and delicately supported by a choir of sacred inspiration: it's the "Watermark" > "Shepherd Moons" > etc. sequence. Generally, it's the track that opens the album and also gives the album its title, and both things (what a coincidence) happen here as well. Nothing to complain about: beautiful and relaxing, but already heard, and by now, quite a few times.

The core of the album consists of a good number of sweet lullabies, with an inevitable choir with more or less closed mouth, and above all with the now well-known trademark, the pizzicato strings, more or less subdued. Whether these are real strings or some techno-gimmick is unclear, but surely the fact that this artist has never performed live concerts indicates that there’s a good dose of electronics in her musical potion. The genre is that of "The Long Ships" or "Angels", to cite the forerunners, emulated only for the "sound". The melodies, crucial given the near total absence of rhythm, are almost always rather predictable, or they are clear self-citations. "Journey Of The Angels" and "The Spirit Of Christmas Past", the most refined, don't stand out much from the rest.

Then there are the magical moments, or at least those that would like to be such: the pieces where Enya's voice (which is always heavenly, it must be said) seems to echo in the void, leaving the listener in awe. But from spells like "On your shore" or "Exile" to these current surrogates, a lot of progress has been made, unfortunately all downhill. I would save "Stars And Midnight Blue", but more for the flawless interpretation than for the substance.

We’ve been subscribed to the formidable never-ending children's rhyme since the unfortunate "Anywhere is" (in the first two albums it was absent, and not by chance they are the best). Here Enya spares no effort and offers not one, but two: "White Is The Winter Night" and "A Toy Soldier"

What is entirely missing is the rhythmic and petergabrielian Enya that we enjoyed in "Storms in Africa" or "Book of Days". A healthy shake would have greatly benefited an album that for long stretches is quite soporific. The only attempt in this sense is "My! My! Time flies!", a cheerful, syncopated little song with a vague Beatles connection, with the unexpected appearance of an electric guitar, a scarcely recognized instrument within the walls of the castle where our ethereal artist lives.

But the final touch that transforms an album neither fish nor fowl into a sneaky Christmas commercial operation is the choral piece called "Oiche Chiuin". One reads this Gaelic stuff and expects some mysterious Christmas song taken from Irish tradition. Then you come to hear it and realize that the words are the only Celtic thing about it: it is nothing other than "Stille Nacht" alias "Silent Night" or more prosaically "White Christmas"... whatever you want, but was it really necessary to slip this gift into the album as well? Won't the television spend a couple of months bombarding us with this and other well-known Christmas carols?

Well... while I think it over I recover "Watermark" and refresh my memory on who Enya was, hoping that the next release might sell a bit less, but find herself again.