Listening to Fear Of Music in the car yesterday. Listening loud. Pavement’s a mess, and I need to hit the wipers to wash the road-salt from the windshield. The wipers continue: the music continues. After a while a new element enters the mix, and it takes me a moment to realize that the juddering squeal at the edge of hearing is coming from outside the cabin and not from the speakers—it’s the sound of rubber on glass as the wiper blade drags against the dry shield.
Somewhere Brian Eno is smiling.
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