Enya-ology
I watched a lot of Steve Martin movies and got into Enya and thus had a minor existential crisis
Forgive me, I’m about to get pretentious.
The other day, I was watching the very strange and fun Steve Martin flick LA Story. It’s a quasi-magical realism modern-day fairytale about Steve meeting a tuba-playing British reporter through the encouragement of a self-communicating highway electronic billboard.
But what struck me most outside of genuinely enjoying the movie was the soundtrack. Particularly an atmospheric psywave of a song that I assumed was some deep cut by Bjork or Annie Lennox.
Instead, I quickly googled to learn it was a track by none other than the Irish new-age borderline meme Enya. Exile.
I hadn’t thought about Enya in, literally, 20 years. I know next to nothing about her. But memory is a funny thing, particularly with things like music.
I have one still ingrained deep in my head, from elementary school art class. I distinctly remember our teacher putting an Enya cassette on every period, telling us it was music to inspire and music to stimulate.
I thought it was boring as hell.
But that’s not the germane part. Instead, just the thought of said memory sent me down a rabbit hole. When I picture those days in that class, it’s a clear image. 1080p. Bright. Seamless. A gangly smock draped over my chubby fourth-grade body.
It was two decades ago. I started to think about my dad. I started to think about the stories he told me when I was little. Stories about him growing up, clearly made-up stories about rumbling in the forest of Newton, Massachusetts with Kenny Green. And then I remember how, in my head, I pictured those stories.
Grainy. Black-and-white. Fading. Charlie Chaplin films with a miniaturized Jewish goateed man with a bald spot. Those stories when told were almost the same length of time away from my Enya Art Class memories. And to me, those stories were ancient, while mine are still of a moment, still clear, still an A24 clip in my head.
I’m not really sure where I’m going with this, beyond thinking about how strange all this stuff is, how memories are yours and yours alone, and a shared memory turns into something completely different when it touches someone else’s ears.
Anyway, the Enya song is great and the album is too. I’m sorry to Mrs. Whateverhernamewas that I scoffed at it. It’s a great art-class soundtrack.
Here’s some other stuff I liked in January.
Born on the Fourth of July: As someone born on the third July (like the star of this movie), I’ve always wanted to watch this to have it in my pocket as a point of reference. It’s obviously a bit heavy-handed like most Oliver Stone movies, but it got me. Cruise forever.
Uncrustables: They’re so good.
The Killers’ Hot Fuss: Revisited this album for the first time in a while. Yep.
Rooting for a bad NFL team: It rules! For the first time in my adult life, the NFL team I root for sucks. Woe is me? Nope. I’m so excited for the draft. Hope springs eternal! Why do fans complain when their team stinks? No expectations, every player could be the next savior, goalposts are moved to more attainable goals. The Patriots having 6 Super Bowls might help?
Shots of Taylor Swift during playoff games: Yeah, I’m going the other way. Keep showing her! The degree to which this is pissing people off is so unbelievably funny. Clearly none of you were around for when Tony Romo was dating Jessica Simpson and Carrie Underwood.
The Holdovers: Alexander Payne is one of our greatest filmmakers, and it’s very nice to get a movie that feels all but guaranteed to age into a certified holiday classic. Even if the Paul Giamatti In ‘N Out stunt was cringe.
Alex G/Hop Along/Saintseneca live show: Had a great time at the benefit show for Philly scene guy Steve Poponi, who passed away last year. Thought this was the best I’ve heard Alex G in the three times I’ve seen him. I love Bobby so much. And look! Someone recorded the whole set.