What was little Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle thinking? Boas and lipstick and leopard print, oh my: a long way from The Scratch Orchestra, that. (Or maybe not, if punk was the liberator of the secret knowledge of production and performance and Roxy was one of the unacknowledged legislators of that particular English daydream.) And then those queer, quavering, quaint solo turns — pastoralism and Buddy Holly as insect percussionist and the best thing Phil Collins ever did. Sure it verges on the proto-twee at times and Eno — despite his increasing abstraction into the world of the talking head and press quote — continues to talk a good (read: highly interesting and occasionally controversial) game. But the total abstraction of Eno’s music post-1980 makes me yearn for him to return — even with mixed results — to the song form, at a time when it teeters (at least among the piss and shit swamp known as the avant garde) on the edge of extinction.