A Breath of Fresh Air With Brian Eno

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I've got an email from a lot of you lately saying, can we do a show just off the noose?

Can one show not be in the grim march of events?

So here it is.

How do you intro Brian Eno?

Eno has a claim, as much as anyone does, to have invented the genre of ambient music.

So there's no narrative quality to the music.

It just sort of of starts, stays pretty much in one place, and then ends.

He certainly coined the term, built out the philosophy, sort of has eaten a lot of the music we now listen to.

But also, he's just done so many other things.

He's produced seminal albums by U2.

David Bowie.

I'm so glad.

But we're strangers when we need.

the talking heads.

Lori Anderson.

In our sleep.

As we speak.

Listen to the drum seat

in our sleep.

Cold place.

Never alone is

Hell, Eno composed the sound that plays when you boot up Windows 95.

Do you remember that one?

A lot of sound we just take for granted.

A lot of the way sound is now made.

Eno helped bring that into existence.

A lot of his work on creating generative systems that make music can be seen as a forerunner to much of today's AI systems.

And Eno is more than just a sonic technician or tinkerer.

He's this wonderful thinker and philosopher of art and just being a human being.

And he's got this really delightful new book out, What Art Does: An Unfinished Theory, as well as a new album with BD Wolf called Liminal.

I wanted to talk to him about all of it, or at least as much of it, as I could.

As always, my email, ezraclineshow at nbytimes.com.

Brian Eno, welcome to the show.

Hello, Ezra.

Nice to meet you.

So, your new book is called What Art Does.

And I guess, tell me, what does art do?

Well, perhaps I should tell you first why I thought that question needed answering.

Because in education in England, and in fact, I think probably in most parts of the world, the budgets that always get cut are the arts budgets, because there are apparently more important things that we should be teaching people: science, engineering,

financial technology, that kind of thing.

Yeah, you should be making short trades.

Exactly.

Exactly.

Are you really alive if you can't short a stock?

So I've always thought that art is actually one of the most important things that humans do with their time.

In my book, there's a long list of things that I consider could come under the headline of art.

And it includes, of course, obvious things like symphonies and photographs and paintings, but it includes cardigans and jewelry and makeup and tattoos and all the things that humans do that they don't have to do.

None of those things have survival benefits in the obvious sense.

They're things we do to do something in our mind, to change our mind in some way.

So, what does art do?

Why do we like it?

I have this phrase in the book that children learn through play and adults play through art.

And I think that's really what it does.

When we look at children and we watch them playing,

we don't think, oh, they're just wasting their time, they should do something more serious.

We realize that when children play, they're learning.

They're understanding about materials, about social relationships, about their own bodies, their own minds, about where they live, all of those things that are very important to understand.

And

they do that infallibly and with a huge appetite.

That's what children like doing.

And we understand, all of us understand that that's the way they learn things.

Art is grown-up play.

It's a way of imagining things and imagining what they would feel like

and imagining how they connect to other things that we know about

and then feeding that knowledge back into our lives and into our relationships.

I want to zoom in on a word to use there, which is feel.

One of the central arguments of the book is that art is a way we explore or attune to our feelings.

And I guess that raises another question.

You say, and I agree with this, that feelings have a bad reputation.

So to you, what do feelings do and why do they matter?

Yes, so they have a bad reputation because they're very hard to quantify and measure.

And

of course, science wants things that are easily comparable and easily describable in

some kind of of language of quantity and measure.

Feelings, because they're subjective, are very difficult to do that with.

However, the first response we have to most things is a feeling response, particularly if they're unfamiliar things.

What's the first thing that happens when you meet somebody?

You kind of form an impression of them quite quickly.

You think, he looks like a decent person.

He looks quite friendly.

He doesn't look hostile.

I think I could get on with him.

Or she looks pretty interesting and I think I'm in love with her.

Feelings form very quickly, actually,

and they form without really much volition on our part.

And they are, in fact, our first antennae, our first judgment of a situation, our first sense of whether it's dangerous or friendly or useful or useless is made on the basis of feelings.

And then after that, we backfill with other information we find.

And we sometimes find that our feelings, the quick response, were incorrect.

But surprisingly often, we find that they were actually exactly on the money.

I knew that as soon as I saw her.

One thing that I was thinking about while you were talking is

a way, I think, to say

what our modern relationship is here is that we think feelings lie and we think facts don't.

Yes.

And I've come to believe that's a very

simplistic way to think about both feelings and facts.

Yes.

But what I am doing to make form into content here while you talk, I have this whole list of questions.

And in a rational, coherent, factual way, I know what the next question should be.

What I'm actually doing

is watching a feeling that is moving around in my chest while you speak.

And there's a moment when I know that you said something that's at the next place we should go.

And it's not the thing on my sheet of paper.

Right.

It's this whole thing I'm doing right now in a way.

And maybe it's wrong.

Yes.

But no great interviews are logical.

Like they just aren't.

Like we're working in a medium that does not work that way.

Conversation does not work logically.

And I do think we've degraded our relationship, our attunement to what we feel.

Yes.

And that's actually a mistake.

So I understood one argument you're making about art, which feels true to me, is that it's a way of practicing our attunement to our feelings.

I think that opens something interesting here.

One thing in the book that connected for me was you quote a musician friend of yours, John Hassel,

who you say asks the question, what is it that I really like?

And says being able to answer that is the most important question.

Why?

So

we're being told probably about 10 or 12,000 times a day what we ought to like, what other people like, what some people would prefer that we liked.

We're told that in the form of advertising, in the form of political messages, in the form of all of the things that try to persuade us to think or believe one thing rather than another.

It's the biggest industry in the Western world, actually, persuasion.

And it's very easy in that flood, actually, of that tsunami of suggestions about what we ought to like to forget what we actually do like.

So I think what he's doing there, he's suggesting that the deepest feelings we have are actually the most reliable things that we know about.

One of the things that happens when you're looking at art or listening to art, something connects to you and you think, that's what I really like.

That's what really moves me.

And I think when that happens, you should pay attention to that.

You should think, why do I really like that?

What does that mean that I like that thing?

What does that connect me to that's so important to me?

And we frequently don't do that because the distraction rate is so high.

There are so many things to think about all the time.

I think this question of what is it that I really like and trying to pay attention to your response to different pieces of art is interesting because it gets it a mystery to me about being human, which is

why

things that are

legendarily beautiful works leave me completely cold, even as they have inspired thousands of books and encomiums from others.

And then I'll hear something or I'll see something,

and my soul will leap into my throat.

I've been obsessed this year with an album by an artist named Drum, and the album is called Under Entangled Silence.

And this one song, Wax Cap, I just keep listening to and listening to.

When I give my headphones to somebody else, they quite rarely have the experience I am having with that song.

Right.

In a way, that makes me feel lonelier,

but also a little bit more unique.

So you're an artist, but you're also an artist who both yourself creates and helps others create things for mass consumption.

And so, how do you think about that

difference of attunement in different people?

How some people can hear something and it is their favorite thing ever.

Yes.

And others will put that same thing on.

Yes.

And they hear nothing but noise.

I think the answer to that is that, of course, when we look at any piece of art, we're not looking just at that piece of art.

We're looking at this piece of art in terms of our own personal history.

So it's like you're hearing the latest sentence in a conversation you've been having for your whole life.

I wrote this little story once about somebody finding,

in some post-apocalyptic time, finding an art museum.

And the whole place is wrecked, but there's lots of pictures still around.

And they find one picture that obviously hasn't been finished, which is just a white canvas, which, of course, in fact, is Maljevich's white on white.

So

it has no meaning to that person who doesn't share its history.

Part of the value of any piece of work and the power of it is how it sits in the cultural conversation in general and in your cultural conversation in particular.

So a little difference that is very significant to you may be meaningless to somebody else.

For instance, I've always had a rather blind spot for Shakespeare.

No English person is ever supposed to admit that, but Shakespeare's never thrilled me.

I find it hard to read and quite unrewarding.

So when a critic, a writer, picks out a Shakespeare sentence and talks about its significance, they do that because they know the rest of the Shakespeare canon and they know where it sits in there and what value it therefore has.

It doesn't mean anything to me because I don't know any of those things and I don't care about them in that case either.

Well, let me offer a cliched

concern, which is that this is a way that art fails.

I think when people think of art now, they don't first think of music or food on a plate or the way a building looks.

They think of something you see in a museum.

And

I go to a fair number of shows or try to.

And am often left cold in part because it feels like there is so much cultural conversation going on.

And I'll read the little placard on the wall next to a piece by an artist working at the peak of their powers who is being venerated as one of the great artists of our age.

And this little placard is telling me what a meditation this is on identity and borders.

And I'm looking at it like, is it though?

And one of the ways art, it feels, locks people out is by demanding so much literacy and a cultural conversation.

And it's one reason music is so

interesting.

Well, one of the problems that fine art faces is the problem of its own irrelevance to most people's lives.

You know, nobody buys a £2 million or a £20 million painting just because they like it.

They buy it because there's a good chance they'll be able to sell it again at a profit, or it secures them a sort of social status that is

not easily obtainable otherwise.

So you have to make it seem very important.

You have to pretend that it isn't just an object of commerce.

It's an attempt to build something up by repackaging it in this kind of crust of usually incomprehensible language.

I think some of the worst writing in the world is writing about art, about fine art.

And it ought to be much simpler.

One of the reasons you like it is because it doesn't translate into words.

It doesn't turn into sentences.

It hits you in some other place, some other part of your mind.

You did an album in the last couple of years with Fred again, who I think is you've been a mentor to and who's another artist who I really love.

And there was a song on that album that became big.

And I remember the first time I heard it.

The song is called Come On.

And I've probably listened to it.

It was one of my top listened songs that whole year.

I want to play a little piece of it.

I want to ask you about it.

So we've been talking about feelings, and the thing that happened to me when I listened to that song, and every single time I've listened to it, since including in that moment, is something about the way you've distorted that sample

is incredibly physical for me.

I don't really know why that works, but I think it's something to do with the sense of

near incoherence of the voice.

It's like somebody trying to say something and it's

broken, you know, it doesn't come out clearly and straightforwardly.

So there's a sort of either a reticence or a feeling of the machine doesn't work any longer.

The machine that is me speaking isn't quite working.

It's defective in some way.

But the way you describe it there is almost frightening, where to me, it's extraordinarily comforting.

It's a feeling I almost never have.

I mean, there's very little I can put on that gives me the exact feeling of that song, and nor would I be able to describe the feeling.

Yes.

But it's not jarring for me.

It's like a caress.

If you had to name the emotion that that song has, what would you call it?

I mean, for me, it's there's something

melancholy and

like a nostalgia for a different future or something, a nostalgia for a future that that didn't happen, which isn't sad, but it's, it's a, to me, it's a very moving song, actually.

I love hearing you say that because I have such a different experience.

I find it enormously comforting.

That song.

That's lovely.

And that there's something,

yeah, very physical.

It's like having a blanket pulled over you.

And I even find this interaction so interesting.

I had Jeff Tweety on this show years ago from Wilco, and we we were talking about the song is Impossible Germany.

And I was asking about the lyrics of it because I've always found it to be such a beautiful song about the dislocations of travel.

Possible Germany,

unlikely Japan,

wherever you go,

wherever you land.

And that is not.

what he was doing with that song at all.

It was like a misremembered line from a murder novel, as I remember his description.

And just the idea that you can create something, that it's not just that it's evoking such feelings in me or others, but that the feelings are so different than even the ones it gives you.

Yes.

When you're making something, it starts to come alive when you start to have feelings that you didn't expect from it.

You think, well, I'm going to make this, that, the other.

And as it starts to form, it starts to change.

It starts to become something that you hadn't imagined.

And you can either say, okay, I don't want that, which is what a lot of people do.

They shut that down and try to get back to what they're supposed to be doing.

But I don't do that.

And I think a lot of artists don't do that.

We say, oh, I wonder where it's going.

I wonder where it's taking me.

And

you just carry on then and think

there's a certain point you reach, either way, you can't make it any better.

You notice that what you're adding is starting to subtract rather than to add, or you've hit the deadline.

A lot of the best things I've made have been because I hit the deadline and I couldn't spend any longer fucking them up.

I think this gets at another

interesting distinction.

So I think we've been talking about the exposure to pieces of art here, if I'm going to try to define it more tightly, and the way that they create a space to be attentive to feelings arising in you that you might not have expected.

Then once you have discovered that it gives you that feeling,

it can become a tool to re-evoke it.

I put on that song, Come On, to feel a certain way.

I put on, you know, your series of ambient albums

because I actually know how they will make me feel.

And I'm trying to shift my emotional landscape in that direction at a certain certain moment.

And I also think this is really interesting, this difference between art as something you pay attention to, or music is maybe something you pay attention to, and then music as something you use to change the way you pay attention to everything else.

That's a very nice distinction.

I wish I'd thought of that myself.

Well, it's very built on things you've written.

But I'd be curious to hear how you think about that.

I think when you're working as an artist, you're always world building.

You're creating a world.

It might be a huge world like, you know, George Orwell's 1984.

That's a whole world completely thought out.

And when you read that book, you decide to live in that world for a time.

And you decide to experience the feelings of living in a world like that.

Because the wonderful thing about art is that it isn't dangerous.

You can live in that terrible totalitarian world and then you can shut the book and go and put on

a Fred again song or whatever else you want to do.

I'm always sort of trying to find something that

suddenly makes me think, oh, there's a different kind of world.

I've never been in a world like that before.

If we go back to the idea of adults playing, I think that's what we're doing.

Pretending, imagining situations and then sort of figuring out the mechanics of them by imagining them is the clue to everything that that makes humans such a powerful and probably dangerous species.

So

even if you thought art was not valuable for anything else at all,

you would have to say that this process of giving our minds a way of imagining futures and virtually living in them, actually, living in them in our imagination must be a very important thing for human beings.

I hear this so often from artists and in books I've read about art.

This cultivation

of humanity, this cultivation of different futures.

I know you're doing a lot of work on Gaza, and I've been doing a lot of podcasts on this topic.

And as part of that work, I was reading a book by Philippe Sands, who will, by the time this comes out, have been on the show.

And this is a book about the Holocaust and the development of the idea of genocide.

And one of the central characters this book tracks is a man named Hans Frank, Franck,

who is under Hitler, the governor of Poland.

The worst things in history happen under Hans Frank.

And a point Sands makes about him that is very, very, very present in his biography is how cultured a man he was.

Yes, yes.

A beautiful classical pianist, somebody who, much more so than most people, does, really did care

about art, about literature, about music, about paintings, that he got it.

And at the same time, he was so much more capable of inhumanity and callousness.

And so, some part of me rebels on this.

I often hear novelists and others as if it is an equation with a single output.

If you expose yourself to more of these worlds, more Beethoven, more Bach, you will become a more civilized person.

And yet, so much of the most uncivilized civilizations

or or parts of our civilizations have been driven by people who were enormously cultured.

In fact, that was part of what they believed made them so superior to everybody else.

Yes.

No, you're absolutely right.

And in saying that it helps us use our minds in that way, I'm not saying necessarily for good things.

It just makes our minds better at imagining, but they can just as easily be imagining terrible things.

You know, one of the great art collectors of the 20th century was Himmler,

had a huge collection which he'd stolen mostly from Dutch and Low Countries Jews, French Jews, and he was apparently very

learned in that area.

But to your point, the ability of something to make a mind work better isn't the same as the ability of something to make a mind work to good ends.

That's a different problem.

That's a problem of morality, spirituality, something like that.

I'm not going to stay on this topic for very long because I want this to be a somewhat lighter conversation than this.

But after reading Sam's book, I started reading a biography of Martin Buber, the great Jewish theologian and one of the great humanists of the 20th century.

Yes.

And it was, again, so strange.

Hans Franck loved Bach.

And Buber loved Bach and says that much of who he is as an adult is formed in sitting in

concerts listening to the contradictions inside box music.

And

that two people, two souls can, I mean, far from our like, is come on melancholic or comforting, that these works of art can take people in such different directions.

I'm not blaming Bach for anything that Hans Franck did, but it just speaks to

something very, very complex in like the feeling faculties and what we bring to them.

That's a very good way of putting it, I think.

We've been told somehow that art is this very important thing that is good for you.

And I think it is, but I don't think it's good for you in that way.

I don't think it necessarily improves you in any moral dimension whatsoever.

I think it's quite possible that,

as some people now insist, Picasso was a bit of a shit.

He was more than a bit of a shit.

I mean, a remarkable artist.

I'm going light on him.

Complicated person, to say the least.

Yeah.

But it's funny that we expect that it would be otherwise.

It's because we've sort of imputed a moral dimension to art.

And all I'm saying is that no, I think it's much more biologically functional than we think it is.

I don't think it's such a spiritual, moral business being an artist.

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I've always found this very interesting.

You ever read the Roberto Bolano book, The Savage Detectives?

No.

It's a beautiful fiction book.

And one of the reasons I love it is it's because it's about a personality that I've always been fascinated by and do not myself have, which is the personality that would give everything,

anything, to create art.

In this case, young poets.

There are people, I mean, you know them, I've known some of them, who for them, art is everything.

They put their whole souls or whole lives into projects that most people would walk by if they were hung on a wall or playing in a store and not give a second thought to.

And then I know other people who see no role or understand no role for art in their life.

What to you differentiates those people, the people for whom art becomes everything, the most important thing,

evil in society cannot give a damn about what they are creating.

And the people feel no resonance to it.

Have you ever heard of a place in Switzerland, Lausanne, called the Musée de l'Arbrut?

It's the, I think, the greatest museum of outsider art in the world.

So these are people who...

none of whom were called artists in their lifetime.

A lot of them were in mental institutions and they had nothing much else to do.

And they they painted for their whole lives.

Some of them did it completely in secret.

Nobody even knew until they died that they had been working as artists for their whole life.

And my

kind of feeling about that is that if

you can invent a world that you prefer to live in, which is sort of what those artists were doing, then why not stay in it?

You know, if the rest of the world is awkward and you don't fit into it, it's got lots of sharp corners.

And you can make this world where suddenly you're sort of in control of it.

You've decided the terms of that world.

And I think a lot of what's happening when artists are working is that they're trying to make the world they would prefer to be in.

Now, that sometimes gets dismissed as escapism, but I don't think it is.

And anyway, I don't think there's anything wrong with escapism.

It's sometimes a really good idea to escape and to get out of things and think about them from a distance distance rather than from being in the center of them.

But this is another of the misconceptions about art that it ought to be

difficult to do.

And I think there are many people who I would call artists who never experience any difficulty with what they're doing.

It's just what they do.

People who make beautiful cakes, for example.

One of my daughters loves doing mazipan decorations on cakes and they're beautiful, the things she makes.

But I'm sure she wouldn't call that being an artist but i can't see what the difference is you know why why is that not being an artist so that's one of the other art world things that in order to make it valuable to justify the high prices we've got to think of some way of kind of making it seem abnormal making it seem like something that only abnormal humans can do what are you doing with art when i think of your library

it's not all creating a world that you would like to live in.

What is you've sort of given all these legible motivations for other people?

Is your motivation as legible to yourself?

At best, what I'm doing is

thinking.

I often start something by thinking, I wish there was a piece of music like this, whatever this means in my mind.

For instance, one of my best-known records is music for airports.

And that came from a very direct experience like that, of sitting in a newly built airport in Germany, near Cologne.

And

everything about the airport was dazzlingly beautiful.

It was lovely structure.

And they had

terrible German disco music playing really loud through the whole PA system in the airport.

And I just thought, nobody's thought about this issue of what kind of music would belong in this place.

You know, we use music in public all the time, but does anybody actually sit down and think seriously, what would be the best kind of music to have in this important place where people are arriving, leaving, going on to important new phases in their lives or going back to loved ones or whatever?

It ought to be something a bit more.

I started thinking, what should it be more of?

And so I started thinking and trying to make a kind of music that I thought would make the airport experience feel

important

and special.

And there were quite a lot of technical considerations, like obviously it mustn't interfere with communication.

It mustn't keep stopping and starting.

It must not matter if it gets interrupted.

So on and so on.

So that was a very conscious

act of

making a work of art.

But most of what I do isn't really motivated by such high-sounding ideas.

Most of the time I'm fiddling around

and something starts to happen.

Something...

intrigues me or some feeling starts to happen.

I think, I like that feeling.

How can I bring that forward?

How can I make more of it?

And I often don't know why I'm doing that or how it will end up.

I have an archive of about 11,000 unfinished pieces of music.

And what I do occasionally is pull one of those out and suddenly I haven't seen it for 15 years.

11,000 unfinished pieces of music?

Yeah, some of them are very short.

Let me hold you on music for our parts for a minute.

One of my favorite albums.

And the second song on that album, 2-1.

The tracks are not so evocatively named, given how evocative they are,

is like a very important piece of music to me.

So I want to play a couple seconds of it.

When you were saying that you wanted music that matched what you felt that experience should be, it should be more something.

2-1 on there.

What is it more of to you?

I think it's more contemplative.

I think it makes you relax into the situation that you're in, whatever that happens to be, presumably in an airport in this case, rather than than tries to pretend that you're not in that place.

So,

my nightmarish form of music is getting on an airplane

and hearing a piece of music coming like this because they haven't got the machine to work properly.

And you have two thoughts then.

You have a thought they're playing music because they want to stop us thinking about the possibility we might crash.

And secondly, they can't even get the bloody player to work properly.

So we're going to crash.

You know, you can use music as a mask, which is what is normally done in public situations, as a way of covering up the noise.

Or you can use music that invites the noise to sound like it's part of it.

So with all of that kind of music, what I call ambient music,

I don't want there to be an edge to the music.

I want it so that you don't know whether some of the things you're hearing are in the world around you or are part of the music.

So I want it not to have a sharp boundary.

I want it to sort of fade out into the rest of the world's noises around you.

I always think about that as being on an album called Music for Airports,

because that both is very discordant.

And then as I thought about it, more exactly correct.

That is, to me, one of the holiest pieces of music I have ever heard.

That piece of music just feels holy.

And in a way, it gets to something true about airports,

which is that this is a place where human beings go to fly,

where they're forced into, I mean, I feel this when I get on planes, a confrontation with their own mortality.

There's never a time when a plane, when I'm in a plane that is having turbulence during takeoff, or I don't think to myself in a way I usually do not think in my day, I could die.

Yes.

There are all these people.

They're going to places that are, in many cases, incredibly important to them.

And the airport is this like extraordinary combination of a place that is so banal, lines, and you're taking off your shoes and, you know, you're waiting in line for food that is mediocre at best.

And,

you know, you're late and your plane is late and you're annoyed.

And then also the absolute most remarkable place.

that a human being can possibly find themselves.

Something that for most of human history was completely unimaginable.

Yes.

And 2-1 to me on an album called Music for Airports is such a perfect song because it's more true about the airport than my experience of the airport is.

That's a nice way of putting it.

Yeah.

So I wanted to make flying feel like a more spiritual experience is what if I had to put it into a sentence with a controversial word in it.

And by that, I mean I used to be very frightened of flying.

And of course, I had to do it at that time in my career.

And I thought, well,

what about if you could make a kind of music that made you less worried about the idea of dying?

What about if you could make a piece of music that made your life seem less the center of your attention?

If you could see yourself as just being one atom in a universe of complicated molecules,

would that make things feel better?

And so in a way, it was intended to take the

stress off yourself,

not by pretending you weren't flying.

So let's make it just sound like a disco or a nightclub or something like that, which is what most of the music tries to do.

Let's not do that.

Let's say we're having an unusual experience and let's experience it as a beautiful experience.

One of the things in that album, Music Real Parts, your liner notes are very famous.

And I know you've been asked about it a million times, so I don't want to stay here too long, but you do talk about wanting that music to cultivate different modes of attention.

And that's been very influential.

This idea that music is a cultivator of different forms of attention, not all of them an attention that is spent on the music.

Yes.

I guess in the years since then, the decades since then,

how do you think the relationship between music and attention has changed?

Do you see it as a success of what you were trying to do?

Do you see it as a nightmarish world that you accidentally summon into existence?

What is your relationship to it?

Well, I think what's happened is that it's changed in both directions.

So I think people are ready to accord music a level of attention that they never have done in the past.

For instance, when you go to these extremely long concerts sometimes, 10 hours long, where you're basically listening to three sine tones for a very long time.

That's a level of attention that really people never

thought of giving until at least the middle of the 20th century and later.

So there's that.

And then on the other hand, you have TikTok or very short pieces of music like that, which are, of course, right at the other end of the scale.

But I think in culture, this is a general rule that every single standard,

every single metric has increased in both directions.

We now have extremely long pieces of music and extremely short ones.

We have extremely loud bands and very, very, very quiet ones.

It's as if we've taken every dimension in which music can exist and tried to expand it and say, what would happen at the edges now?

Let's make a new edge.

But I also was thinking about that in terms of the movement towards music that what it is doing

is saying, we are going to cultivate this form of attention or feeling for you.

So, the rise of the Spotify, but they're on every streaming network now.

The playlists that are, well, here's your Happy Beats playlist.

Here's your beast mode at the gym playlist for when you really need to be pumped up.

But here's your melancholy rainy day playlist.

Here's studying at a coffee shop, which is different, of course, than studying at the library playlist.

Here's your ambient playlist for ambient essentials, but here's your.

And now we're seeing this move into these playlists being in some ways generated, right?

I don't know how much of it is happening now, but clearly we're moving towards AI generating a bunch of these songs at functionally no cost, mass-produced mood-altering music.

Music is Xanax, music is Adderall,

music as mood alteration.

Yeah.

And done

not as a relationship between the artist and the listener, but like you hire the music to perform a service and to do so quite unobtrusively.

Some of that music is good, some of it is bad, obviously.

but how do you feel about that

well you're right in your previous question you asked did i feel any responsibility for that and i do actually um i mean i was very excited about the idea of generative music i invented the phrase i believe um

and i was very excited by the idea of making a music like a seed.

You know, a seed is something that has a genetic message in it.

And every manifestation of it will be a little bit different depending on where you plant it and what time of year it grew and so on and so on.

So I thought, wouldn't it be nice if you had music like that?

So, I mean, there's a very simple example of that.

Wind chimes.

A wind chime is a simple enough machine.

Let's say you've got five chimes.

Each one is a particular pitch.

It's not going to change.

It's only that pitch.

But how and when they strike depends on the wind so it's sort of semi-random so you can't really say that you composed that particular performance though you can say that i built the system from which that performance emanated you know a wind chime is basically a simple piece of generative music and so it shifts And I know you've talked a bit about almost wishing you could sell people not the album, but the system behind it.

It shifts the artistic act

into the creation of the conditions

that will create the artistic product.

Yes, that's right.

So two things become important.

What is the structure of rules, if you like?

What are the possibilities that the system has?

What are the limitations that it has?

And what are the materials you put into it?

So if you make a wind chime out of glass, for instance, or out of bamboo rods, or out of

metal, they're all going to be slightly different results, but each one is a kind of package of possibilities.

You're not specifically saying which possibilities you want to happen, but you're conditioning which group of possibilities can happen.

And I thought that was a sort of a nice area for music to be in, because if you think about it,

up until the

turn of the 20th century, you could never have the same musical experience twice.

There was no way that you could precisely repeat a musical experience.

As soon as records came along, you could do that.

You could hear exactly the same performance of exactly the same song over and over and over and over.

And that became how most of us listened to music, unless we happened to be born into a musical family or a church group or something like that.

Most of the music we heard was repetition.

So, what I thought was, I wonder if you could use the technology of repetition to make music that constantly changes

and

my first clue to that was when i first got hold of a tape recorder i'd wanted a tape recorder my whole childhood i just thought the idea of being able to catch a piece of sound and make it physical was most magical thing i could think of actually and i had this obsession with

you could play it backwards and i just wanted to hear what things would be like if they were played backwards discovering that first of all, you can capture sound and make it physical.

That was something new for the 20th century.

But then I thought, if you can make it physical, can't you also make it mutate in certain ways?

Can't you make it so the physical medium, for instance, is not reliable.

It will play slightly differently each time.

And so my first experiments in that.

direction were I had a collection of broken tape recorders

which I just got from junk shops you know or thrift stores, as you might say.

And I would

try to break them a little bit more, but so that they would still play things.

So a tape playing through it would change into something else, you know, it would have a lot of distortion or it would run unevenly like this, you know.

I discovered that if I connected two tape recorders together, put one tape through one and coming out through the other, so that the playback head is separated by by several feet from the record head, you get a very late echo.

And then you can build up those, you can work on top of those.

I mean, I discovered this in the 60s.

So did Terry Riley and a few other people, I think.

It just happened that I had two tape recorders for a while, so I could try this out.

And then I could build up these huge sort of orchestras of music live on my own.

So I think that became an obsession to try to make a recorded music that somehow changed every time.

I finally achieved it in the 1990s

and I'm still doing it now.

You draw this distinction when working with generative systems where you say you don't want to be an architect, you want to be a gardener.

What's the difference?

So

the conception of an architect is somebody who thinks about an end result in great detail.

You know, the archetype is Frank Lloyd Wright who designed everything down to the teaspoons in his houses.

And so the whole thing kind of pre-exists in the architect's mind and then is brought into into being by builders.

What a gardener does is put some seeds in the soil and then watches how they develop.

Oh, these ones over here are doing better than those ones over there.

So next year I'll plant them differently.

But you know that if you're making a garden, you're only starting something.

So one of Stuart Brand's books, it's called How Buildings Learn.

It's a great book.

And in that, he says,

You never finish a building, you only start it.

And I think that's what I kind of mean by generative music.

You start the piece, but it finishes itself.

It carries on finishing itself for the rest of time.

But so you upgrade this idea of generative music, and now

we have launched into this world of generative AI.

The way you are using the term generative

and the way

what it is describing when we're saying now generative AI, which are things like ChatGPT and all these large language models,

Is it the same word for you, right?

Are the two generatives equal?

I think they mean the same thing.

Now, of course, as a set of techniques, mine is much, much, much cruder and simpler and much more analog than the techniques that are generally being used in LLMs.

And of course, the other big difference is that mine are not owned by mad billionaires.

And I think that's an important difference.

In fact, with all the discussion about AI, to me, the single most important question is who should be in control of it.

And we've seen in this century what happens when billionaires control new technologies, social media I'm talking about.

And we've seen that

you get completely unpredicted and quite disastrous results sometimes.

the collapse of democracy in most of our countries, I think, is very traceable to social media and to the

kind of misunderstanding that

underwrote it, that,

oh, let's make this amazing new medium where everyone can communicate with each other.

Oh, but we've got to make a lot of money from doing it.

You know, in a way, the big mistake was when the algorithm became maximize engagement, which means maximize profits, of course.

If maximize engagement is what you're going for, then you end up with what we have now, an internet that flourishes on anger and

nastiness in some ways.

I'm not saying, of course, that everything like that is like that on the internet, but what seems to have happened in the race for profits, we've managed to sidestep the friction that normally comes with things being born into the world.

Friction is very important.

Friction gives you a little time to see what's happening.

It makes something ease into your life more slowly so you can start to correct it as it's easing in.

I always say it's like we've invented an amazing new type of car that can travel at 750 miles an hour, but we haven't put any brakes in it, you know, because brakes slow down the profits, basically.

So there's this question of who controls it.

And then also as you get it there, this question of who profits from it.

One of the things I find very morally complicated to think about with generative AI is that it is generative.

And the seed of it, and more than the seed of it, the substance of it

is the sum total of knowledge that human beings have made in a way that is legible to the crawling software developed by the AI companies.

And you can see that it's really about that because, in fact, these companies are mostly neck and neck with each other for how good their systems are.

It's not like one of them came up with an algorithm that no other human being could come up with.

They're sort of going back and forth because they have the same training data, which is us.

And so on one level, that's like everything else is.

Scientists are coming up with new scientific discoveries built on every scientific discovery before them.

You have a lovely bit in your book about all the human genius over how many years it goes into getting you to work in the morning.

There's nothing new about creations just being a marginal step forward, built on the shoulders of us all.

And yet I can never escape this feeling with the AI systems.

There is something about

the scale of the use here that should change who profits from it and how.

The fact that they have absorbed everything I have ever written for the internet and fed it into their machine, I kind of think somebody should send me a royalty check.

You know, it's not going, it doesn't have to be be a big one.

And it maybe shouldn't go to me, it should go to society.

Yes, yes.

But something about it feels, I don't want to call it theft, it isn't theft, but nor is it

just like a standing on the, like, there's something here that feels like it needs new ways of thinking about it.

Because, you know, just for a couple of these companies to profit off of the transformation of everything we've all ever done.

This is the question I'm asking myself.

Should it be that

we automatically have

system that says this is a social good, all this knowledge, it's a socially produced good, and therefore its usage should reward society?

That's quite hard to meter, of course.

It's hard to put a meter on it.

I think it has to be written into the

whole machinery itself so that nobody has to make a decision.

For example, it wouldn't be a bad idea if everything that was generated in that way,

50% of all the profits from it immediately go back to society in some way.

It would be saying, we're not claiming to be the geniuses here.

We're claiming to be the people who know how to corral it all, how to put it together, how to make it available to you.

But thank you for all the stuff you've written, Ezra and Brian and everybody else.

And

with your permission, we'll redistribute this to society.

It's so obvious to me that that should be the way.

But of course, that is not the American way at all.

That sounds like socialism of some kind.

Or at least taxation.

That seems true to me, too.

I mean, at the moment, these companies are not making such big profits that even doing something like that would be that meaningful to the treasury.

They're sucking in much more venture capital than they are producing revenue in general.

But in the future, if it is what they think it will be,

you know, if it is what they are promising their venture capitalists, it will be,

I mean, I guess you just solve that through the tax system, but it seems like you need a way of thinking about it that's a little bit clearer than the ways we have.

And it's funny, if you go into the writings of a lot of them, Sam Altman and

others from a couple of years ago, they're talking about this.

Like, this is a thing they imagine.

I mean, Altman has ideas for what's functionally like a universal basic wealth grant coming out of taxing the AI companies.

But I'm sort of with you on this.

I think it deserves a different conceptual category that is not merely the category of taxation, that is more something of sharing, right?

It is not confiscatory taxation, it is a reflection of the nature of these systems.

And sort of my view of them is they actually should be able to crawl the sum total of human knowledge that is, you know, at least that people are willing to make accessible to them.

Yes.

But that part of that is that there's a contract between those companies and the rest of us that we both know what we're doing here.

And we're in this together.

Yes, especially if you're trying to inspire confidence in them.

You want people to willingly participate in them rather than having it forced upon them.

Do you know this word that I came up with years ago, which is senius?

Yes.

Okay, so that was an attempt to try to understand that.

I had been studying the early 20th century painting in Russia.

There was a 20-year period when there were an amazing amount of innovation going on, you know, suprematism, constructivism, rayonism, all these different isms appearing.

And I discovered that the scene was very complex.

It wasn't just that there were a few brilliant artists like Kandinsky and Rodchenko and Tatlin and so on.

It turned out that some of the very important people were the collectors who would specifically target certain artists and say, I want to keep this person alive.

I'm going to support this person.

Or they would go to Paris and buy pictures that they brought back to St.

Petersburg and Moscow to show to painters there and say, look, this is what's going on in Paris now.

And then there were the people who ran the salons, who would invite artists to meet up with each other and talk to, and so on and so on.

The cafe owner at the cafe that everybody used to hang out in, who was quite conscious that they had a part to play in the scene and they would let people not pay for their meals and so on and put it on the tab.

And so I thought there was a whole scene here that was fertile, that was operational.

There was a whole support system.

And so I had got sick anyway of hearing this word genius being used all the time because it never seemed to me like it was just one person who was doing everything.

So I came up with this word senius, which is scene with an IUS on the end.

And that seemed to me to much better understand the ecology of systems like that.

And I think that's what it is.

It's an ecosystem, and we still don't understand ecosystems.

It's still not intuitive to most of us to understand how a thing like an ecosystem works, how there are lots and lots of nodes and they're collected in very complicated ways.

And if you move one of the nodes to a different place, everything else in the system has to shift.

Anyone who's become interested in the environment has started to become aware of how complex natural systems are.

But human society is a natural system as well.

And

the society of knowledge that we all share is a natural system.

This is a way in which, and I'm not an anti-AI person, I use ChatGPT a lot.

I'm fascinated.

I feel a sense of both, I do feel some fear, but I feel a tremendous amount of wonder around these technologies.

I find

watching it formulate a response that in some ways reads more human than the responses most humans give me to most things,

it does.

It generates a form of awe in me.

One thing that frightens me as somebody who came up on the internet and understands, I think, fairly well how knowledge production works on the internet is they are breaking the fundamental social contract of the internet, which is you even take something like Google.

The value of Google is that there is so much that other people have created that is valuable and Google connects you to it, but it does connect you to it.

Yes.

And now

Chat GPT or Anthropic or whomever inhales the internet

and it's all right there.

And I never go to the underlying sites.

And the creation of all this data, which was incentivized by ways people were able to monetize and not just monetize, but have their work discovered.

That was for many of us on the internet when I started a blog with no ever intent of a job or a profit from it.

I was a college student.

Just the idea that anybody would ever find their way to me and read something I did and care about it was such a tremendous incentive to create.

But there is something very problematic about this.

A huge amount of the internet and the intellectual commons we are now built on is traffic moving around the internet, people moving around the internet, and then

the advertising that comes from that, the whatever that comes from that, keeping that whole ecosystem healthy.

And these AI systems by nature, you go to the system and then for most people, it stops there.

Even Google search is trying to become more like that.

The whole thing they're built on, they are going to destroy or at least substantially degrade.

Yes, that's right.

When I was a kid and I liked watercolor painting a lot and

I used to notice that after a day of painting, the water that I was dipping my brush into, which was, of course, a mixture of all the colours I'd touched that day, was always the same colour.

Actually, I called it munge,

M-U-N-G-E.

Munge is sort of purpley, browny,

a horrible colour, basically.

And whenever I've tried creating things on ChatGPT, I haven't done that much of it actually, but I work very hard to get my prompts right and to filter what I'm saying to it and trying to edge it into something interesting.

But the colour of munge covers all of it.

It's so over-digested.

And

of course, it's quoting things, it's using things on the basis of how frequently they have appeared.

I don't know whether you've ever tried making anything, let's say, artistic using...

Chat GPT or any of the other programs.

It has a very interesting progression when you're doing it.

The first thing you make, you think, bloody hell, that's pretty amazing.

And then after half an hour or so, you think, I'm so bored.

And I remember that thing that Samuel Johnson

said about something, I can't remember what it was about now, but he said, it's a little bit like watching an animal walk on, a dog walk on its hind legs.

You're not interested in how it walks, but just that it can.

You know, you're sort of impressed by the fact that it can do something that is really quite like a human being.

But then you find out that it's like a quite dull human being.

And it kind of doesn't get more exciting unless you can trick it into some sort of aberration, which is what I've been trying to do.

I've been amazed on the one hand at how good it is, but then I also have the exact experience.

I love your description of it as munge.

And I think it goes back to something we were talking about at the beginning of this conversation, which is

the

information

and possibility that is encoded in factual knowledge.

And then the more amorphous forms of intelligence and intuition that are encoded in feelings.

So

I have experimented a lot with using different forms of AI as help in this show.

And they are helpful for things that are very specific,

but they are never helpful for the actual work of creating the conversation.

And what's absent in the output is, I think, what we're talking about.

I could not give you a description of how this conversation is structured.

It is just structured by me having

intuitive reactions to what is happening with it and then moving with those reactions.

Yes.

And Chat GPT is structured as a probabilistic output

of what the entire internet would have done.

Yes.

And so it's not even that it always lacks surprise, but it always has a very visible internal logic.

And then over time, that internal logic becomes overpoweringly annoying.

Some people who work on these companies said, oh, I keep my diary in it, and that's very interesting.

You should try that.

So without giving too much personal information, I did that.

And the first couple of responses, I was amazed at at how psychologically insightful they were, how supportive they were.

I mean, it was better than what human beings in my life gave me.

And then on response 9, 10, 11, 12, 15, 20, it was the same fucking feelings.

It was the same

glazing and sycophancy and the same kinds of insights.

And I think it's one of these things that you couldn't look at the response and say there's anything wrong with it.

But there is something human beings are attuned to

in the way we do not travel a perfectly logical or well-structured path.

We're not supposed to.

It's not how our intelligence works.

And it is funny.

You do begin to feel the divergence there.

Yeah, it's not even what we like, actually.

You know, as humans, we like a certain amount of predictability, but only a certain amount.

We don't want it exactly the same each time.

So, you know, we rely on our interest being taken by a deviation we didn't expect.

The sycophancy is the thing that really drives me mad when it says, Good question, Brian.

That's a really good question.

That's not just an insight, that's a revelation.

Yes,

that's not an X, it's a Y formulation.

Yeah,

so you first of all, if you're going to do work with AI at all, you have to, as my friend Danny Hillis says, you have to start off by saying, please don't flatter me.

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You've done so much of your work in collaboration, but also in collaboration with machines.

I mean, it is something you are known for.

Yes.

So to you, what makes you good

at creating healthy collaborations between humans and technologies?

And what for you typifies a healthy collaboration as opposed to

an outsourcing,

an unhealthy form of the diminishment of the human beings behind it?

Yes.

So I have a few mental tricks that I use, which I think are just naturally part of me.

One of them is when I'm faced with a piece of technology which can do something,

I immediately don't want to know about what it can do.

I want to know what it can do that the makers didn't imagine it would ever be used to do.

And with

the type of technology that I work with, musical technology, that's a very rich, open territory.

And it's rich and open because not that many people explore it.

You know, they have something that says this will make your mixes sound louder, and they use it to make mixers sound louder.

Well, you know, I don't blame them, that's what it says on the box.

But you will also find out that that can do something else that nobody had ever thought of doing with music before.

So that was an example of using something that was meant to do a particular job, record something and play it back later on.

So build something

new in real time.

So I think that's to do with technology, to do with people.

So the first thing I think about when I look at a band, I think, okay, so there are, let's say, five people in that band.

How many possible duets is that?

How many possible trios?

How many possible quartets?

How many solos?

Five, obviously.

And how many, everybody?

One.

Now, it very often happens that that space has not been explored properly by the band.

People haven't thought, what about if only three of us play in this?

And then another, a slightly different configuration of three play.

So it's a very simple thing, but it suddenly unlocks a

set of possibilities that probably hadn't been explored before.

You know, what happens if we only have vocalist drums and bass?

None of the other instruments that usually fill in the harmonic information in between

um there are lots of tricks like that but they're sort of ways of looking at the system as it stands and thinking what hasn't been done yet with this system what might excite people you see i think that music grows out of excitement and if you aren't feeling excitement then you try to create it in some way.

If the situation isn't turning you on, then you try to change it until it does turn you on.

Because when you're excited, you are at your most alert, I think.

And when you're at your most alert, you're most likely to spot

the little thing that is going to turn into the big thing.

One thing that makes me think about that feels relevant in both directions is

I think it's often a very important question

where the agency resides in something.

So I think we always say we use social media, but no, social media uses us.

Yeah.

Yeah.

And over time, if you watch anybody on it for long enough, you watch them become the social media that's using them, right?

They begin to bow to its incentives, to its habits, to its form.

What you were just saying, I thought, was so interesting about the set of possibilities in a band.

Initially, it's a bunch of musicians playing in a band.

Eventually, the band, through its habits, through what's expected of it, is playing the musicians.

Yes.

And I think this is very true with technologies.

You know, when you talk about you discovering or Terry Riley discovering what you can do with two tape recorders, you are playing the tape recorders.

And I think this is probably not always true, but when you think about a lot of the digital possibilities people have had, you know, in the last couple of decades, like Ableton and other things, it's still people playing.

the synthesizer, playing the music library.

I think the fear that a lot of us have about generative AI is that we're not going to be playing it.

It's going to be playing us.

Often because we prefer it to play us, right?

When a kid, you know, you can use AI to help you write a better essay, but a lot of people just want the AI to write the essay, right?

The whole essay.

The whole essay.

And I think that that space between are you playing the technology or is the technology playing you

is a very tricky one.

And I think that's one of my more dystopic versions of our AI future, my kids' future in AI,

is a world in which they've given up a lot of their own agency because it seems a little bit ridiculous to take it.

Yes.

And that could always have been true.

I mean, there's a million technologies that I hand, like, I'm happy I have Google Maps.

I have a bad sense of direction and I'm not trying to make it better.

But there is some line

where you are acting upon the world versus the world that's just acting through you that I think is going to be very hard to police.

Yes, I think what bothers me, which is exactly part of what you're saying, is the possibility of not making a mistake at all, of making things that always come with this sort of professional finished gloss of what a real pop song looks like or what a real picture looks like.

And I think that's lethal.

I have a friend, an architect friend called Rem Koolhaas.

He's a Dutch architect, and

he uses this phrase, the premature sheen.

So when in his architectural practice, when they first got computers and computers were first good enough to do proper renderings of things, he said, everything looked amazing at first.

You know, you could construct a building in half an hour in the computer and you'd have this amazing looking thing.

And he said, but it didn't help us make good buildings.

It helped us make things that looked like they might be good buildings.

But he said, in the end, we went back and I went to visit him one day when they were working on a big new complex for some place in Texas, and what they were using were matchboxes and pens and packets of tissues.

It was completely analog.

And there was no sense at all that this had any relationship to what the final product would be in terms of how it looked.

So it meant that what you were thinking about was, how does it work?

What do we want it to be like to be in that place?

You started asking the important questions again, not what kind of facing should we have on the building or what kind of color should the stone be.

And when I see people fiddling around with

synthesizers, this has always been a problem with synthesizers, that they always come with a bank of sounds ready-made for people who don't want to learn how to program them, which it turns out is most people.

I remember talking to Yamaha once who produced the most successful synthesizer of all time, which was the DX7.

And I said, you know, you should really really make these a little bit easier to program.

And they said, well, we don't bother because nobody tries to change them anyway.

We often get them back for repair and we can tell if somebody's tried to change the programming.

And nobody's ever done it.

They've just used the presets.

And that seems to me a kind of mental laziness that I really don't think fits well with making new things.

I think that's strangely a little bit inspiring as a principal.

You've worked,

corresponded, known so many just fascinating people people admire.

I want to see if you'd be up for me just reading a few names, not a lightning round.

You can answer at whatever length you would like, but you just tell me, you know, something, inspiration and insight, something that you took from that person, if you'd be up for it.

Sure, yes.

Let me start just the composer, John Cage.

I think the thing that really impressed me about Cage was not his music, which I didn't particularly care for after the 1940s, but his idea that being a composer was a kind of a practice in the sense of a religious or a spiritual or a philosophical practice.

And I thought, that's the kind of artist I want to be.

I want to have a practice.

I want there to be resonances into other parts of my thinking.

I don't want it to just be something that I do.

on the weekends and then forget about.

So Cage with his book Silence was very important for me.

That came along at just the right time for me.

David Bowie.

One of the most

committed artists I've ever worked with in the sense that he

really thought about what he was doing.

Just to tell you a short story.

I remember being in the studio with him doing, he was doing a vocal on one of the songs.

I can't remember the song.

So he does the vocal and he comes back into the control room, listening back to it.

He says, It's a bit lumberjack, isn't it?

And I knew exactly what he meant.

And he said,

I think the guy should sound a little bit more nervous, like he's working in an office and he hasn't been there very long and doesn't quite know how you're supposed to behave in the office.

Then he goes back out and does this other vocal, and suddenly you hear the transition from this confident,

strong, hairy, macho guy

to somebody who's a little bit timid and has doesn't quite know whether he should be saying the things he's saying.

And seeing him fine-tune that was very impressive.

Steve Reich.

Well, Steve Reich was a very important part of my listening because he made a piece called It's Gonna Rain that

opened a door for me.

And the door it opened was not just to do with the way in which he made it, which was itself very impressive, using an absolute minimum of material, 0.8 seconds of material, I think it was.

That piece works by making your brain behave in a certain way.

You are not an inactive listener in that.

All of his work, I think, depends on making your brain perform and watch itself performing in a certain way.

So I suddenly thought then, oh, the composer isn't just Steve Reich.

It's Steve Reich and my brain that's making this composition what it is.

And that thought never left me that you actually are engaging the technology of the listener's brain to complete the piece.

They're not passive.

Listening to his music completely changed my relationship with music, I think.

It's like power washing your own mind.

Yeah.

To really sit through it.

It's as psychedelic as any

as I think any drug out there.

It really does.

It's so rhythmic and it forces your brain to adjust to it in a way that feels like when you come out the other end of it,

some sort of reprogramming has happened.

Yes, yes, certainly.

That definitely happened with me.

I can definitely say from the moment I heard It's Gonna Rain, music was a different thing.

Lori Anderson.

Oh, such a sweet friend.

Probably the hardest working artist I know.

She absolutely never stops, and she is always working on half a dozen projects in 10 different parts of the world.

And

I think she's the only person I know who can

fly all night,

not sleep, come straight into a meeting, and be absolutely there.

She's a remarkably low-maintenance person.

She's always there

and always sharp.

And Stuart Brand.

Well,

all these people you're naming are people who had a huge impact on me.

Stuart was in the army during, I guess it was the time of Korea or just afterwards.

Yes, just after Korea, I guess.

He was in the army, and I don't think he was ever ashamed of being in the army.

I think he enjoyed it.

And he left the army and became a hippie, became one of the

sort of foundational hippies around Timothy Leary and Ken Kesey and that group of people.

And

he's always been a very big thinker and a very long-term thinker.

And one of his earliest thoughts was

if people on Earth could see a picture of the Earth from the moon, it would change our consciousness of the Earth.

A thought he had sitting on a roof wall on acid, if I remember the story correctly.

That's absolutely true.

Yes, acid does produce good results in some people,

not in me, unfortunately.

So Stuart sort of gave birth to this idea, I think, that if we could show the world

from the outside, if we realized what this tiny, what an amazing, extraordinary, unique gift it was, this tiny little planet teeming with life,

swimming around in a dead universe, as far as we know.

We still don't know that there's any other life in the universe, which is phenomenal if you think about it.

We still don't know.

We might be the only life in the universe.

I think about that nearly every day.

I think it's the most sobering thought.

I think that should be shouted from the rooftops every day.

That's my version of seeing the whole Earth from space is getting people to understand that we might be the only life.

It might all be on this one place.

And bloody hell, shouldn't we look after it a bit better then?

Those things make me constantly think and constantly be sort of grateful for the fact that I'm alive.

I remember reading this comment from a New York taxi driver who's driving the taxi.

And he says, he turns to the customer, he says,

oh, life, I'm so glad I got in.

I just love that.

The idea that it's like an amazing show at a theater and you manage to get a ticket to see it.

I appreciate that kind of gratitude.

That is lovely.

And then, always, our final question: What are three books you'd recommend to the audience?

Okay, so this was a very hard question.

Three is not very many books, and I thought quite hard about them.

So, one of the books, it's called Printing and the Mind of Man.

It was the catalogue, really, of an exhibition that was at the British Museum in 1963.

And it was about the history of printing.

But actually, the book is about the

most important books in the Western canon and the impact that they had when they were released.

It starts with the Gutenberg Bible.

It's such a fascinating book because you really start to understand where the big fundamental ideas that made Western culture, It doesn't have any Arabic books or any Indian books or any Chinese books.

So it's really about the last 500 years in Western culture.

And it's probably the most fascinating book about intellectual history that I've ever read.

And it's a very beautiful book because it was put together by a great printer.

who used lots of beautiful types and so on.

It's a wonderful book.

So the second book I think I'm going to suggest is a a book by the architect Christopher Alexander called A Pattern Language.

And it's really a book about habitat, about what makes spaces welcoming and fruitful or hostile and barren.

And it's the most beautiful book.

So it talks about things at the biggest scale possible, you know.

countrywide, nationwide scale, down to the scale of the moulding moulding of a banister or something like that, and tries to understand why some of those things work and why they don't.

And it's such a lovely book to read.

Over the course of my life, I've bought, I would say, 60 copies of that book now because I always give it to anyone who is about to renovate a house or about to build a house.

So that's my second one.

It's a great read and you would love it.

My third one is

Naples 44 by Norman Lewis.

Norman Lewis was a British intelligence officer who was sent to Naples when the Germans had been beaten out of there.

And he was sent there to find out whether there were nascent fascist groups still working in Naples.

And he kept a diary.

And this is the most fabulous diary you'll ever read.

It's just both hilariously funny, deeply moving, and totally confusing.

And you realize that Naples was like another planet.

It's like reading sci-fi, some of it, the strangeness of that little world of Naples with its intertwining of deep religiosity, deep criminality, deep love of the senses,

incredible attention to food,

weird, decaying aristocracies all woven in with crooks and priests and so on.

So there's three books.

And I just want to suggest one other thing, which is a subscription to the London Review of Books.

Probably the best intellectual reading in the English language, I think.

It's amazing.

Comes out every two weeks.

And it's,

if you're interested in books, the London Review of Books, for me, beats the New York Review of Books or the Times Literary Supplement or any of those things.

Well, let me try to do this because I've loved loved these recommendations so much.

And I didn't offer this to you before, so maybe it's too hard given all that'll flood into your mind.

But how about three albums?

Three albums that have influenced you, that they sort of form part of your

base layers.

Okay, I can respond to that.

One that

really made a huge impression on me was a folkways record called The Rural Folk Blues.

And they were sort of semi-field recordings.

Some of them were actually records that had been made, but they all dated from the 20s, 30s, and 40s.

And they were black American music.

I'll make you happy in the morning

as any woman can be.

Now, I'd been listening to a lot of black American music because of where I grew up.

in Suffolk, which had a lot of American air bases, but it was pop music, doo-op and stuff like that.

I loved it.

When I heard those recordings, I thought, okay, this is the soil that that stuff grew out of, and I loved it.

It was such, such rich soil.

I think the second one that I have to name, because it still remains as one of the most moving records to me, is the Velvet Underground's third album,

which had the song Pale Blue Eyes.

Linger on

your pale blue eyes.

Beautiful, beautiful record.

Beautifully controversial in many ways, because

in fact, I think it was probably without that record, I wouldn't have been a pop musician.

I don't know what I would have done.

I've probably been an art teacher or something, but that record made me think This is something I could do.

And I think it made a lot of other people think that.

I know so many musicians who say that was the record that really made things happen for me.

Now I've got to do number three.

That means I've only got one choice left.

This is very difficult.

See, so much of the music that has really affected me is religious music, which is funny because I'm sort of an atheist.

But the thing about religious music, I think, that is so special is that it's made by people, and it's made by people for other reasons than I want to pull a chick, I want to make a lot of money, or I want to dance.

Now, all of those things are fine.

I have no problem with them, but the majority of popular music comes out of those kinds of feelings, I think.

I am very moved by the old conception of beauty, that when we recognize beauty, it is recognizing a nearness to God.

Yep, well, I'd take that.

Yeah, even an atheist like me would say,

it depends how big big the word God is for you.

And if it's big enough, I can accommodate ideas like that.

So I'm going to choose a gospel record.

And it's a strange one.

It's the consolers.

The consolers were a couple, Sullivan and Iola Pugh, P-U-G-H.

You know, I asked myself the question after going to this museum I mentioned in Lausanne, the Museum of Outsider Art.

I thought, what's outsider music?

I wondered.

And then I thought, well, actually, the whole of pop music is really outsider music in that it didn't come out of academies or institutions.

It's just people doing stuff together.

And I think, as outsider artists, the consolers, Sullivan and Iola, stand absolutely unmatched.

Brian, you know, truly, what a pleasure.

Thank you.

Thank you so much.

It's lovely to talk to you, Ezra.

This episode of the Ezra Clan Show is produced by Annie Galvin, fact-checking by Michelle Harris.

Our senior audio engineer is Jeff Geld, with additional mixing by Amin Sahota.

Our executive producer is Claire Gordon.

The show's production team also includes Roland Hu, Marie Cassione, Jack McCordick, Marina King, Kristen Lin, and Jan Koebel.

Original music by Amin Zahota, Isaac Jones, and Pat McCusker.

Audience strategy by Christina Samoluski and Shannon Busta.

The director of New York Times Pinion Audio is Annie Rosstrasser.

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