Swimming

Roger Eno's Swimming is a rather drastic departure from his more classically oriented and purposely ambient work. Rather, it is a series of 14 songs, eight of which are vocal, and three of which are his versions of traditional tunes. The overtone of the entire proceeding is quiet, graced with a simple elegance illustrated with acoustic and electric guitars, basses, pianos, keyboards, vibes, other delicate percussion and subdued synthesizers emulating a skeletal string section. What is striking — in its own gentle way — is his voice; it's unaffected, dignified, and allows lyrics to speak to sometimes deeply emotional subject matter — without saccharine embellishing. It's very British, and yet hints toward the northwestern European song tradition of the 19th century as well. The album begins on an uptempo note with the "The Paddington Frisk." It's a strange opening bookend; composed by Eno yet related to the traditional "The Parting Glass," which ends the disc. The latter is an example of a lyric supposedly written as the last sentiment of a man before he is hung. Whether it was or not is open to speculation, and this practice — the selling of these kinds of broadsides at executions — was common. Eno's opening concertina and percussion ditty is a dance piece supposedly written for the entertainment of those who witnessed the "Paddington Frisk" itself — the involuntary dance of the victim's legs after the bottom dropped out of the scaffold. Macabre, perhaps, but it's utterly delightful as music. It's the kind of tune one can hear Richard Thompson playing, yet it's out of character for the rest of the disc. The very next tune, "The Whole Wide World," is far more indicative. With it's fingerpicked electric guitars, spare bass lines, and a concertina, it all shimmers together, slowly and serenely. It's the most dignified kind of love song, a lullaby that is memorable for how moving and unpretentious it is. There are two songs here, "Amukidi," and "Hewendeway," sung in invented a cappella island "folk" languages and perhaps backmasked tape assemblages, but one cannot be quite sure. "The Slow River" is utterly pastoral, unhurried, sounding like the slow movement of water itself. The title track is led by Eno's gorgeous piano work and almost whispered vocals, hovering there as if by afterthought, sung only for himself. "Over the Hills" was written by John Gay in 1728 as part of his Beggar's Opera and sounds right at home here, as does "The Boatman," another uncredited traditional song. They appear back to back, transporting the listener to some other time and space. The other two love songs, "Where the Road Leads to Nowhere," and "How You Shone," offer glimpses of a timeless romanticism, envisioned by Lord Benjamin Britten or even Vaughan Williams if they had written adult pop songs. Swimming is a watermark for Eno. It points not only to his considerable ability and diversity as a composer, but to the depth of his heart and how well he listens to his Muse.