There's a very brief flicker of a moment when you think all will be lucid, cascading joy for Brian Eno's Small Craft on a Milk Sea. That moment comes in the form of "Emerald and Lime," the album's ice flow funeral march opener. It's a sweet and sad moment that points to how articulate Eno can be, if he chooses to. Unfortunately, it fades very quickly. You start to spiral down a dark, uncomfortable cavern with, "Complex Heaven" - many broken electronic noises jabbing at your skin. Even when the heavy bouldered beats of "Flint March" and "Horse" come tumbling down during the descent, it all proves to be too thin and insignificant to care.
I know Eno is capable of creating strong ambient atmospheres, but Small Craft sounds like he wasn't paying attention half of the time. It's as if he allowed his computer programs to do the lion's share of the work, all while he went to his kitchen alcove, sat on his hands and stared listlessly out the window. The album is plenty foreboding and I'll admit that kind of aesthetic is a tough sell for me. However, when it's done right and impacts like a true cerebral phantom, I'm all in. Instead, Small Craft unfurls like the ricktey, herky-jerk "House of Cool Ghouls" ride at your local carnival.
I'm particularly hard on this album because it' made by Brian Eno. For a man who has redefined the way I think about music and the universe, I expect better. Frankly, I don't care how old and tired you may get, I still expect output worthy of your name. Sure, you're bound to have some albums that sink into obscurity when you've got as long of a career as Brian Eno, but it's all the more disappointing when the wounds are still fresh. Plus, Eno hasn't aged so poorly, not like, say, the Rolling Stones. His previous album, Another Day on Earth, was a celebratory synthesis of the greatest elements Eno had culled over the years.
As it stands, Small Craft on a Milk Sea is a deflating and tepid mess. It would be a shame to see this album be Eno's swan song.
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