In the early 2000s, I got interested in Brian Eno and picked up his first solo album, Here Come The Warm Jets. I had a hard time with it at first, so it sat on a shelf unloved. Over the years, though, it grew on me. I always liked the way Dead Finks Don't Talk sounds, but couldn't make head or tail of the lyrics—what they meant or what I should think about them. It wasn't until later that I got right with the ambiguity. You can't know everything or always be right. The lack of obvious meaning leaves space for listeners to draw their own conclusions.
