Above, Waylon’s iTunes Enya list, finally exposed.
Yesterday, the elephant staff sat in the back sunroom of Waylon’s downtown Boulder home—ad manager Lindsey Block, two interns, Waylon and I—when there was a knock at the door.
Only a few minutes before, Waylon’s iTunes had been blasting 80s ballads, his favorite late-afternoon work music. (Just wait until 4:30 rolls around and his top three shirt buttons spontaneously pop open while he sings along to “Eye of the Tiger.”) But the shuffle had decided to switch to…Enya, all of us too absorbed in our work to notice.
Lindsey went to the door to let Jean, a prospective intern, in, and Waylon snapped to attention. He joked, “Oh no! I’ve got to find something cooler for us to be listening to.”
We giggled. A short pause. Then Matas, our resident hipster-i’m-not-a-hipster/music authority intern, said softly, “I sort of like Enya…”
Another pause. It was my turn to speak up. I had suddenly been feeling so much more…relaxed. “Me too,” I admitted.
One by one, we were nodding in agreement. We all, secretly, loved Enya.
It’s true. I own an Enya album. Except it’s saved in my iTunes under “Artist Unknown.” Waylon, more ironicly, has Enya saved under “Enya is Not Cool.”
Enya. She’s like a soft wave crashing onto the sand. A storm-filled sky over the Scottish moors. Like lovers having make-up sex in moonlight, while weeping on each other. (Waylon offered that last image, but it turns out that everyone has his or her own—search Enya on youtube and you’ll find montages of horses, budding flowers, anime superheroes battling evil.)
Personally, Enya reminds me of summer drives to the public pool. She was perpetually playing in my mom’s tape deck. And of Ted, the first guy in my high school (ever) to come out of the closet. He walked the halls with Enya in his discman because it made him “feel calm,” which I always sort of respected.
Enya is not cool. But chances are, you kinda like her.
Go ahead. Admit it.