One​ morning in early spring, I dreamed about Brian Eno’s head. At the entrance a sign proclaimed: ‘Twenty Thousand Brian Enos!’ Row upon row, little plant-pot bulbs of his smiling face, pegged out to the horizon. ‘We went to Brian.’ Roxy Music were art school for everyone. In A Year with Swollen Appendices: Brian Eno’s Diary 1995, he floats a few nagging imponderables. No algorithm or software would ever have come up with the glorious car-smash of the Velvet Underground or Roxy Music.