Enya

I know, I know–you fell in love with Watermark, fell in love to Watermark or maybe just heard Enya while walking around the mall and thought she was singing to you even though you don’t understand Latin and can’t tell the diff between Gaelic and Elvish. At this very moment, couples are conjugating to this 50-track career-spanning box (was going to say career-scamming, but seemed too mean) ‘neath the Christmas tree; hell, I did it once and haven’t stopped regretting it since 1988. But, really, hasn’t enough time passed to convince you this isn’t really music, just high-class new-age Muzak for people who don’t listen to anything but Enya (and weep whilst doing so)? I’ll admit Watermark is her high-water mark, if you accept the fact Enya’s second album should have been her last (and was, really, since everything after sounded the same–like very pretty static). C’mon, sorority sisters and other women of the expensive cloth, move on already to something more thoughtful and challenging–like, say, Secret Garden. Yeah, yeah, she’s a hard hobbit…pardon, habit to break; so’s black tar.