Brian Eno’s studio in Notting Hill is tucked away at the end of a cobbled mews, its facade a quarter of the normal size. The effect is like a kind of fairy-door, and as you enter, it opens on to a vast light-filled room with a spiral staircase at the centre. On one side, Eno, in a purple shirt, is hovering silently over a table top making marks on something. On the other, his latest collaborator, the Dutch artist and writer Bette Adriaanse, busies herself with the same task (they’re signing copies of their new book about art). An airy piano melody wafts over the scene: entering it feels like exhaling.
It does for me, anyway. I’ve been anxious about this interview, not least because of a warning from Eno’s assistant to avoid talking about his musical history, which he doesn’t feel is relevant; she apologises for flagging it up but thought she had “better be safe than sorry”. Eek. A few years ago a Guardian interviewer was given short shrift for daring to ask about Eno’s famous collaborations (“I so don’t want to talk about this,” a sleep-deprived Eno snapped). Is this going to be a case of never meet your heroes?
