Published on Dec 20, 2004
A few times in your life you discover what I like to call those
“epiphany albums” — those albums that profoundly and permanently
affect your perspective. You know that shtick where someone is
asked “if you were stranded on a desert island and only had five
albums to listen to for the rest of your life…”? One of
those albums. This year I added one of those albums to my list. (I
tried to avoid gushing over this album, but I also had to try to do
it justice. I already know I’ll be way past the number of words my
editors prefer… well, screw those guys.)
When I first got a copy of
In Absentia, I was familiar with Porcupine Tree (PT) from a
half-dozen of their older songs I knew and liked. I was quite
unprepared for the experience of this disc, sitting slack-jawed in
utter bliss as track after track of masterfully crafted songs
displayed a range of moods and textures ranging from ethereal and
trance-like to devastatingly heavy. Snatches of a vast number of
influences surface throughout the disc. The dreaminess of Pink
Floyd, the powerful angst of Nine Inch Nails — Rush, Radiohead,
Depeche Mode, Tangerine Dream, Tool and Korn all could be cited as
influences if you care to make those comparisons. Heavy-metal and
electronica meld with psychedelic prog-rock in ways I’d never
imagined. Despite the varied derivations of the music, Wilson’s
sonic landscape is original and fresh. Bits and pieces may sound
familiar, but few bands I’ve heard could so carefully mesh those
diverse elements and still sound like an original band. PT isn’t
afraid to emulate someone else, but they never do so without
reinventing it into their own unique vision.
As musicians, the members of PT are nothing short of stellar.
Steven Wilson is the founder, primary songwriter and vocalist, and
he plays guitar like an old-school rock-god. Whether playing a
searing solo or providing swirling, feedback-infused sonic
wallpaper, he carefully crafts the many layers of guitar parts and
provides a distinctive musical voice to each track. In these days
when guitar solos are almost unheard of and most guitarists have
succumbed to merely providing rhythm, Wilson knows what those six
strings were made for. His solos echo the brilliance of Page or
Gilmour at their best, and his supporting parts provide deep layers
of sonic texture to the complex palette that PT works in. Richard
Barbieri is PT’s long-time keyboard player, and his contribution is
a perfect complement to Wilson’s guitar and voice. His keys provide
a lush foundation and colorful highlights when in a supporting
role. When he does move to the forefront, he does so with power and
with tasteful restraint, avoiding the flourish and hyperbole that
so many keyboard players fall into. The rhythm section — hell,
it’s almost criminal to relegate these guys to that supporting role
— is pure genius. Bassist Colin Edwin adds much more than just low
end to the mix. From the syncopated funk of “The Sound of Muzak” to
the arterial pulse of “Gravity Eyelids,” Edwin knows when to fill
the gaps and when to leave them gracefully open. His fluid style
complements each song whether peaceful or aggressive. Drummer Gavin
Harrison is a phenomenon. An award-winning author of books on drum
technique, he ranks right up there with the Neil Peart or Carl
Palmer — he’s that good. Harrison has a gift for strength and
power, and a nose for subtlety when that’s what’s needed. One
listen to his work on this album (check out the blistering “Wedding
Nails”) was all it took me to see Harrison’s incredible talent.
Lyrically, this is dark stuff. Those familiar with PT know that
Wilson’s brain is a dark, often scary place where the beautiful and
terrible cohabitate in equal measure. Ghosts, serial killers and
apocalyptic visions are his muse. He comes across like part Stephen
King, part Rod Serling and part Gary Larson. Wilson’s lyrics
traditionally carry a strong sense of irony and black humor, and a
strange dark underbelly. Death, suicide, and the paranormal have a
solid founding in his work, but his songs never fall into the dark,
angry realms that material might lead to. More often Wilson’s
musings on death are wistful and melancholy rather than angry. His
tragedies are told with an unsettling smirk mingled with sadness
and compassion.
Starting out the disc in that vein is the erotically creepy
“Blackest Eyes.” Throughout this disc runs a thread of dark
sexuality, often cloaked in a mask of introverted innocence, yet
often unsettling and deviant, such as within the opening verse
which Wilson delivers in a soft, flutey tenor; “Walk in the woods
and I will try / Something under the trees that made you cry / It’s
so erotic when your makeup runs.” Wilson maintains this sort of
sexual darkness through out the disc, surfacing again on “Gravity
Eyelids,” in which he tries to coax a lover out of sleep; “Open
your eyes love / Hear me out before I lose my mind / I’ve been
waiting for hours / Let the salt flow, feel my coil unwind.” His
lyrics and the hypotonic, dreamlike music evoke that familiar
feeling of being in the twilight place between sleep and the
conscious world, where everything moves in its own half-reality.
Wilson has that gift of creating a sonic ambiance to accompany his
lyrics, providing a landscape for his dark musings. One of the best
examples of this is on “Heart Attack In A Layby” (A layby is what
we Yanks would call a “rest stop.”) Wilson’s vocal invokes a sense
of longing and forlornness, the protagonist succumbing to a
roadside nap he’ll never wake from, daydreaming of a call from an
estranged lover that will never come. The minimal instrumentation,
gently quavering keyboards and acoustic guitar, provides a mood of
melancholy that perfectly accompanies the singer’s last thoughts,
which Wilson presents beautifully in a lonely conversation with
himself, fading off into the hiss of cars on the highway. This
quiet, sad song with its minimalist composition is one of the most
powerful on the disc, largely because of Wilson’s gift for empathy,
and his ability to project that empathy to the listener.
Wilson’s vocals seems at first rather frail and wispy, and his
soft tenor seems too airy to support the often dense lyrics and the
powerful music, but he manages to deliver incredible power. Like a
blown-glass swan held in the grip of an iron vise, Wilson’s fragile
voice resides in careful balance with the often heavy
instrumentation. He can invoke strong emotional feelings with
simple inflections of his voice, which is extremely powerful in the
way he effectively uses clever arrangements and vocal effects to
bring his intense lyrics to the forefront.
One of my favorite tracks is “The Sound Of Muzak,” an acidic
view on the music industry, rounding out a trilogy of songs begun
on the album
Stupid Dream with “Piano Lessons” and on
Lightbulb Sun with the cynical “Four Chords That Made a
Million.” Wilson makes no bones about his disdain for the music
biz. A well-deserved one, being a self-made indie success,
operating far outside the copy-&-paste world of mass-market
popular music. “Hear the sound of music drifting through the aisles
/ Elevator Prozac stretching on for miles” should be a familiar
observation to anyone who has to endure the soulless musical
dribble that leaks out of top 40 stations and mall speakers alike.
The final remonstration of “Music of rebellion make you want to
rage / But it’s made by millionaires that are nearly twice your
age” speaks volume to me on the state of popular music.
“Prodigal” relates a common theme of searching for a meaning or
a place in the world and ultimately finding no pat answer. Feeling
himself an outsider, and seeking to find meaning through his art,
through religion, and like any good Gen-Xer, in mind-altering
substances; “I tried the capsule and I tried the smoke / I tried to
aid escape like normal folk / But I never seemed to get the joke.”
A lazy slide guitar arrangement gives way towards the end to a
slithering solo by Wilson.
It’s hard for me to decide what’s more compelling, Wilson’s
brilliant compositions or the dense, thought-provoking lyrics. In
the end they marry themselves together perfectly. Regardless of
your particular tastes, I think most people will find something
satisfying on this disc.
I strongly recommend you take a few minutes, head over to
www.porcupinetree.com, click on Discography and
listen to a few tracks (I recommend the songs from
In Absentia as good starters). The PT website lets you
listen to entire songs, not just 30 seconds samples, in CD-quality
streaming audio. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.