A few times in your life you discover what I like to call those
\n“epiphany albums” — those albums that profoundly and permanently
\naffect your perspective. You know that shtick where someone is
\nasked “if you were stranded on a desert island and only had five
\nalbums to listen to for the rest of your life\u2026”? One of
\nthose albums. This year I added one of those albums to my list. (I
\ntried to avoid gushing over this album, but I also had to try to do
\nit justice. I already know I’ll be way past the number of words my
\neditors prefer… well, screw those guys.)<\/p>\n
When I first got a copy of
\nIn Absentia<\/i>, I was familiar with Porcupine Tree (PT) from a
\nhalf-dozen of their older songs I knew and liked. I was quite
\nunprepared for the experience of this disc, sitting slack-jawed in
\nutter bliss as track after track of masterfully crafted songs
\ndisplayed a range of moods and textures ranging from ethereal and
\ntrance-like to devastatingly heavy. Snatches of a vast number of
\ninfluences surface throughout the disc. The dreaminess of Pink
\nFloyd, the powerful angst of Nine Inch Nails — Rush, Radiohead,
\nDepeche Mode, Tangerine Dream, Tool and Korn all could be cited as
\ninfluences if you care to make those comparisons. Heavy-metal and
\nelectronica meld with psychedelic prog-rock in ways I’d never
\nimagined. Despite the varied derivations of the music, Wilson’s
\nsonic landscape is original and fresh. Bits and pieces may sound
\nfamiliar, but few bands I’ve heard could so carefully mesh those
\ndiverse elements and still sound like an original band. PT isn’t
\nafraid to emulate someone else, but they never do so without
\nreinventing it into their own unique vision.<\/p>\n
As musicians, the members of PT are nothing short of stellar.
\nSteven Wilson is the founder, primary songwriter and vocalist, and
\nhe plays guitar like an old-school rock-god. Whether playing a
\nsearing solo or providing swirling, feedback-infused sonic
\nwallpaper, he carefully crafts the many layers of guitar parts and
\nprovides a distinctive musical voice to each track. In these days
\nwhen guitar solos are almost unheard of and most guitarists have
\nsuccumbed to merely providing rhythm, Wilson knows what those six
\nstrings were made for. His solos echo the brilliance of Page or
\nGilmour at their best, and his supporting parts provide deep layers
\nof sonic texture to the complex palette that PT works in. Richard
\nBarbieri is PT’s long-time keyboard player, and his contribution is
\na perfect complement to Wilson’s guitar and voice. His keys provide
\na lush foundation and colorful highlights when in a supporting
\nrole. When he does move to the forefront, he does so with power and
\nwith tasteful restraint, avoiding the flourish and hyperbole that
\nso many keyboard players fall into. The rhythm section — hell,
\nit’s almost criminal to relegate these guys to that supporting role
\n— is pure genius. Bassist Colin Edwin adds much more than just low
\nend to the mix. From the syncopated funk of “The Sound of Muzak” to
\nthe arterial pulse of “Gravity Eyelids,” Edwin knows when to fill
\nthe gaps and when to leave them gracefully open. His fluid style
\ncomplements each song whether peaceful or aggressive. Drummer Gavin
\nHarrison is a phenomenon. An award-winning author of books on drum
\ntechnique, he ranks right up there with the Neil Peart or Carl
\nPalmer — he’s that good. Harrison has a gift for strength and
\npower, and a nose for subtlety when that’s what’s needed. One
\nlisten to his work on this album (check out the blistering “Wedding
\nNails”) was all it took me to see Harrison’s incredible talent.<\/p>\n
Lyrically, this is dark stuff. Those familiar with PT know that
\nWilson’s brain is a dark, often scary place where the beautiful and
\nterrible cohabitate in equal measure. Ghosts, serial killers and
\napocalyptic visions are his muse. He comes across like part Stephen
\nKing, part Rod Serling and part Gary Larson. Wilson’s lyrics
\ntraditionally carry a strong sense of irony and black humor, and a
\nstrange dark underbelly. Death, suicide, and the paranormal have a
\nsolid founding in his work, but his songs never fall into the dark,
\nangry realms that material might lead to. More often Wilson’s
\nmusings on death are wistful and melancholy rather than angry. His
\ntragedies are told with an unsettling smirk mingled with sadness
\nand compassion.<\/p>\n
Starting out the disc in that vein is the erotically creepy
\n“Blackest Eyes.” Throughout this disc runs a thread of dark
\nsexuality, often cloaked in a mask of introverted innocence, yet
\noften unsettling and deviant, such as within the opening verse
\nwhich Wilson delivers in a soft, flutey tenor; “Walk in the woods
\nand I will try \/ Something under the trees that made you cry \/ It’s
\nso erotic when your makeup runs.” Wilson maintains this sort of
\nsexual darkness through out the disc, surfacing again on “Gravity
\nEyelids,” in which he tries to coax a lover out of sleep; “Open
\nyour eyes love \/ Hear me out before I lose my mind \/ I’ve been
\nwaiting for hours \/ Let the salt flow, feel my coil unwind.” His
\nlyrics and the hypotonic, dreamlike music evoke that familiar
\nfeeling of being in the twilight place between sleep and the
\nconscious world, where everything moves in its own half-reality.
\nWilson has that gift of creating a sonic ambiance to accompany his
\nlyrics, providing a landscape for his dark musings. One of the best
\nexamples of this is on “Heart Attack In A Layby” (A layby is what
\nwe Yanks would call a “rest stop.”) Wilson’s vocal invokes a sense
\nof longing and forlornness, the protagonist succumbing to a
\nroadside nap he’ll never wake from, daydreaming of a call from an
\nestranged lover that will never come. The minimal instrumentation,
\ngently quavering keyboards and acoustic guitar, provides a mood of
\nmelancholy that perfectly accompanies the singer’s last thoughts,
\nwhich Wilson presents beautifully in a lonely conversation with
\nhimself, fading off into the hiss of cars on the highway. This
\nquiet, sad song with its minimalist composition is one of the most
\npowerful on the disc, largely because of Wilson’s gift for empathy,
\nand his ability to project that empathy to the listener.<\/p>\n
Wilson’s vocals seems at first rather frail and wispy, and his
\nsoft tenor seems too airy to support the often dense lyrics and the
\npowerful music, but he manages to deliver incredible power. Like a
\nblown-glass swan held in the grip of an iron vise, Wilson’s fragile
\nvoice resides in careful balance with the often heavy
\ninstrumentation. He can invoke strong emotional feelings with
\nsimple inflections of his voice, which is extremely powerful in the
\nway he effectively uses clever arrangements and vocal effects to
\nbring his intense lyrics to the forefront.<\/p>\n
One of my favorite tracks is “The Sound Of Muzak,” an acidic
\nview on the music industry, rounding out a trilogy of songs begun
\non the album
\nStupid Dream<\/i> with “Piano Lessons” and on
\nLightbulb Sun<\/i> with the cynical “Four Chords That Made a
\nMillion.” Wilson makes no bones about his disdain for the music
\nbiz. A well-deserved one, being a self-made indie success,
\noperating far outside the copy-&-paste world of mass-market
\npopular music. “Hear the sound of music drifting through the aisles
\n\/ Elevator Prozac stretching on for miles” should be a familiar
\nobservation to anyone who has to endure the soulless musical
\ndribble that leaks out of top 40 stations and mall speakers alike.
\nThe final remonstration of “Music of rebellion make you want to
\nrage \/ But it’s made by millionaires that are nearly twice your
\nage” speaks volume to me on the state of popular music.<\/p>\n
“Prodigal” relates a common theme of searching for a meaning or
\na place in the world and ultimately finding no pat answer. Feeling
\nhimself an outsider, and seeking to find meaning through his art,
\nthrough religion, and like any good Gen-Xer, in mind-altering
\nsubstances; “I tried the capsule and I tried the smoke \/ I tried to
\naid escape like normal folk \/ But I never seemed to get the joke.”
\nA lazy slide guitar arrangement gives way towards the end to a
\nslithering solo by Wilson.<\/p>\n
It’s hard for me to decide what’s more compelling, Wilson’s
\nbrilliant compositions or the dense, thought-provoking lyrics. In
\nthe end they marry themselves together perfectly. Regardless of
\nyour particular tastes, I think most people will find something
\nsatisfying on this disc.<\/p>\n