Not one to either rest on his laurels or plough a particular
musical direction ad nauseum, Steven
Wilson has made a name for himself in energetically pursuing all manner of different
styles and genres across various projects, spreading himself like peanut
butter: a distinctive taste that is instantly recognisable against any
background.
He is also keen on approaching music armed with a theme or
story, as 2013’s magnificent The Raven
That Refused to Sing proved: a haunting collection of musical mini-feasts, encompassing
prog-rock, jazz, and based on ghost stories penned by the man himself.
2014’s Cover Version
compilation was a perfect stop-gap between Raven
and Wilson’s latest, being an unpretentious collection of covers (duh) and
original compositions – reminding everyone of his ability to create intriguing
and spellbinding music simply for the joy of doing so.
Having given his growing legion of disciples time to breathe, he
returns with a concept that out-concepts most other concepts, the concept being
(sorry) the story of a young woman who is swallowed up by the big city and is
discovered dead in her bedsit, having tragically passed away years beforehand.
An interesting story in itself, a judder of significance
permeates the proceedings when it transpires that the story is based on real
events – an actual breathing, living, loving human named Joyce Carol Vincent. A
documentary about Vincent, titled Dreams
of a Life, had such an effect on Wilson that he took inspiration and ran
with it – to the studio.
We begin at the start of the album (where else?), the first
of eleven intriguingly-titled tracks, First
Regret. An instrumental piece, it sets the scene with seasick piano and electronic
washes of atmosphere. Digital thumps appear underneath the piano, and more
electro tomfoolery fills the space. It could have fitted on The Social Network’s soundtrack.
Sparse keyboard gently introduces 3 Years Older, a musically exhilarating rollercoaster of full-band adventures,
a Rush-esque rush. As the track veers between exciting peaks and gentler
troughs, it’s hard to not wish for a little more time to be spent exploring the
various avenues that the piece hurtles down: it feels like a taster montage of
songs from a full album. However, it is brilliantly weaved together – and tremendous
fun.
The album’s title track then elbows its way to the front,
with breezy pop-rock sensibilities. You can almost hear Wilson smirking as he
reminds you that while he can drag the listener through twenty-minute prog
epics (Raider II, from past album Grace For Drowning), he can ‘do’ pop
with a flick of the wrist.
A further part of the unfolding story is illustrated with
the wistful and subtle Perfect Life,
where Katherine Jenkins narrates memories of the female protagonist’s former
foster sister, over a gently building electronic beat that gradually reaches
its full sonic height, revealing Wilson waiting in the wings to add soft vocals
in the second half. The sensation of sad longing for a much-missed happy period
abounds.
These first four tracks almost lull the listener into audio
safety before Wilson drags you into the album’s meatier, if less hooky, core.
The further you venture into the album (and thus the story), the further into
madder musical territory you go. Thankfully, all those who trespass here will
be rewarded.
Home Invasion
takes a turn for the weird with a proper prog-out leading into alt-rock
swagger, permeated by dreamy intersperses of Wilson’s distinctive layered
vocals and guitar that floats along with him, before shazoomphing into Regret #9, essentially an elongated
spacey guitar solo that never approaches the wrong side of indulgence.
In turn, it sets the stage for the fleeting and gentler Transcience, which simultaneously
recalls the aforementioned Cover Version
collection of mostly acoustic numbers, and even the wondrous past project Storm Corrosion, where Wilson teamed up
with Mikael Akerfeldt and produced stunning atmospheric vistas that paid zero
heed to established ideas of song structure, revelling in a tremendous sense of
musical freedom.
We now come to the biggest bastard of the album, Ancestral, clocking in at thirteen
minutes. Classical instrumentation shakes hands with more electronic beats, in
a mixture that shouldn’t work, but Wilson bends unto his will and view. Like 3 Years Older before it, enough music is
stuffed into it to fill a warehouse (or the last chunk of space on your phone’s
microSD card).
Happy Returns, um,
returns us to the piano melody in First
Regret. This is the last we hear of Wilson’s female protagonist, and the
lyrics alone are heartbreaking when thinking of the tragic Joyce Vincent’s
final moments. Wilson is to be commended for helping the cause against
loneliness, by imaginatively filling in the blanks for a life shared with
nobody but Vincent herself. The track also recalls the slow climb and build of Perfect Life – it’s reminiscent of when
non-linear films show the viewer a penultimate scene near the beginning, so
when we reach that crucial moment, it is already strangely familiar.
If this is the case with Happy
Returns, it works excellently. A musical sad smile shows as Wilson engages
in lyric-free doo-dooing, acoustic in hand, before the whole piece dissolves
into Ascendant Here On..., the album’s
exeunt. A gorgeously simplistic choir
vocal is accompanied by considered piano notes, and the sound of children
playing leads us out...along with the life of a young human being.
As the world becomes more and more connected but increasingly
impersonal, future generations would do well to recognize Hand.Cannot.Erase. as a commentary on our increasing social
coldness, and the effects it has on our fellow selves, most of which go unseen
by the absolute majority.
It’s a bewilderingly beautiful kaleidoscope with which to
view the social network age; few will ever capture it so vividly.
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