Steven Wilson

The audience at a Steven Wilson concert is a fairly specific type. We might call them “nostalgics squared”: nostalgic for an imagery and a sound that are at least thirty years old, whose standard-bearers get namechecked more than once during the evening (in the spoken-word part of “Perfect Life” and by Wilson himself, patron saint of all nostalgics); but also nostalgic for a band that no longer exists, whose name seems to hover over the whole night without ever being spoken aloud – only the t-shirts from tours a few years back spell it out. That's what gives a sense of complicity to the welcome reserved for the longtime leader of Porcupine Tree, who on the verge of turning 50 works through his own memories with the enthusiasm of a kid, flowing hair falling in front of his eyes (and glasses), bare feet on stage. His greeting to the crowd at Teatro Dal Verme in Milan is just as warm, driven by genuine joy at being back on Italian soil.

Wilson's solo career increasingly presents itself as a multimedia corpus in constant expansion, pairing each new release with a video component that adds the power of real and animated imagery to the musical narrative. The concept of "Hand. Cannot. Erase." is no exception, and on a large digital screen we see glimpses of a London suburb where the protagonist lives, a thirty-something Marina Abramovic lookalike, tattoos and cigarettes, an entirely ordinary existence that's easy to empathize with. Interviews and press releases reveal that the story told here is inspired by a real news event: in 2003, the lonely death of young Joyce Vincent in her bedsit in Wood Green went unnoticed for over two years. "I can feel you more than you really know," sings the frontman after a breathtaking intro, capturing in a single line the dominant feeling of this new "biographical" album — at least compared to the fairy-tale-like "The Raven That Refused To Sing" — an exercise in female identification that leads us through a web of blurred memories, domestic allegories ("Perfect Life") and swirling abstract digressions ("Home Invasion/Regret"). Impossible not to mention the Burton-esque stop-motion of "Routine", a song already heartbreaking on its own, which here reaches an unrepeatable emotional peak.

The lineup currently backing Wilson is able to perfectly indulge his rampant "retromania", lending his sound a distinctly neo-progressive touch, which especially in the long instrumental passages seems to look closely at the best of Dream Theater — the Dream Theater of "Scenes From A Memory", which also offers interesting thematic coincidences. The full presentation of the new album is interspersed with three episodes from the past: from the first two solo albums come the fierce "Index" and "Harmony Korine", while from the now-shelved Porcupine Tree comes the classic ballad "Lazarus", which approaches the pain of loss from another angle.

There's anticipation for the encores dedicated to "The Raven…", represented here by the intoxicating arpeggiated melody of "The Watchmaker" (something of his own "Musical Box"…) and by the closing title track, whose rudimentary animation evokes Russian tradition and the magic lantern, but seen through the eyes of an artist who clearly wants, even before telling stories, to convey universal and lasting emotions. "Sing to me, raven/ I've missed you so much". Endless applause for a flawless performance, but perhaps even more so, in tribute to a thirty-year body of work that still manages to surprise and move us today.

Photo credits: Scott Kahn

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