Marillion - Rather progressing than progressive

Marillion represent a rare phenomenon of extraordinary rapport and loyalty with their fanbase. Born as heirs to the then-declining progressive world of the 70s, in the particular incarnation of Genesis – by then firmly devoted to chasing chart hits – they pulled off a surprising and admirable musical metamorphosis that gradually delivered them into the world of niche music. Locked in an eternal conflict with their past image, and above all with the collective memory anchored to it, they managed to survive on the margins of the music business thanks to the unwavering, unbreakable support of their hardcore devoted fans.

The Age of the Jester

Year 1978: progressive-rock, the dominant genre of the 70s, seems about to breathe its last under the forceful blows of the restless punk and new wave movement. The decade is winding down, and the great bands who defined it are drifting away from their roots: the bravest ones put themselves back in play, trying to reinvent their art; others, with a mix of survival instinct and a touch of opportunism, prefer to dive headlong into the new synth-pop currents, with results of varying credibility; the less fortunate simply close up shop. Amid this upheaval, someone has the courage – or the recklessness – to stick with the old course, perhaps hoping for a leopard-like revolution and banking on the many listeners left orphaned by their beloved old progressive rock. That's how the idea of venturing into a genre by then decidedly out of fashion doesn't trouble drummer Mick Pointer and singer/bassist Doug Irvin too much, as they found Silmarillion, a name openly inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien's work of the same title. With the subsequent addition of guitarist Steven Rothery and keyboardist Brian Jelliman, the fledgling band sets out to play that much-missed symphonic-progressive subgenre that draws blatantly on the work of past giants like Genesis and Van Der Graaf Generator. The group later shortens its name to Marillion to avoid legal trouble with "The Lord of the Rings", and in 1980 records its first demo tape, which contains the embryos of what would later become their debut LP. Irvine leaves the group, though he does place an ad in Melody Maker to find his replacement, to which a certain Derek William Dick, a curious and eccentric Scottish character, responds. Standing a respectable six-foot-plus, he likes to go by the nickname Fish. The singer's bizarre charisma impresses the members of Marillion so much that they bring in his, admittedly less than brilliant, bassist friend Diz Minnitt, who is nonetheless soon let go along with Jelliman in favor of Chemical Alice keyboardist Mark Kelly and Metros bassist Pete Trewavas.

Over the course of 1982 the band's experience grows and their shows impress some people at EMI, who become convinced to sign them: first the single "Market Square Heroes", then, the following year, the LP Script For A Jester's Tear marks the band's official debut.

The commercial success of Script For A Jester's Tear is considerable, despite some fierce criticism regarding the band's blatant debt to the legendary outfit of Steve Hackett and co. This is mostly down to Fish's troubadour-storyteller approach, clearly inspired, even in vocal timbre, by Peter Gabriel, not to mention Mark Kelly's keyboard forays, visibly "guided" by the hand of Tony Banks. Nonetheless, "Script" contains excellent elements and some genuine innovations, blending the typical progressive clichés demanding complex compositions free from the canonical verse-chorus song form with a fresh, renewed melodic component, thus distancing itself from the cerebral, classically-derived evolutions so dear to the genre's spiritual fathers of the 70s.

There's even no shortage of heavy-rock touches, with an attention to rhythm often unknown to their predecessors: good examples are Rothery's biting guitar riffs alternating with Mark Kelly's "acid" keyboard flourishes on "He Knows You Know", where Fish immediately confides his difficult relationship with alcohol, or the syncopated drumming of the party-themed "Garden Party". Not to mention some surprising echoes in the melancholy "Chelsea Monday" of sounds that are nothing less than NWOBHM (suitably measured), the genuine fad of the moment.

The most nostalgic listeners can't help but fall for the title track, a majestic, schizophrenic suite that opens the record and effectively becomes the manifesto of a brand new musical subgenre: neo-progressive. Within British shores, the band begins building a strong following, largely thanks to the spectacular performances of its frontman, increasingly the quintet's leader. Fish, faithfully following the "teachings" of his Gabriel-shaped specter, captivates crowds with cryptic lyrics and an extraordinarily rich and refined vocabulary, delivered with his irresistible, boisterous affability, a hallmark proudly flaunted of his Scottish blood. Through costumes and make-up he embodies his alter-ego to perfection: the broken-hearted jester who, in tears, writes songs for his lost love. The character is strongly autobiographical and recurs across all the albums under his leadership, brought to life on paper by illustrator Mark Wilkinson (incidentally, also the man behind the legendary artwork of England's Iron Maiden).

Ready to attempt their final consecration, the band pushes out founder Mick Pointer, clearly struggling technically once measured against the new scenarios that had opened up, and, after a long "drummer's waltz", finally settles on a stable line-up with session man Ian Mosley, who boasts, of all things, collaborations with Steve Hackett.

In 1984 Marillion thus record Fugazi. It's a record seemingly in line with their debut but marked by a dark streak that will rarely be so pronounced again in the future. A deeply hermetic, at times oppressive work with its hypnotic loops, as in the "chameleon woman" of "She Chameleon" or in "Jigsaw", where a synth-keyboard music-box motif alternates with furious bursts from Steve Rothery's biting six-string.

Fish's voice turns now melancholic, now furious, swinging prodigiously between falsetto and bitter, resentful high notes. It's no coincidence that, on Wilkinson's cover art, the Scotsman's jester alter-ego is at the peak of dissolution, devastated by pain he barely manages to drown with alcohol and vice. Although the stylistic influence of the great forefathers is still evident, the band gradually grows more aware of its own abilities, and the record proves convincing, as well as becoming a cult favorite among fans of the five Englishmen. The new album's success at home is such that it convinces EMI to export the band to the US, opening for Rush on tour, though with scant results.

Final consecration arrives the following year with the concept album Misplaced Childhood. The formula balancing melody and instrumental technique – channeled at once into the long, ambitious suites "Bitter Suite" and "Blind Curve" and into the chart-smashing singles "Lavender" and, above all, "Kayleigh" – is simply perfect, and the record breaks through to a mass audience. It's the band's first deeply mature and self-aware album, where the melancholic aura of the previous records isn't lost but is blended with a pop sensibility the five musicians handle with perhaps unexpected confidence. The single "Kayleigh" achieves overwhelming success, shooting to the top of the charts and rightfully entering the immortal "classics" of the 80s, carving out and defining (and, as they would discover many years later, also confining and sometimes trivializing) their public artistic image for decades to come. The effect is such that Kayleigh, a purely invented girl's name, registers a boom in birth registrations across Britain at the time.

Such a marked stylistic shift is also due to the fact that the band's first two records were partly conceived during the same period, whereas Misplaced Childhood shows a different approach to songwriting, sounding airier, more refined and noticeably less introspective than before, making it more accessible while retaining that progressive streak crucial to their success, in an era that had by then become orphaned of it.

The shadow of Genesis is lessened, though not entirely banished (the echoes are still marked in Fish's voice and in keyboardist Kelly's effects), allowing room for different sonorities, alongside a forceful assertion by guitarist Rothery, who enchants with his delay-laden phrasing, visibly of the "Gilmour-esque" school. Another evolution appears in Fish's lyrics, which set aside fairy-tale themes in favor of a deep reflection on the loss of childhood, seen through the eyes of a young man: romantic disappointments ("Kayleigh"), hardships inherited from a difficult childhood ("Bitter Suite" and "Blind Curve", where Fish's lament is harrowing as he cries out: ⟦Q1⟧), the hope that his childhood isn't truly gone but might still live on inside him ("Childhood's End?").

As for the rest, while their contemporaries remain anchored to early neo-progressive sounds, Marillion lay the foundations for an entirely personal style that will elevate them above the very movement they themselves helped launch. Beyond the third-person references, the autobiographical nature of the work is obvious, especially considering that its protagonist is a man of show business. Starting with this album, some of Fish's discomfort with the effects of sudden, massive popularity begins to surface — a popularity that, aided by his strong charisma and his status as the band's leader, had come crashing down on him.

The effects aren't long in coming. Having identified the golden goose, Emi tries to squeeze as much out of it as possible and puts pressure on the band to record the new album as soon as possible, despite the fact that they're worn out from the gruelling, endless world tour they've just finished. Fish's overbearing personality begins to show signs of further expansion, leading to inevitable internal tensions, amid which, in 1987, the Aylesbury band releases its fourth work: Clutching At Straws. The band continues its gradual stylistic mutation, shaking off the virtuosic flourishes of the suffering jester from their debut, opening up to a work built on leaner, more concise elements and laying the foundations for a rockier turn supported by the ever-growing contribution of Rothery's guitar. The sound is languid and at times twilight-tinged, in keeping with the latest incarnation of the Scottish frontman's ego, here dubbed Torch: the minstrel we met on the debut album has grown up and become a father but, reluctant to accept his new responsibilities, drowns his existential crises in alcohol and prostitutes, spiralling into a pathetic cycle of self-destruction. References to alcohol are indeed numerous: from the Gaelic toast of "Slainte Math" to Torch's favourite cocktail, the "White Russian".

In Clutching At Straws the approach is deep and touching, culminating in the sublime melancholy of the verses of "Sugar Mice": Torch finds himself once again at the bar counter, recalling the last fierce domestic argument ("Stavo saltellando tra un canale Tv e l'altro, una domenica di pioggia a Milwaukee, cercando di rimettere insieme pezzi di conversazioni"), racked by guilt ("Dammi la colpa, puoi darmi la colpa"), in the company of other wretches like himself, busy searching for pathetic excuses to soothe their pain and their wounds ("Perciò, se vuoi il mio indirizzo, è il numero 1 in fondo al bar, dove sono seduto insieme ad angeli spezzati, aggrappato alle cannucce, curando le nostre cicatrici"). Fish's own problems with alcohol are by now plain for all to see, as is his deep personal crisis.

The massive tour supporting the album is brought to a close only with great effort: the immense success of every date is documented in the "Live At Loreley" footage. In the video, despite the high-calibre performance, the tension on the protagonists' faces is already palpable, and within a few months the irreparable happens: on 16 September 1988, in a statement, Fish tells the other members of his band that he wants a bigger slice of the Marillion "pie", issuing an ultimatum. Once the "kind offer" is rejected, the two parties' paths diverge: shortly afterwards Fish launches his solo career with his debut album "Vigil In A Wilderness Of Mirrors", bringing illustrator Mark Wilkinson along with him; the other band members keep the band's name (not without some unpleasant legal battles with their former vocalist), ready to face the serious loss of a frontman who was certainly cumbersome, but also a catalyst and the main contributor to their current success.

Steve Hogarth and the metamorphosis

"I don't know why, but we weren't too worried when Fish left" — Steve Rothery would say years later — "We felt the band was still very tight-knit, and we believed strongly in ourselves and in what we wanted to do". Marillion don't lose heart, and on 3 December 1988 they place an ad in Melody Maker, searching for the "fish"'s heir. Among the flood of responses received, drummer Ian Mosley, tasked with sorting through them, comes across a tape and immediately exclaims, "This guy has a fantastic voice!", quickly echoed by his bandmates. The tape belongs to Steve "H" Hogarth, born in Kendal, whose artistic past included stints in the small synth-pop bands Europeans, where he was keyboardist and second vocalist, and How We Live, founded together with his old bandmate Colin Woore. The harsh rules of the music business led to the premature breakup of both outfits, leaving the singer with a bitterness and distrust of the music industry that would never fully fade. For this reason, when Marillion, thrilled by the audition with the young singer, offer him the job, Steve surprisingly asks for time before joining. In the end the marriage goes ahead, and the new member is immediately involved in writing the new album.

In September 1989, Season's End is released, a meaningful title echoed by the cover art, in which the symbols of the previous era (the chameleon, the jester, the magpie) are dissolved one by one, as a sign of a break with the past. Nevertheless, partly because most of the songs had already been written during the final period with Fish, the album retains some stylistic elements already present on Clutching At Straws, especially in its mini-suites, which ensure continuity with the band's progressive streak: praiseworthy are the departures from traditional song form, embodied in the endless instrumental introduction of "The King Of Sunset Town" (as if to build suspense before unveiling the band's new voice); in the noir atmospheres of "Berlin", rich in reverb and bolstered by Phil Todd's well-placed sax contribution; in the title track, a splendid and evocative hymn to the preservation of our planet; right down to the high-altitude journeys of "The Space", effectively conveyed by the extremely high notes hit by newly-minted Marillion member Hogarth. It's precisely his vocal range that stands out most among the new recruit's talents: the timbre and the way he uses it are the complete opposite of Fish's theatrical falsetto, demonstrating an almost unique artistic courage on the band's part, who refuse from the outset to go for a clone of their former figurehead. Emi, worried not only about replacing the voice but also about replacing the outgoing member's crucial storytelling skills, and not yet aware of Steve Hogarth's potential qualities in that regard, brings in writer John Helmer to work alongside the band. In reality, the new singer proves to be excellent with a pen too, but his rapport with Helmer turns out so successful that it leads to a long-lasting future collaboration.

Steve Hogarth's contribution, however, doesn't end there: the album also features a song from his own personal repertoire, later fleshed out by the band with an instrumental fugue to round it off, carrying a clear 1980s flavour: it's "Easter", destined to become a new Marillion classic, albeit without the explosive impact of the immortal "Kayleigh".

The album is well received by critics and audiences alike, despite featuring some jarring experiments, such as the conventional, crowd-pleasing hair-rock of "Hooks In You", a single clearly designed to take aim at the "US-oriented" pop charts, but not well regarded by much of the old fanbase, who were used to the demanding, refined poems of the old jester and had little taste for winks at the trendy sounds of the moment. A month later the long world tour kicks off, during which Steve Hogarth is introduced to the audience. Turnout, partly driven by the novelty factor, remains high, but reactions to the new frontman are mixed: some are impressed by the new recruit's undeniable vocal talents, while others, used to Fish's floods of words, seem puzzled by Steve's terse introductions, his shy and introverted nature, and his still-awkward stage presence, almost as if his slight frame were straining under the weight of the lanky Scotsman's legacy.

In the autumn of 1990, Marillion retreat to the quiet of Stanbridge Farm Studios to finish their new work, Holidays In Eden, the first album made entirely with the current lineup. What emerges the following year is a genuine shock for fans: Marillion attempt an extremely tricky fusion of chart-friendly rock and their old progressive vein, with a heavy tilt towards the former. Emi's influence proves all-encompassing, as heard in the come-hither, crowd-pleasing pop of "No One Can" or the hair-rock of "Holidays In Eden" and "This Town", very much in vogue at the time and championed by artists like U2 and Van Halen, from whom many of the songs sometimes draw shamelessly obvious inspiration.

Despite the brutal change of direction, there's no shortage of fine songs, both among the pop-leaning tracks — such as the compelling single "Cover My Eyes", a leftover from the How We Live repertoire — and, above all, and not by chance, among those that hark back to the band's traditional vein, such as the vibrant "Splintering Heart", the evocative short story of "The Party", or the closing triptych “This Town/ The Rakes Progress/ 100 Nights”. Steve Hogarth also shows off all his considerable skills as a lyricist here, with deep, carefully crafted lyrics that blend perfectly with John Helmer's erudite contributions (the references to the Iliad in the title track are quite striking).

With hindsight, it's an album that represents a worthwhile experiment, helped along by the splendid production that instantly modernises the band's sound, even though the band's talent doesn't fully flourish within pop-rock's potential. In any case, the album proves to be an epoch-defining turning point that leads the band, both immediately and in the years that follow, to gradually and inexorably lose the large following it had enjoyed up to that point: Emi's mission to conquer the long-coveted American market, never truly achieved, fails miserably, at a very steep price.

Following the disappointing sales, the record label giant decides, for the next album, to hand the five Aylesbury musicians over to producer Dave Meegan, with the aim of completing a new work as quickly as possible and swiftly winning back lost favour. However (fortunately) Emi makes a spectacular miscalculation, clearly not suspecting the meticulous, almost mad genius brewing within the chosen man. A genius that is unleashed the moment the band, on the invitation of their friend Miles Copeland, moves its studio to the evocative Château de Marouatte in France. The atmosphere of the place so affects the new residents that it creates situations bordering on the irrational: while Steve Hogarth withdraws into semi-isolation in his room, in one of the building's towers, testing his physical and mental balance in his effort to compose what would become the title track of the forthcoming new album, Meegan scatters microphones throughout every room, staircases included, in pursuit of a very specific goal: "That way, if there are any ghosts around, we'll find them on the record".

Time passes and the work proceeds with difficulty: Meegan is obsessive about recording every note played by the band and every ambient sound of the place; about reworking every track and overdub; about repeating every take to the point of exhaustion. When the band voices its concerns about the delays piling up, he replies firmly: "As I see it, there are two options: rush things, or make a masterpiece".

In 1994, six years after the sensational split with Fish, and in a phase of clear decline in popularity with both critics and fans, Marillion surprisingly deliver their absolute masterpiece: Brave. Technically speaking, this is still a progressive album by definition, one that contains all those shifts of mood capable of making it a rich, multifaceted work: from the rock drive of "Hard As Love" to the intimate piano confession of "Hollow Man"; from the Celtic atmosphere of the title track to the hypnotic suite of "Goodbye To All That", a genuine ride into the darkest, most harrowing recesses of the human mind. Anguish is indeed the dominant mood of this concept album: the discovery of a girl in a state of mental confusion, wandering alone near the Severn Bridge, inspires Steve Hogarth, whose imagination conjures up a fictional story to attach to that mysterious soul. Violence, fear, horror, love and rage give rise to the band's most hermetic, bleak and anguished record. H's voice whispers the first sensations of birth, while the other members conjure up a profound "harmonic breath", with sudden pauses and abrupt accelerations, like a diaphragm expanding and contracting in "Living With The Big Lie", letting rare shafts of light briefly pierce the murky darkness that smothers the record.

Psychedelic surges run through the delirium of "Mad", from the "Goodbye To All That" suite, dissolving into the torpor of hallucinogenic fumes in "The Opium Den", passing through the memories of an unhappy childhood in "Brave" and "Alone Again In The Lap Of Luxury", until it finally unleashes its fury at the violent father figure in the desperate "Goodbye To All That". H's voice snarls furiously, with an impressive identification with the female character ("Allora, parlami dell'amore che hai respinto, parlami della fiducia che hai tradito. "I still don't understand, why did you hurt the one person you really should have protected?"), outdoing itself in the description of her final, disastrous act of jumping off the bridge, in search of the "great escape" ("A bridge isn't that high a place, a fifty-second floor... Icarus would know that falling from a mountain isn't that high, when you've already fallen from the Moon"). Live, the band brings the work to life at its best, with particular credit to Hogarth, who relives the protagonist's drama on stage, acting out unsettling scenes of madness and struggles with masked roadies, immersing himself in the character and her story with the help of makeup, pigtails, lights, mirrors, flowers, candelabras, funeral garments and more, in a great display of stage talent, a worthy continuation of the shows that marked the English band's past era.

The awkward lad from the Season's End tour is by now a thing of the past, even though his stage presence and theatrical flair appear quite different from those of his (mostly presumed) Scottish "rival".

Unfortunately, this marvel lasts only four months. EMI, which failed to properly support the album, deeming it insufficiently commercial despite the warm reception from critics, pushes the band to return to the studio and put together something less sophisticated. Although the English quintet remains under the surgical guidance of Meegan, Brave thus has a successor already the following year: Afraid Of Sunlight. The album abandons the concept-album format but retains its essence in its themes, this time focused on a subject that would remain dear to Hogarth the lyricist for years to come: the self-destructive effect of success and fame. So it is that "Gazpacho", with its ethereal acoustic arpeggios, evokes the madness of Mike Tyson and O.J. Simpson, while "Beyond You" pays tribute to the legendary producer Phil Spector, honouring him with an intense "wall of sound", a trademark as much his as it is the five musicians'.

Listening to some of the following tracks, with their clearly radio-friendly structure, like the rather too catchy "Beautiful" or "Afraid Of Sunlight", one might mistakenly suspect an easy-listening reaction set against the dark hermeticism of its illustrious predecessor. And yet, despite the tight production schedule, Afraid Of Sunlight turns out to be one of the band's most layered and multifaceted works, as proven by venturing into the second half of the record, opened by the adrenaline-fuelled, skimming-the-water rush of "Out Of This World", a magnificent rollercoaster of electric tension documenting the epic feat of Donald Campbell, who died attempting to break the water speed record aboard his Bluebird, and closed by the rock roar of "King", which surges into an overwhelming final unison, almost evoking the greatness of the "King" referenced here, Elvis Presley, before being cut short just as suddenly as the great singer's heart, lived out in an ever deeper state of self-isolation and depression, a victim of the double-edged sword of rockstar status. The performance of the five is of a high standard, with solo passages of striking pathos from Steve Rothery, alongside Hogarth's by-now fully confirmed integration into the band's dynamics, delivering a personal and deeply felt interpretation. The metamorphosis has now reached completion, and the comparison with the group's early works is almost embarrassing, to the point that it would come as no surprise if the covers of Afraid Of Sunlight and Fugazi bore two different artists' names. The orbit of the great fathers of the Seventies, Genesis first and foremost, is now irretrievably lost, giving way to a strongly personal, independent and established style. However, or perhaps precisely for this reason, Marillion's following is in sharp decline, also due to yet another betrayal by EMI, with a knock-on effect on the scale of the ensuing tour (which for the first time excludes Italy).

The air of dismantling is by now palpable, and Marillion, their contract having expired, decide to part ways with the major label and sign with the independent label Castle Communications.

A new album, full of hope, is thus born in 1997: This Strange Engine appears to be by far the band's most atypical work to date, departing also from the course set by its two predecessors. The absence of Dave Meegan from production, with his typically heavy hand in both composition and post-production, leads to a general streamlining of the songs. From this emerge tracks that, for the first time, are predominantly acoustic in nature, such as "Man Of A Thousand Faces", which however soon escalates into a tribal-flavoured build-up, or "80 Days", an acoustic-guitar pop ballad dedicated to the band's fans, and "Memory Of Water", practically a slow, bare prayer almost entirely built around Steve H's voice. The result is commendable, but in places betrays a noticeable dip in creativity compared to earlier works, featuring for the first time several rather slight tracks, from the aforementioned "80 Days" to the pop-rock digressions of "Accidental Man", which could almost be lifted from the repertoire of a Sting running out of bite, right up to the bizarre experiment, with its even Caribbean-flavoured sound (!), of "Hope For The Future".

What significantly raises the average, with compositions of absolute top quality, is the band's usual progressive streak, less present than usual here but powerfully developed first in the muffled atmospheres of "Estonia", a track that could have found a place on Seasons End, and then, above all, in the title track that seals the record. Across the long 16 minutes of the epic suite, Steve Hogarth, in the unprecedented role of narrator, lays bare his entire childhood spent in the North of England, from the fond memories of his native Kendal to his move, still a child, to grey, industrial Doncaster. It's a classically styled progressive suite, with multiple moods and solutions that betray a somewhat fragmentary composition, nonetheless justified by lyrics of truly sweeping scope, which keep the tension high throughout its long runtime.

Despite the marriage with the independent label, life for the Aylesbury band starts to get difficult, in a period marked by the steady and rapid decline of their appeal to the general public and, consequently, of their earnings.

In 1998 the following album, titled Radiation, confirms the delicacy of the moment, engaging with experimental ambitions and embracing new, "dirtier", rawer sounds, decidedly unprecedented for the refined Englishmen. The blends of funk and blues on tracks like "Under The Sun" and "Born To Run" are of interest; things continue with the electronic daze of "The Answering Machine" and with the influence of Radiohead on "These Chains" or, with decidedly greater intensity, of the Beatles on "Three Minute Boy", with alternately good results.

But, as if on cue, Marillion show their best side by once again drawing from their progressive "goldmine", albeit tinged by the aforementioned streaks, with two small masterpieces in the closing mini-suites: the dreamlike, visionary delirium of "Cathedral Walls" and the long martial march of "A Few Words For The Dead".

Now confined to limited-range mini-tours, the five quickly put together another record the following year, with the telling title Marillion.com. The nod to the launch of their official website, right as the web was undergoing a phase of full expansion, is clear, and it seals the artists' increasingly strong focus on that world, which could allow them to escape the worrying situation that sees them ghettoised on the margins of the traditional music business. The new record is once again met with scepticism, this time largely justified by songwriting that is, overall, not up to the desired standard. Some forays into the most lightweight pop are almost disconcerting, with tracks like "Deserve" and "Rich", down to moments of real embarrassment with the flatness of "Thumble Down The Years". Hearing the band noodling through the frivolous melodies that take over part of the album is a shock for many fans, fortunately reassured by the usual melancholic, reflective streak that persists in "Go" and "Enlightened", before letting loose in the closing stretch with the album's only suite, "Interior Lulu", and with the surprising and thoroughly successful (if sadly isolated) trip-hop experiment of "House", with the five Englishmen tackling lounge-jazzy atmospheres that none too subtly recall "Protection" by Massive Attack.

The inconsistency of Castle Communications, which aims more at keeping the five musicians in the niche they've long been confined to than at pushing for their relaunch, leads to another split. Marillion are now on their own, facing a turning point that has become desperately necessary for their survival, both financially and artistically.

The Rebirth

In the previous Marillion.com, Steve Hogarth voiced a critical view of the nascent world of the web, strikingly prescient for the time: "We stare at our screens our whole lives - what a waste of eyes - until the electric storm blows our fuses; and we glance, astonished, towards the rain." Who knows if, at the moment of writing those lines, he imagined just how much the internet itself would play a decisive role in his band's fate. The five members of the group realise that a turning point is needed, and that it can come precisely from the "global network". Marillion thus pull a truly revolutionary method out of the hat to finance their next work, securing themselves complete artistic independence: through an announcement to their fan club, they appeal to their hardcore fanbase, launching an unprecedented pre-financing campaign. Something along the lines of: "We have plenty of ideas for the new album, but no one willing to finance it. Do you want to be the ones to make it happen?" 12,674 of them answer the call, buying the new album sight unseen a full year in advance.

AnorakNoPhobia comes out in 2001 and, besides the standard version, is also put together in a lavish 48-page illustrated deluxe edition, complete with the names of participants printed in the credits, limited to the twelve thousand most loyal fans. It marks the start of an unprecedented relationship of trust between band and fans, and far from an isolated one. The enigmatic title actually has a very precise meaning: in British slang, "anorak" refers to those individuals with a strong, sometimes obsessive interest in niche things or subjects, certainly not very trendy ones. Unsurprisingly, such interest is typically misunderstood by the masses. H says on the matter: "Declaring a passion means exposing yourself to ridicule, and personally I'd rather have a world full of people who are passionate and believe in something and care about something, than a bunch of flat characters going around sneering and pointing fingers at other people. I just want to say: 'We know you're anoraks, and there's nothing wrong with that! We are too!'"

Marillion thus try to appeal to their fans' cultural pride, but in reality it's yet another attempt to escape the enormous weight of their cumbersome Eighties past. In the new century, few people know Marillion; many remember them as a mere Genesis-clone band, or even think their story ended with Fish's departure. "You're all wrong about Marillion. Please, put our record in the player and listen to it!", states Steve Hogarth with a touch of presumption, promoting the album.

Indeed, AnorakNoPhobia represents a sharp break from past sounds: strong dub influences make their way into this new chapter (helped also by the nod to "Mezzanine" by Massive Attack, released a few years earlier), with heavy use of Mark Kelly's electronics, as well as an unexpected use of drum machines alongside Ian Mosley's drums, backed by a particularly inspired bass from Pete Trewavas, as in the acidic "Quartz". The result, while nothing short of unpredictable, is of fine quality, as in the cybernetic atmospheres of "This Is The 21 Century": a colossal existential hypnosis on modern man's sense of alienation, a veritable new obsession for Steve Hogarth the lyricist in recent times. A cruelly pessimistic and disillusioned vision of man's regression into "flesh to crush and burn", under the grim gaze of the "man in the glass tower, who's just bought the world". An 11-minute cyberpunk delirium, whose final 3 minutes are dominated by a memorable, searing solo from Steve Rothery. Returning for a moment to safer, more familiar ground, with the "made in Marillion" melancholy of "When I Meet God", showcasing a towering vocal performance from Hogarth, the album closes with the blasts of "If My Heart Were A Ball... It Would Roll Uphill", a schizophrenic rock gallop with electronic jolts and the usual building finale, following the band's well-established blueprint.

Although all the tracks mentioned above boast a considerable runtime, there's no shortage of more relaxed moments and a few avoidable fillers, like the simplistic easy-listening digression of "Map Of The World". Still, the album's overall quality marks a decisive step forward from the band's uneven output of the post-Emi era, thanks to a renewed creative streak and, probably, to the return of trusted producer Dave Meegan at the mixing desk.

The response from the wider public to this record is therefore encouraging; some even start to notice this band again, one that had fallen into obscurity: the magazine Sound on Sound memorably calls them "the best kept secret" of the music industry. Following a long tour, backed by a highly respected support act (none other than Porcupine Tree, touring behind "Lightbulb Sun"), Marillion once again thank their fans by organizing the first "Marillion Weekend" in 2002: a convention that would later become biennial, where fans from all over the world gather for three days with their favorite artists. The event is remembered for the historic full performance of the "Brave" concept, a tribute that would be repeated for other albums by the English band in later editions of the festival.

Riding the wave of success from their initiative, Marillion once again try the pre-order route for their next album, which, as they state, will be fairly close to a concept album, albeit with a different structure. The response to the initiative is once again enthusiastic, and after a long gestation, Marbles is released in 2004, quickly recognized by critics worldwide as one of the peaks of the Hogarth era.

A massive double CD, naturally also distributed in a deluxe edition for the die-hard backers (and with the baffling choice to also release a single-disc retail edition, excluding some of the best tracks in the set), the album stirs up fervent enthusiasm among fans, many of whom hail it as the only album comparable to the masterpiece Brave. Indeed, there's a faint echo of that 1994 concept album, but the parallel lies less in style and composition than in the band's ability to once again strike an almost miraculous balance between long, ambitious compositions, direct and effective melodies, and lyrics of formidable evocative power. This is how "Invisible Man" comes to life, a true career peak for the former prog-dinosaur offspring, who once again confirm how far they've evolved from their primordial roots: a man who unwittingly finds himself invisible, immaterial, living through a nightmarish experience completely disconnected from reality, unable to intervene in the outside world he perceives. Hypnotic strumming of guitars and keyboards conveys his sense of estrangement, while the track's dynamic explosions underscore his violent feeling of powerlessness as he throws his body into the middle of the street, in a vain attempt to draw the attention of those around him.

Steve Hogarth's voice first spews out the man's anguish at watching, unnoticed, the woman he loves suffer abuse from her man without being able to do anything to stop it, before collapsing into a mournful blues lullaby of sad resignation (⟦Q1⟧). Formidably brought to life by their frontman's theatrical talents on stage, "Invisible Man" is perhaps the ultimate example in Marillion's career of a perfect fusion of lyrics and music, a musical metaphor for humanity's powerlessness in the face of the horror revealed by the globalized world. Steve Hogarth would say on the subject: "We live in an age in which we become aware of every kind of horror happening on the other side of the world, through mass media, television and newspapers. [...] And this is completely unnatural. As human beings, we don't have the tools to feel responsible for what happens in Rwanda, or in Sydney, Australia, or in Mexico City. I think this places a heavy burden on every being, because no matter how hard we try, we'll never manage not to feel at least a little responsible for it".

But the theme of "Invisible Man" is only an overture to the true concept behind Marbles: the loss of childhood and the consequent gradual disappearance of one's own innocence, seen through the eyes of a child who, over time, loses all his beloved marbles (in English, "to lose the marbles" is an expression meaning "losing one's mind"), masterfully narrated across the four dreamlike interludes "Marbles I/II/III/IV". This loss leads to giving up one's own creative genius ("Genie"), to remorse for never having tried to chase one's dreams, "the only unforgivable thing". This is how the album reaches moments of pure emotion, as H utters: ⟦Q2⟧ ("The Only Unforgivable Thing"). A further departure from the concept continues the theme of alienation in the album's major suite, "Ocean Cloud", 18 minutes in which you can almost smell the Ocean, in a perfect alchemy between complex progressive compositions and the evocative imagery of Don Allum's crossing of the Atlantic Ocean. Only in the finale is the secret of the album's theme revealed: a reference to the fairy tale of Peter Pan, with the arrival at "Neverland", thanks to what would become the band's new classic, "Neverland", a long and epic lyrical and instrumental flight in which Mark Kelly delivers a memorable keyboard performance.

The two pop singles lifted from the album, "Don't Hurt Yourself" and "You're Gone", both crack the UK Top 20, with the latter even reaching No. 7. All without the backing of a major record label. Marbles shakes up the progressive rock scene and brings the band back to its original audience, even drawing back some old nostalgics of the jester era.

Taking advantage of their renewed success, the band soon gets back to work, this time without their trusted Dave Meegan, handing over the production reins to Mike Hunter, a sound engineer who had worked with the band for years. This time no pre-financing is requested, and Somewhere Else sees the light of day in 2007. However, the album loses out mercilessly in comparison with its formidable predecessor, proving to be something of a misstep. The change at the production helm results in leaner, drier compositions, gaining in immediacy and impact on one hand (with plenty of room for improvement live), but losing on the other that superb layering that had so strongly defined the two previous, convincing works.

There's no shortage of fine tracks, like the title track, centered on the recent divorce that deeply affected the vocalist and full of those trademark Marillion traits, including the closing "wall of sound"; or "A Voice From The Past", with its interesting structure unfolding its elements around the steady march of Mark Kelly's piano; much the same can be said of "No Such Thing", where it's Steve Rothery who sets the pace with the hypnotic arpeggios of his guitar.

However, the record suffers from several dips in tension, especially in its more basic, immediate tracks, such as the bland single "See It Like A Baby" or songs flattened by weak, underdeveloped ideas like "Thank You Whoever You Are" and "Most Toys". The impression is that Marillion came out of the "Marbles undertaking" drained, exhausted and perhaps worn down by the renewed expectations that came with their return to success after years spent behind the scenes. Another aspect not to be underestimated is the likely disorientation caused by Meegan's departure, by then a true sixth member of the band. A long settling-in period was therefore needed before regaining a level of form comparable to that found on the previous record.

Meanwhile, a historic event takes place: at the annual "Hobble On The Cobble" event in Aylesbury, the band's hometown, Fish takes on the role of headliner and fulfills his dream of singing "Market Square Heroes" in the town square, joined by none other than Steve Rothery, Mark Kelly, Pete Trewavas and Ian Mosley. After almost 20 years, the 80s lineup plays together again, if only for a single song. Fish would later state: "There were grown men crying in the front rows of the audience".

Once the "Somewhere Else Tour" wraps up, with a good audience response and excellent performances from the quintet, the band receives numerous requests from its fanbase for a return to the pre-order formula; it's an extraordinary event, proof of how the band's hardcore following wants to feel part of the "Marillion project", a wish that is granted for their fifteenth studio album, Happiness Is The Road, released just one year after its predecessor. This new work actually starts from a base of songs already written during the Somewhere Else sessions, before growing to the point of producing another double CD, following the Marbles experience. The five Englishmen, however, prefer not to think of it as a double album but rather a "double release", made up of two distinct works born at the same time: "Essence" and "The Hard Shoulder". Indeed, the two records don't have much in common with each other. "Essence" consists of a new concept album, in which a spiritually-inclined Hogarth describes the journey he undertook after reading the book "The Power of Now" by Eckhart Tolle, prescribed to him during a visit by a doctor, as he tried to work through a state of depression the Kendal-born artist had found himself in during the preceding months, arriving at the realization that "happiness is not at the end of the road, happiness is the road".

The record offers up several gems of undeniable worth: the impact of the journey in "This Train is My Life", moving even if the formula is by now firmly canonical; the tender, suspended caress of "Wrapped Up In Time"; the sense of wonder described by "Trap The Spark", before closing with the final anthem, complete with unexpected reggae digressions, of "Happiness Is The Road". However, the concept as a whole tends to lack cohesion and solidity, betraying several forced moments that tend to disorient the listener, as well as a few forgettable interludes that end up diluting the otherwise excellent potential of a record strongly focused on the emotional, rather than technical, side of the compositions, largely dominated by the Hogarth-Kelly duo.

Things improve considerably with "The Hard Shoulder", where the dense compositions through which the band best express themselves finally resurface. Enter the ambitious suite "Asylum Satellite #1", with a space-rock flavor recalling certain cybernetic echoes already heard on AnorakNoPhobia, followed closely by "The Man From The Planet Marzipan", a bizarre progressive march, syncopated and limping like the gait of the "marzipan man" himself, Hogarth's alter ego embodying a pessimistic sense of estrangement toward modern, so-called "normal" society. Once again, in the history of the Aylesbury collective, it's the progressive vein that bears the best fruit, though there are inspired moments in other areas too, with the tender sweetness of the ballad "Older Than Me", which fades into the bitterness marked out by the passing seconds of "Throw Me Out". The dreadful flatness of "Half The World" is therefore a forgivable sin within an otherwise strong overall context.

Having partly recovered from the stumble of Somewhere Else, and having wrapped up the long tour in support of the new release, Marillion enter a long hiatus, in search of the decisive spark. Meanwhile, on October 2nd of that same year, Less Is More is released: a record of Hogarth-era songs rearranged in acoustic form. The work carried out is admirable in places, with a few instances of genuine reinterpretation of their own material (a striking example being the new life given to the already convincing "Hard As Love"), but overall it's a good, if not essential, exercise in style. Also worth noting is a support tour in Germany for Deep Purple, as well as the band's historic return to Loreley.

Four long years go by like this: never before has the wait for a new album by the English band been so long. The impression, even listening to Steve Hogarth's own admissions about a particular period of lyrical creative slump, is that the quintet is taking the time it needs to recapture its old shine. The band's move into "Real World Studios", the historic facility owned by none other than Peter Gabriel, raises expectations, which reach stratospheric levels when the first rumours about the new work start circulating in early 2012: an unexpected return to long compositions, with no fewer than three pieces well over 10 minutes long. Thoughts inevitably turn to past masterpieces like "Invisible Man", "Ocean Cloud" and "This Strange Engine", further proof that the side of the English band most loved by fans remains its progressive nature. After the now customary pre-order, Sounds That Can't Be Made arrives in September 2012 and, predictably, it's the suites that make the biggest impression. The album boldly opens straight away with its marathon track, "Gaza", a full 17 minutes set against the thorny Middle Eastern situation, an unusual subject for the writer from Kendal. The compositional style recalls tracks like "This Strange Engine" more than anything, thanks to its sharp, sudden mood swings, though it fortunately stays within the hazy boundary that separates a compact, coherent suite from a patchwork of glued-together ideas, the negative cliché that plagues so many artists in the progressive world. What's most surprising is the unexpected bite of the normally mild-mannered Englishmen's sound in the first half of the track, with distortions that vaguely recall some recent Tool work, though it returns to more familiar shores by the end.

The lyrical power of the words returns to top-tier levels, thanks in particular to H's thoroughly excellent delivery, which reaches its expressive peak on the romantic suite "Montreal": a long account of the first "Marillion Weekend" held in the Quebec capital. The images conjured up by the melodies, especially on the track just mentioned, carry an evocative force so vivid that it recalls the achievements of Marbles, echoing the 2004 record in how effectively melody and lyrics fuse together, with the words playing no small part in fully appreciating the work. It's no coincidence, then, that the compositional method, after a gradual settling-in period with new producer Hunter at the helm, has gradually shifted towards a more figurative than strictly technical approach, favouring the emotional over the rational. So it happens that you can almost picture Steve Hogarth, in his Montreal hotel room, watching the TV in a trance as it broadcasts Leonard Cohen's "Live in London" — an Englishman in Canada admiring a Canadian in England ("ain't a perfect simmetry?") — picturing himself at his own eagerly awaited show the following night: ⟦Q1⟧.

There's no shortage of more forgettable compositions, such as the flimsy "Invisible Ink", but these are more than made up for by the successful, rock-solid constructions of the title track or the grand finale "The Sky Above The Rain", on which the English singer's vocal gifts seem intent on proving an endless spring, whatever the cold arithmetic of his birth certificate might suggest.

Buoyed by the commercial and critical success of Sounds That Can’t Be Made, the band returns in 2016, after a very long three-year gestation period. In between, two Marillion Weekends, with ever-growing audience success and increasingly ambitious technical ventures; Steve Rothery's first solo album, "The Ghosts of Pripyat"; the first collaborations in Italy, with the Rome-based prog band RanestRane and the "Band Of The Year 2013" award at the Prog Awards.

The new creature, F.E.A.R., reaches surprising heights of quality while confirming the band's continued growth since the game-changing stumble of Somewhere Else, marking a new landmark in the band's long career.

The acronym that titles the album conceals the motto "Fuck Everyone And Run", a decidedly unusual tone for these composed Englishmen. That is, until you come across Steve Hogarth's own words: "This title wasn't born out of anger or a desire to shock. It's a line sung — in the song 'New Kings' — with tenderness, in sadness and in the resignation inspired by an England, and a world, that increasingly runs on the philosophy of 'every man for himself'. There's a sense of foreboding that permeates much of this record. I have the feeling we're approaching some kind of profound change in the world — an irreversible political, financial, humanitarian and environmental storm."

The album's tracks, essentially a collection of suites, feel like the natural evolution of the landscapes explored in the band's recent past. The cinematic, narrative approach is in line with "Gaza" and "Montreal" from the previous record (but also with the older "This Strange Engine", "Interior Lulu" and "Goodbye To All That"). Yet rather than a repetition, this feels like the settling and consolidation of a trademark born out of what, over the last 10 years, had sometimes been not fully developed experiments, finally offering tracks that are wholly cohesive, fully realised and that unfold naturally through their various parts. The reason for this probably lies with Mike Hunter, who seems to have reached the level of growth and understanding needed to draw out the full potential of the five musicians, albeit with a contribution profoundly different from the obsessive (but draining) approach of someone like Meegan.

What's particularly striking is Mark Kelly's renewed verve, as he takes a leading role alongside the usual suspects Hogarth and Rothery, while mostly focusing on a massive, dark body of work in service of his bandmates. Tracks like "The Leavers" offer vivid, shifting scenarios that alternate with great fluidity; "El Dorado" is a powerful symphonic-prog composition with clear Pink Floyd-esque echoes; "White Paper" is the gem of the record, with melancholy atmospheres worthy of the King of Pain himself, Sting.

F.E.A.R. is an important confirmation of a prolific yet generous career, a deeply mature and moving work ready to be embraced by those willing to go back to appreciating an album as a whole, free from interpretative nitpicking or clinical analysis of stylistic references.

Critics and audiences alike embrace the new creative peak the band has reached, and their popularity — already on a strong upward swing after the release of the previous "Sounds That Can't Be Made" — continues to grow, eventually taking them all the way to the stage of the Royal Albert Hall on 13 October 2017, documented on the splendid live album All One Tonight — Live at the Royal Albert Hall. A milestone that would have seemed unlikely just a few years earlier, and downright inconceivable during the band's dark years in the late '90s, when their departure from the EMI orbit seemed to have consigned them to obscurity for good.

Busy touring FEAR and preparing for their biennial Marillion Weekend, now extended to five dates including the Americas, the band draws on their experience at the RAH with the strings and brass collective and produces Marillion With Friends from the Orchestra, offering a selection of classics rearranged with orchestra.

Having survived the devastating Covid-19 pandemic that struck the globe in 2020 and badly wounded the music industry, the five Englishmen return more alive than ever, reaching yet another peak in their career.

An Hour Before It's Dark is released on 4 March 2022, and despite the six years since their last record of new material, the band reaffirms the exceptional form and inspiration they're currently enjoying, with a work in which the synergy with producer Hunter is clearly more finely tuned than ever. Tracks like "Sierra Nevada" and "Care", rightfully counted among the band's new classics, capture well the "cinematic" post-progressive style of which they remain key exponents, offering the listener vivid sonic imagery that goes hand in hand with Steve Hogarth's lyrics, torn between the planet's climate crisis and the inevitable references to the virus that has shaped everyone's lives over the past two years.

A 100% Marillion record with all the typical ingredients of their formula: Rothery's razor-sharp solos, Mark Kelly's refined minimalism, Trewavas's rhythmic work marked by the composure of a nearly seventy-year-old Ian Mosley, right through to H's voice, which shows off its full range, seemingly indifferent to the passing years.

The novelty of this new record is the introduction — wisely measured and never intrusive — of the Choir Noir choir and the by now familiar In Praise Of Folly string quartet, which boosts the five musicians' expressive power, culminating in the moving crescendo of their tribute to Leonard Cohen: "The Crow And The Nightingale".

40 years on from "Market Square Heroes", it's almost unbelievable that these Englishmen can still produce work this intense and convincing.

Marillion carry on with their determined, almost stubborn march, free from the pressures imposed by the music business but secure within their own orbit, held together by a fiercely loyal and determined hardcore fanbase. A case, rarer than rare, of deep loyalty in a world and an era harshly tested by the unforgiving laws of the market.

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