My review of Steven Wilson's Hand. Cannot. Erase., today at All About Jazz.
Sometimes you never can tell. When British singer, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Steven Wilson released the old school progressive rock record The Raven That Refused to Sing (And Other Stories) (Kscope, 2013), who knew that it would not only turn out to be his best-selling album since walking away from Porcupine Tree to begin an increasingly successful solo career with Insurgentes (Kscope, 2009), but become the most successful album in his entire career, now well into its third decade? That progressive rock has been making a resurgence over the past couple of decades is undeniable; still, that an album based on classic-style ghost stories and filled with all the touchstones that define a great progressive record (and more, given Wilson's broadest of musical proclivities) should do so well--this from an artist on an indie label without the benefit of the big bucks provided by the few remaining majors--seems to support the idea that Wilson is someone whose instincts, aversion to repeating himself and ingrained license to do what he wants can be implicitly trusted. Bucking virtually every convention in today's music business, Wilson's career and exponential rise to fame has, quite simply, been extraordinary.
It would have been easy for Wilson to take the easy route and pump out a Raven, Part II, but instead he has taken an almost complete 180 degree flip with Hand. Cannot. Erase.--his first full-fledged concept album, loosely based on the story of Joyce Carol Vincent, a woman found dead in her London flat after three years and rather than being the little old lady who died alone as most would expect was, instead, a young, attractive woman with friends and family. Wilson has taken this core idea as the kernel for his own fictitious narrative--challengingly, from the first-person perspective--of a woman who grows up in the late 20th/early 21st century and slowly begins to withdraw from the world, rendering herself increasingly invisible.
Lyrically, it's some of Wilson's best writing to date, capturing the female experience with surprising veracity, the story unfolding to its logical conclusion: a heart-rending letter to her brother that, before concluding with the words "I'm feeling kinda drowsy now so I'll finish this tomorrow" (but, of course, never does), talks about life passing her by "like trains, away but they don't slow down" and how she feels she is "living in parentheses" as she sees "the freaks and dispossessed on day release, avoiding the police" and that she feels as though she's "falling once again but now there's no-one left to catch me." More importantly, Wilson's delivery of the lyrics is as emotive as he's ever been; and no, he's not changed his overall understated approach to singing, but he's become far more masterful at implying much with but the subtlest of gestures, whether it be the slightest bit of vibrato, a hint of grit or a brief jump into falsetto.
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