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Some would possibly say making a 42-minute album about outer house, and consisting of simply two lengthy tracks, is bonkers. But whereas on his 2020s albums like The Future Bites and The Concord Codex Steven Wilson has keenly investigated the twitchy unease of the right here and now, his eighth solo album calmly does essentially the most historically prog factor possible, flying Moonwards. It escapes into recognized unknowns. Which is bonkers provided that the whole thing of your report assortment extends to Rocket To Russia. From crossover large The Darkish Facet Of The Moon to cult favourites of the style similar to Camel’s Moonmadness or Nektar’s Bear in mind The Future, prog has at all times embraced the cosmic, stoner questions by diving into lunar seas.
The Overview isn’t a lot a return to type (Wilson hasn’t been off it) as a return to full-fat, unskimmed prog from the person whose work with Porcupine Tree gave the style a great title even earlier than it earned reappraisals in more moderen years. Inside the arc of his enduring, stressed profession, this album makes good sense. Its model of prog is unapologetic and traditional, however many components are drawn from the sonic current, in components from the sonic future.
Successfully we now have Facet One, Objects Outlive Us, and Facet Two, The Overview. The primary rumbles in unflashily as Wilson sings of strange, Eleanor Rigby-esque lives on Earth as noticed by an astronaut, whose empathy is stoked by his context. ‘It’s higher to stay with out info,’ Wilson sings, doing that winking political commentary factor he likes to do. (Former XTC songwriter Andy Partridge contributed one part of the lyrics). After eight minutes, rock kicks in. The guitars are pensive till they busily aren’t. Sounds from all eras of music co-exist comfortably, from electronica to a closing post-rock drone.
The second half opens with rhythms that aren’t mild years away from drum & bass, and Wilson’s spouse Rotem, forged as narrator, recites an inventory of planets, galaxies, constellations. A temper evoking David Sylvian’s Useless Bees On A Cake yields to a sandy Pink Floyd really feel as themes similar to infinity and thriller are casually probed (Wilson’s deadpan vocal type prospers in components, frustrates in others). When the killer guitar solo comes, it’s a well-judged catharsis. Each instrument underneath the solar pops in for a go to, the coda greets porny sax and vibes.
Audiophiles will rhapsodise. Wilson has taken his protein capsules and put his helmet on. Step via the door.