Some might say making a 42-minute album about outer space, and consisting of just two long tracks, is bonkers. Yet while on his 2020s albums like The Future Bites and The Harmony Codex Steven Wilson has keenly investigated the twitchy unease of the here and now, his eighth solo album calmly does the most traditionally prog thing imaginable, flying Moonwards. It escapes into known unknowns. Which is bonkers only if the entirety of your record collection extends to Rocket To Russia. From crossover giant The Dark Side Of The Moon to cult favourites of the genre such as Camel’s Moonmadness or Nektar’s Remember The Future, prog has always embraced the cosmic, stoner questions by diving into lunar seas.
The Overview is not so much a return to form (Wilson hasn’t been off it) as a return to full-fat, unskimmed prog from the man whose work with Porcupine Tree gave the genre a good name even before it earned reappraisals in more recent years. Within the arc of his enduring, restless career, this album makes perfect sense. Its version of prog is unapologetic and classic, but many ingredients are drawn from the sonic present, in parts from the sonic future.
Effectively we have Side One, Objects Outlive Us, and Side Two, The Overview. The first rumbles in unflashily as Wilson sings of ordinary, Eleanor Rigby-esque lives on Earth as observed by an astronaut, whose empathy is stoked by his context. ‘It’s better to live without facts,’ Wilson sings, doing that winking political commentary thing he likes to do. (Former XTC songwriter Andy Partridge contributed one section of the lyrics). After eight minutes, rock kicks in. The guitars are pensive until 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 light years away from drum & bass, and Wilson’s wife Rotem, cast as narrator, recites a list of planets, galaxies, constellations. A mood evoking David Sylvian’s Dead Bees On A Cake yields to a sandy Pink Floyd feel as themes such as infinity and mystery are casually probed (Wilson’s deadpan vocal style flourishes in parts, frustrates in others). When the killer guitar solo comes, it’s a well-judged catharsis. Every instrument under the sun pops in for a visit, the coda greets porny sax and vibes.
Audiophiles will rhapsodise. Wilson has taken his protein pills and put his helmet on. Step through the door.
