Steven Wilson
The Raven That Refused To Sing

Over twenty years. That's how long it took for Steven Wilson to forge his masterpiece. Two decades of intense work, particularly with his porcupine, among beautiful albums (Up The Downstair, Sky Moves Sideways, Signify, In Absentia) and inexplicable flops (The Incident, Deadwing).

But Wilson returns and does things on a grand scale, as if he were seriously working for the first time, sends all chart ambitions to hell and unleashes this "The Raven That Refused To Sing," which achieves the seemingly impossible feat of restoring a shred of identity to progressive rock, effortlessly kicking everything that was called "new prog" with an album directly from the roaring seventies.

Steven takes us into the fairy-tale world of Gabriel and Sinfield. "Luminol" starts with a crazy four-and-a-half-minute intro, then softens, turns into a sweet ballad, and regains its initial zest at the end, in a coda that, in the hearts of fans, can't help but recall the music of King Crimson's "Lizard".
The next "Drive Home" is a typically Wilson ballad. Actually, it's more beautiful. Because that string intervention that already made "Collapse The Light Into Earth" immense (surely Wilson's best previous result in this type of song) cannot go unnoticed; all the while maintaining a melody that would comfort even the last of the Directioners. The second half is absolutely Genesis-like, with a long solo that you'll hear rarely in your life.

"Holy Drinker" outdoes the previous tracks: it's useless to seek references in such a blatantly and wonderfully Wilsonian start, a sign of an artist now in the full maturity of his artistry. He then skillfully inserts a flautist part reminiscent of Ian Anderson halfway through, and accompanies it with his typical guitar strums. Then more caresses and an intense, violent, and horrific finale. A perfect track. On first listens, Pin Drop leaves you somewhat speechless, then you discover it has its meaning, a pretty pop track and well-placed, but still just slightly more than filler. Yet another absurd finale, anyway. And so "The Watchmaker," with its guitar ensemble, its nostalgic lyricism, its long epic crescendo. Supper's Ready meets Thick As A Brick. Wonder. Another scandalous second half. The title track is the most fairy-tale-like song of the group, an intense ballad with piano in the foreground (and I want five stars just for this pun, damn it) and never banal orchestral interventions. A bit Afterglow, a bit Cadence And Cascade, a bit Collapse, a bit Lazarus.

Too many references that end up denouncing the originality of a unique work, simultaneously a masterpiece of an artist at the peak of inspiration and a humble tribute to the greats of a great genre. Too isolated, among the various (and also good, sometimes) Spock's, Marillion, and so on, to be remembered as it should be, alongside works to which it has nothing to envy, like Nursery Cryme or Close To The Edge.