Steven Wilson

Have you ever been on a training course or some workshop where the facilitator starts off by getting everyone to say who they would invite to a meal? I always hate icebreakers like that. Everyone else seems to have such deep and wonderful reasons for inviting all these famous people, be it Nelson Mandela or Winston Churchill. I, on the other hand, just sit there feeling under pressure. When my turn comes I’ll probably just pick a random member of Genesis or King Crimson. Why? Well, because I like Genesis and King Crimson. The other day, however, I finally settled on a stock answer. The next time I find myself in that situation, I’ll definitely say Steven Wilson.

Why? Well, Steven and I were both “born in ’67”; too late to witness the first golden age of prog first-hand, but heavily influenced by it.  I started going to gigs in London regularly from the age of 15, and I suspect Steven and I might well have rubbed shoulders at the old Marquee Club in Wardour Street, checking out bands from the second golden age of prog. Like Steven, in my teenage years I had an imaginary band, around which I created a fictitious history. Sad as it may seem, my fellow “band member” Trevor and I used to write fan club newsletters and draft press statement regarding our invented activities. We would even record interviews off the Friday Rock Show with Tommy Vance and then edit in our own answers to his questions (Tommy never seemed to pay proper attention to our answers, bless him). The band Trevor and I imagined was called Trapper and the Alternative Bear Band and were purveyors of the much maligned genre of thrash-disco. Steven Wilson’s imaginary band was called Porcupine Tree. TatABB actually morphed into a real live but short-lived prog rock band called Urban Life. We were pretty good actually, even if I do say so myself. Meanwhile, Steven’s Porcupine Tree eventually morphed into… well, Porcupine Tree. And at this point, any similarity between the lives of Justin Peter Beaney and Steven Wilson suddenly disappears. Assuming, of course, that Steven didn't go on to work in a bank and then join the civil service? No, didn't think so.

Anyhow, the point of this rambling blog is that on Monday night Mrs B and I were at the Royal Festival Hall to see Steven Wilson. It was a great performance, even if our enjoyment of the show was marred by really bad seats, bad sound and (from our vantage point) a light and stage show that was woefully poor. But none of that should detract from the fact that the band were great and the songs bloomin’ marvellous. Steven really has produced some of the most perfect albums of recent years, both with PT and as a solo artist. It’s somehow comforting to know that whilst I never fulfilled my own musical aspirations, he at least has gone on to make exactly the type of albums I imagined I’d be making myself years ago.

Having said all that, I do think the fact that his latest jaw-droppingly brilliant release The Raven That Refused to Sing actually comes with a book of supernatural short stories really is rubbing it in a bit! 

Mmm... in hindsight, I think perhaps I'll ask Mikael Akerfeldt round to dinner instead.