31. Steven Wilson
Royal Albert Hall
20 October 2013
Like many fans of his intricately crafted melancholy, I found my way to Steven Wilson via Porcupine Tree, his long-running and much-revered prog-rock outfit. My route was especially roundabout, thanks to a longstanding obsession with the band Japan, which naturally led me to Richard Barbieri’s post-synthpop endeavours. You have to feel for Barbieri: it is twice now he’s watched a frontman make a graceful exit into solo stardom just as the band’s trajectory started to arc upward. At this point, he must be wondering if it’s him
Wilson’s early solo work, Insurgentes, Grace for Drowning, were promising, bold, cinematic records steeped in mood and texture. But it was 2013’s The Raven That Refused to Sing that elevated him from talented auteur to prog-visionary. A concept album laced with spectral tales and ghostly reflections, it was part Gothic short story collection, part progressive rock opus, a séance set to strings.
Which is how I found myself, two rows from the front on the Raven tour, ready for something extraordinary. Wilson opened with “Trains” from Porcupine Tree’s In Absentia, a fan favourite rendered here with real weight. Its intricate acoustic textures blooming into electric surges that stirred the crowd from the first note.
But it was the performance of The Raven That Refused to Sing in full that truly mesmerised. Nick Beggs, formerly of Kajagoogoo, but now one of the most in-demand bassists out there, played with commanding finesse, anchoring the set with deep, melodic precision. Guthrie Govan, a guitarist of almost otherworldly ability, moved through passages of blistering technicality and tender phrasing with an effortless intensity.
Behind the kit, Craig Blundell delivered a masterclass in dynamic drumming; precise, inventive, and rich in feel. These weren’t simply players accompanying a frontman; they were a unit, deeply in sync, shaping the emotional arcs of the performance with clarity and conviction.
The sound was pristine, the visuals subtle but evocative, and Wilson, often reserved, but always focused, let the music do the talking. Tracks like “The Watchmaker” and “The Holy Drinker” unfurled with theatrical elegance, while the closing title track, “The Raven That Refused to Sing,” was delivered with such aching, haunting beauty that the audience was left stunned into silence. It was a moment of genuine emotional power; soft, sparse, and entirely unforgettable.
This wasn’t just a gig, it was a carefully constructed narrative arc, performed with the kind of detail and depth rarely seen in live music. A reminder that progressive rock, in the right hands, isn’t about excess or indulgence, it’s about storytelling, scale, and soul.
Wilson may have started as a cult hero, but with shows like this, he cements his place among the greats. Thoughtful, complex, and quietly devastating. This was one for the books.