188. Steven Wilson
Royal Albert Hall
27-29 March 2018
Once described as “the most successful British musician most people have never heard of”, Steven Wilson has spent his career quietly reprogramming the DNA of modern music. Now, improbably, he’s on a sold-out world tour, headlining three nights at the Royal Albert Hall, and duking it out with Ed Sheeran for the UK’s No. 1 album slot. (Ed won, of course, but only on points.)
If that sounds like the setup to a punchline, it isn’t. The man who began his career playing to four people in a Carlisle pub has somehow become one of Britain’s most revered music figures; a one-man cottage industry of melancholy, melody and immaculate mixing. And tonight, he brought the whole Hall to life.
He opened with a run through of To The Bone, his most unabashedly pop album to date; a shimmering, Technicolor tribute to the arty sophistication of Talk Talk, Peter Gabriel, and Kate Bush. It’s the record that split the fanbase clean down the middle: half declaring him a sell-out, the other half just relieved he’d finally discovered major chords. Live, though, it’s magnificent.
“People Who Eat Darkness” snarled with energy; “Pariah” and “Blank Tapes”, duets with the extraordinary Ninet Tayeb, were spellbinding. Tayeb’s voice, soaring and bruised, entwined with Wilson’s like smoke and shadow. It was the kind of musical alchemy that makes you forget to breathe.
Between songs, Wilson was his usual self-deprecating host, part schoolteacher, part stand-up comic, part curator. “I have an extensive back catalogue of 947 albums,” he deadpanned, “and some of you own all of them.” Cue knowing laughter from an audience who, judging by the T-shirts, absolutely did.
The set spanned his entire universe: solo work, Porcupine Tree classics, the gloom-soaked grandeur of “The Raven That Refused to Sing.” The sound was immaculate, of course. Wilson’s obsession with sonic perfection is legendary, and the Royal Albert Hall has never sounded so good. The light show, a blend of holograms, projections and bold colour washes, turned the stage into a living, breathing artwork.
And then came “Permanating.” The divisive disco track. The one that caused small existential crises among prog purists everywhere. Wilson introduced it with a wicked grin and then invited a troupe of Bollywood dancers on stage. For three minutes, the Royal Albert Hall was Studio 54 for introverts. It was joyous, ridiculous, and completely brilliant.
By the end of the three-hour show, it was hard not to feel slightly awed. Wilson isn’t just a musician; he’s a craftsman, chiselling beauty out of complexity. His music may be cerebral, but live it is heart-stopping, human, generous, transcendent.
There was a moment, during “The Raven That Refused to Sing,” when the room fell utterly silent. Thousands of people, utterly still, caught in the grip of a song about loss and the impossible weight of memory. That’s what Wilson does best; he gives intellect emotion, and emotion architecture.
As the final notes faded, the crowd rose in a standing ovation that felt less like applause and more like gratitude. Twenty-five years after those pub gigs in Carlisle, Steven Wilson has built his own cathedral, and tonight, it was full. It was so good that I did the whole thing again, for all three nights of his three-night residency. No notes.