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Here we are—the first of the Unsung Eight of the Porcupine Tree discography. These are the albums where I can really show my stuff regarding the songs contained in them. As for why this review took two days to write instead of one, the answer is that there’s a new way I’m doing my reviews which apply to all the remaining Porcupine Tree albums and the Steven Wilson solo albums. This new approach will look at the lyrics to each song first in a detailed literary analysis of some of the more cryptic/loaded passages in these songs. After the song’s lyrics are taken care of, I’ll address the instrumentation that surrounds it. This new approach is more time-consuming than usual and results in longer reviews, but since these pertain to the Porcupine Tree/Steven Wilson albums which I’m familiar with, I figured I would do something special that I hadn’t done before with these albums in order to show just how much I love and adore the music contained within them.
Before I begin the review, I want to point out that there are two drastically different mixes of this album: the 1993 original and the 2005 remastered/remixed edition. The original album was the last Porcupine Tree album that was a one-man-band project of Steven Wilson. The original also had electronic drum tracks and vocals that tended to be drowned out by the instruments, which were muddied together in the mix. The 2005 version had re-recorded drum tracks by Gavin Harrison (the then-current drummer for the band) and a mix where every instrument (including vocals) was clearly audible at all times. It’s not even a contest which version of the album I prefer, I’m listening to the 2005 version for this as it makes an already-good album into a great one and if Steven could’ve released this in 1993, he would’ve done so.
As for the album itself, this is the first start-to-finish great album that Steven Wilson wrote on his own.
“What You Are Listening To…” + “Synesthesia” (6:13)
“What You Are Listening To…” is like an intro of sorts—it doesn’t’ make much sense and acts as more of a lead-in to “Synesthesia,” a track with a rather misleading title as the lyrics are definitely not about synesthesia. The lyrics of “Synesthesia” are some of Steven’s most straightforward from this album and relate the story of a wounded soldier dying on the operating detail. Straightforward, but these two lines from the first verse put a wrinkle:
Time to clear the cobwebs.
Time to bear the crime.
Namely, there is an element of survivor’s guilt on the part of the dying soldier. The song doesn’t really address what, but given the condition of war, one can assume that it is guilt over the people he’s/she’s killed in battle.
On the level of instruments, the dominant instrument is a repeating keyboard riff. However, the mix makes a funk-like guitar rhythm, a steady rhythm section, airy layers of synths, and Steven’s vocals clearly distinguishable from one another in the mix. Even when Steven lets loose two rather impressive guitar solos (especially the second one)—impressive in that they fit perfectly in the fabric of the song. Either way, “Synesthesia” opens Up The Downstair on a hazy, rocking, and memorable note.
Side note, if you wonder what Steven’s saying during the last guitar solo (it’s difficult to make out), it’s “Feeling good/Feeling free.” Make of that what you will.
“Monuments Burn into Moments” + “Always Never” (7:22)
“Monuments Burn into Moments” is another deal similar to “What You Are Listening To…,” so it’s hardly worth addressing.
In the case of “Always Never,” here is one track where lyrics take on the ‘acid’ quality found in On The Sunday Of Life. Appropriately enough, this was penned by Alan Duffy (this is the last album with any songs whose lyrics were written by someone other than Steven Wilson). Admittedly, apart from “Synesthesia” and “Fadeaway,” I have next to no clue what the majority of these lyrics mean. So while I’ll still try to analyze these lyrics, I could be very wrong. Anyways, “Always Never” has four sets of lyrics to look at.
I feel no pain
Cause I’m an island.
I will remain
In the deafness of your silence.
These lines appear to be lovey-dovey sweetness, but there’s something not-so-good underneath them. First of all, to state that you’re “an island” is to associate yourself with isolation. So to state that you “feel no pain” because of that implies emotional deadness. So our speaker is not in a good state-of-mind. But “I will remain/In the deafness of your silence” implies that the other person involved in the relationship is just as damaged—communication is lacking in this relationship, but he/she (the gender for our speaker isn’t given) feels the need to stay in this bad situation.
I love you sometimes.
Always Never.
He said you’re here
Here with me now.
At first glance, this appears like lyrics ripped from a love song, but contradictions make this one more uncertain. The words “sometimes,” “always,” and “never” are not interchangeable—putting them all together creates a web of uncertainty that “never” possibly negates. But the next phrase—“He said”—also makes things less reliable as we don’t know if he is trustworthy. However, we do know now that this song is about a relationship between two people and that at least one of them is a man.
I feel no gain
When you’re around me.
I’ll try again.
In the darkness you astound me.
These lyrics develop the previous quatrain in a significant manner. This development starts with “I feel no gain/When you’re around me.” Which suggests. The phrase “I’ll try again” comes across as needy in the context developed, but when one adds the state-of-mind our speaker illustrates in the first verse, Stockholm Syndrome can be a valid interpretation. Additionally, “In the darkness you astound me” entails that our speaker is so naïve that he/she can’t expect that what “he” does even if a documented pattern exist—this “darkness” could be a state of denial borne out of a reluctance to see the writing on the wall.
It’s growing cold.
I’m growing old.
Is this the only way to see the fire?
It’s raining…
At first glance, this set of lyrics appear to belong in a different song, but they make sense upon analysis. First of all, “It’s growing cold” operates on two different meanings and so does “I’m growing old.” In the case of “It’s growing cold,” one meaning casts a sexual dimension to this song—the emotional distance stems from this relationship being one where the participants use each other for sex; there’s no love here. Another meaning ties directly into the lack of communication and to the implied emotional abuse that was already established, but this sensation of “growing” entails that our speaker’s naiveté has been broken. Regarding “I’m growing old,” there is either a sense of growing cynicism in our speaker or an acknowledgment that he/she has wasted too much time on this doomed relationship—even if there’s no guarantee that he/she will leave it. The question of “Is this the only way to see the fire?” gives. Finally, the phrase “It’s raining” can constitute a figurative image of crying on the inside.
Regarding the instrumentation used in this track, “Monuments Burn Into Moments” is discordant, but it abruptly cuts off through a cross-fade sound akin to that of a record scratch. This leaves five-to-six seconds of silence before the start of “Always Never,” which starts as a Floydian acoustic ballad coated with various keyboard flourishes. The way Steven delivers the verses is almost breathy, but that contrasts with the chorus—where he sounds a bit like Liam Gallagher (Oasis) at parts. The second chorus switches to electric guitar…and that’s where the full band enters the picture. After the second chorus, there is an instrumental section with two guitar solos—the second of which is drenched in enough wah-wah to make both Jimi Hendrix and Philadelphian coffee drinkers call bullshit (I bet that out of the people I know, only Dr. Lisa Nikoladakis will get that joke). The third chorus plays over this, but once that ends, the bass is the only thing left that anchors a soundscape from becoming ambient. Then, flanger-toned guitar gradually sweeps in as keyboards build up and then a percussion effect that sounds like wind-chimes starts playing. Over this, the last verse is delivered. And then drums come back in, to which a third guitar solo comes in at about the 5 minute mark. The tempo picks up slightly at about 5:30 and you can definitely feel the drums pick up as Steven continues soloing. The final minute of the song is more ambiance than anything as the wind-chime effect plays the song out.
“Up the Downstair” (10:14)
This title track is not usually regarded as one of the album highlights. Additionally, these lyrics continue to follow a running pattern that differentiates the lyrics of pre-Stupid Dream Porcupine Tree and post-Stupid Dream. Both can stand up to analysis, but the earlier material often depends more on abstraction (the apex of the abstraction comes in Signify) whereas the latter material can have concrete details.
As for the lyrics of this track, the literary concepts of Tim O’Brien (especially in his book "The Things They Carried") in regards to memory are definitely applicable here. In fact, they’re the primary lens of interpreting this song.
Sleep until the colors dissolve.
Leave the dream to rain-soak forever
In blessed moments
Viewed from trains of half-truths.
While the line “Sleep until the colors dissolve” has evoked imagery of a drug trip for some (and it can very well be that, but not the only or even the primary thing that the song is concerned about), there’s something else that can be made out of the idea of leaving dreams “to rain-soak forever.” That something else is the idea of memory and how it alters and marinates over the course of one’s lifespan. That this can create “blessed moments” acknowledges that memory can make some things appear better in hindsight than in actuality. To understand the significance of “Viewed from trains of half-truths,” we have to consider the way that Steven Wilson uses the image of a moving train as a symbol for the passage of time—such an arc symbol will appear in In Absentia, Deadwing, Fear of a Blank Planet, and Hand. Cannot. Erase. As for the trains constituting half-truths, consider what I entailed with “blessed moments” and note that time itself is the catalyst for that phenomenon—the farther the train goes, the more you yearn for what the train has passed.
Monuments burn into moments
Up into other worlds.
Other ascensions
Without deep sorrow to endure.
The line “Monuments burn into moments” demonstrates a Shelly-esque point of no ambition standing the tests of time. This description of them as “moments” further exhibits just how inconsequential such things are, but by putting a temporal unit on them, they are made accessible only in memory at any point after that. That such monuments are burnt in an upward direction “into other worlds” illustrates just how radically time can alter things (both physically and mentally)—even a single generation makes things seem like a different world than before. As for “Other ascensions/Without deep sorrow to endure,” one has to consider what ascension elicits deep sorrow—death, which is caused by time. Therefore, the altering of self-perception due to the morphing of memory is likened to experiencing one death after another on a constant basis. This notion becomes vital towards reading the last verse:
Black Sunday of sleep.
Open for small angel escapes.
Moved by buildings to tears.
They week in the rain.
Am I at home?
Am I in heaven?
Gentile architecture.
To register what a “Black Sunday of sleep” is, the concept of nothingness must be contrasted with the presence of angels in the next line—a cursed time such as Black Sunday being linked to sleep associates purgatory (which can only be reached via reading “sleep” as death) indicates that a mental state of purgatory is one where the mind never develops. Therefore, the evolution of one’s own memory is necessary to avoid purgatory. However, “Open for small angel escapes” guarantees that this is purgatory and not hell—it is escapable, so mental salvation is achievable. Such an escape is guaranteed by the mention of our speaker being “Moved by buildings to tears,” which also indicates that merely existing in the world constitutes purgatory—one must take matters into their own hands and exercise their free-will to the fullest in order to be mentally saved. With this in mind, the questions of “Am I at home?” and “Am I in heaven?” are not literal—a constantly-reinventing state such as the one guaranteed by the shifting state of memory guarantees that no “home” can truly be permanent. As for “heaven,” this isn’t the literal pearly gates, but an analogue for the state of mental salvation. That such a salvation was enabled by “Gentile architecture” implies that even one who doesn’t necessarily believe in a particular faith can see beauty in what that faith left behind.
As for how this sounds, spacy effects start this one out while a spoken-word sample while various synth and guitar effects play out. This won’t leave you at ease. Then, the main bit of airy synths bring one out of the darkness by giving a foundation. Then, the hi-hits come in and a pretty awesome bassline follows. This rhythm part honestly creates an effect that can be described as Pink Floyd meets techno, which ends up being better than it sounds on paper. Apparently, all of the lyrics to this song are spoken word because the second ‘verse’ is played over this. After this one, the techno feel is shifted to a rock one via a guitar riff. This entire time, a circular-sounding synth riff can be heard in the back. After the riff has been played for a bit, the techno bit is back. This time, added layers of keyboard glide above it without suffocating anything else. Occasionally, off-kilter guitar effects play. Soon enough, it comes back to riff-city while Gavin (in the remaster) starts playing more complicated fills than the last time this riff played. But once this riff-y passage elapses, it verges into a soundscape where spacy synths and droning high-pitched guitar are all that can be heard. Over this, the third ‘verse’ is spoken just before hi-hats emerge from the darkness. Then, electric guitars break the tension as an entirely new rhythm develops. The rhythm Steven plays here appears proto-djent as the instruments slowly freak-out before the final push. After that climax, all that can be heard in the last minute are synth beeps, a flute, and pad-like sounds at the very end.
“Not Beautiful Anymore” (3:25)
Like the title track, there is only spoken word lyrics. But these lyrics are the type that are don’t seem meaningful. For instance, I think a song that has lines like “You don’t need sex under LSD” makes crystal-clear sense in the context of the rest of the lyrics.
This song starts with a lot of synth, then drums come in and play an up-tempo beat which bass slowly follows. Guitar comes in and follows the bassline until Steven plays a very odd guitar solo that emphasizes several bizarre effects. Then, the music cuts out to the into part as another spoken-word section starts. But as that section is ending, you can hear some wah-wah guitar fading in—which is heard fully when the band comes back in for another guitar solo. This end up leading to the riff again while some Hendrix-esque wah-wah ends up panning in-an-out of the mix. Then, as the band cuts off, electronic drum samples play over the last spoken-word part.
Overall, this is definitely a track that feels like album filler. But at least its album filler that is fun while listening to it, so it’s not a total loss.
“Siren” + “Small Fish” (3:35)
“Siren” is the last of the ‘intro’ tracks on the album. Nothing to see here. Only that the name “Siren” and its implication of temptation relates to how the titular “Small Fish” got into the situation described in that song—the bait on the hook was a sort of siren.
However, “Small Fish” is the name of a track from back in the Karma demos. Lyrically, this song is told from the view of a fish suffocating after being caught by a fisherman.
The first thing that I saw as the fisherman smiled at me
Were empty people dressed in grey, floating down the sea.
The sight of the fish witnessing “empty people dressed in grey” has loaded implications. The first of which is that “empty” conveys the result of mankind’s inhumanity. That this is linked to “grey” means that such inhumanity has killed humanity—if humanity is inhumane, then humanity is dead. Notice that they’re “dressed in grey” instead of naturally grey—this inhumanity is an artificial construct, not the natural state of mankind. That these people are “floating down the sea” can have associations with the Greek mythological conception of the underworld, making the fisherman in this song analogous to Charon. The irony in that is that the fisherman’s smiles suggests a wide gap in perspective—if the fisherman could see what the fish sees, he wouldn’t be smiling. This wide gap enables facilitates a lack of empathy and enables the havoc that humanity inflicts upon the natural world.
The rain lashed down in darkness, a lizard blinked an eye,
And time stopped in the silence. The small fish gave a cry.
This is the song’s refrain, repeating after every couplet. There is a lot to look at here, but the most important detail is that “time stopped in the silence.” To anyone who has ever read Ambrose Bierce’s “An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge” in college or high school, you can catch the motif which appears here—the entire song occurs over the span of moments. That it is stretched out to a full song indicates that this is how long the process of dying feels like to the fish. That the fish “gave a cry” in spite of silence showcases just how helpless he is in this situation.
The next thing that I saw as things were fading fast
Were dreams of children’s laughter smoldering to dust.
This image is categorized as “dreams,” which measures everything the fish sees as symbolic, not literal. Still, the image of “children’s laughter smoldering to dust” is a multi-faceted one. First, that “laughter” (a quality that can be heard, but not touched) can be undone into something as physical as “dust” conveys a sort of dream logic. Or, it conveys just how deep the perversion of humanity (from the first vision) runs—the pick of children was deliberately chosen to convey that what we call innocence is a social construct. That concept will re-appear in songs like “This Is No Rehearsal” (written from the viewpoint of a mother looking for her child after her child had been kidnapped and murdered in a mall…by other children) from Stupid Dream.
The last thing that I saw as my life passed by
Were fields of empty people laying down to die.
The notion entailed by “as my life passed by” is one that is shared by several songs on Up The Downstair, but not in as literal of a fashion as it is here. As to what the fish sees this time, the image of “fields of empty people laying down to die” indicates what occurs to those who still have their humanity; overwhelmed by the power possessed by the inhuman bastards who achieve everything they want through cutthroat methods. The “empty” state is guaranteed to plague every human who will ever live…there is no hope.
There is an alteration in the refrain at the end. In lieu of “The small fish gave a cry,” the song’s final lyric is “To watch the burning sky.” Apart from referencing the title of the next track, there are semantics regarding it. First, it isn’t the fish (he’s dead by this point) that’s watching the burning sky, but time itself. The significance is shifted from the individual to the cosmic, indicating that a single life doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things.
As for the music which backs this piece, “Siren” has a strangely harmonious pattern which undulates in-and-out of the speakers panning-wise. But there’s a nasty surprise in that this slowly becomes nightmare fuel to match the lyrics of “Small Fish.” At the last seconds of “Siren,” you can hear Steven whisper “The first thing that I saw was…” before a seamless transition into “Small Fish.”
Regarding “Small Fish,” it sounds like a cleaner and more fully-realized version of the Karma arrangement at first—it’s also exactly the type of song that garnered comparisons to Pink Floyd. The verses to this song have a prominent folk influence. This is definitely the most ‘chill’ song on Up The Downstair and that’s in direct contrast to the lyrics. Hell, the guitar solo sounds like one that David Gilmour wished he had written—not a cloud in the sky and not a note wasted. The last verse has prominent echo on the vocals. This is practically the most single-ready song on Up The Downstair.
“Burning Sky” (11:36) [instrumental]
This song begins with a clock-ticking effect which pulses underneath a fading in-and-out synth and drum machine. At about 1:08, guitar arrives along with the rest of the band with a finger-twisting motif (unless Steven’s using a delay effect for it). But the neat thing about “Burning Sky” is that it is consistently evolving. Such as the various bass licks that pop up before the 2 minute mark (at which point, some gorgeous synths glide over the composition). Or the guitar solo at around the 3 minute mark—some aspects of this piece are a jam.
But at 3:50, a new rhythmic pattern develops—with this riff, it appears that the tempo has changed (notice the drums). The keyboard accompaniment of this is shimmering and haunting. But it turns out to be backing for another guitar solo from Steven—albeit a tasteful guitar solo that blends melodic qualities with a dose of guitar heroics (Steven Wilson isn’t a shredder, but he can play guitar well). This lasts until 4:50, where a soundscape is backed by the clock-ticks and what sounds like Steven breathing. Soon, some very Gilmour-esque sustains begin popping up, along with what sounds like the keys pattern from the start of “Siren” fading in-and-out of the mix.
Once 6:52 hits, a clean-toned strum breaks the tension built up by the ambient soundscape begins to ease as some sense of rhythmic familiarity is now grounded. That is further reinforced when the rest of the band returns to the original motif of the song. At about 8 minutes in, a new passage plays where a slower guitar solo is played over a new rhythm. But this is broken at 9:11, where the rhythmic pattern from 3:50 re-emerges. This re-emergence does lead to a droning start of a guitar solo from Steven—one which ends up building up and becoming more chaotic until the breaking point is reached at 10:12 and the band crashes out.
This song isn’t over yet. Rhythmic stabs persist until the ticking effect overlays a drum fill from Gavin and then, the shimmering effect from the start of “Siren” returns while the song ends the same way as it began. But this time, the clock-ticks form a pitch-perfect transition into the start of “Fadeaway.”
Overall, what “Burning Sky” achieves during the lengthy runtime amounts to what any extended instrumental piece should do: take the listener onto an odyssey. A comparable example would be Dream Theater’s “Stream of Consciousness,” where that song goes through various different motifs only to end up at the one which began the song—all while that song has ample room for solos from those skilled musicians (three of them went to Berkley while the keyboardist was a child prodigy at Juliard). As for this example, the odyssey aspect is applied through the ambience and the unbelievable tension raised by the soundscape in the middle. The effect of which only makes the return of the band feel all-the-more heroic—there is a sense of scope in an excursion like this that a pop song cannot offer. This is definitely an album highlight.
“Fadeaway” (6:19)
This song starts with the sound of clocks (carrying over from the end of “Burning Sky”)—a detail that fits with the notions of memory and time that these lyrics are preoccupied with. I admit that these are abstract lyrics, but there is a sense that “Fadeaway” is about a man’s memories while on his deathbed. As for instrumentation, there is a melancholy to this song which matches the lyrics in such a way that hadn’t been done in PT’s discography up to this point.
I sat in the room with a view
The girl in the photograph knew.
Can’t you see?
Why is she laughing at me?
I stumbled through the dark unaware
The face in the hall isn’t there.
Tomorrow has gone.
Where do the voices come from?
This image of “the room with a view” introduces the concept of memory in a symbolic manner—the building our subject is in mirrors his memories and his mental state. Memory is true regarding both “The girl in the photograph” and the disappearance of “The face in the hall.” But that this girl is laughing at our subject (Yes, subject. Not speaker, as I’ll elaborate in a bit) can come across as an exaggeration in the mind of the subject. Why I say ‘subject’ instead of ‘speaker’ is due to the line “Can’t you see?” (Insert Marshal Tucker Band jokes here). This line’s pronoun of “you” is in reference to our subject character, meaning that this song cannot be from a first-person view, but third-person omniscient. Regardless of perspective, one thing that is clear is that our subject is at the end of the road—death is one of the only reasons making “Tomorrow has gone” true.
Watching the leaves as they blew.
Lost in the room with a view.
Climb the walls.
You did not know me at all.
This image of “Watching the leaves as they blew” is one indicative of wasting life while “Climb the walls” is an attempt to take control of one’s own life. However, “You did not know me at all” is works in conjunction with the state of being “Lost in the room with a view.” If the building our subject resides symbolizes his internal state, then to be lost in it ties into the theme of not knowing who you are—a sign of not having lived a meaningful life.
I fell through a hole in the floor.
The audience cried out for more.
Fadeaway.
It’s just another day.
The state of falling “through a hole in the floor” must be interpreted in conjunction with the image of the audience crying “out for more.” In doing so, one gets a sense that this “audience” is a parasitical bunch—they want nothing more than to strip him of any semblance of a meaningful life. That the act of death (the “Fadeaway”) is treated as merely “another day” stands for something in the modern world—in an era with a population of billions, the death of one person doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. That is what our speaker is telling himself.
Hit heaven far too high.
This line has always struck me as applying to lofty expectations backfiring upon the subject. But in the context of the prior lyrics, it comes across as especially tragic—our subject lived and died an unfulfilled life.
As for the music of this song, the mid-tempo (yet busy) rhythm from Gavin conveys languid desperation. But the Floydian atmosphere mirrors the loneliness, the pointlessness, and the insignificance of the subject. The way Steven delivers these vocals sound as though he is drained of energy—fitting given the subject. The various bits of flute in the background convey the panic in the mind as it tries to relax itself (in the subject’s shoes). The keyboard portions straddle the line between soothing and melancholy—indeed, they’re vital towards setting this song’s tone.
But after the lyrics pass, there is a vamp on the clean-toned rhythmic pattern supporting the “Hit heaven far too high” lyric. This rhythm sometimes gets Gilmour-esque flourishes of slide-guitar peppered into the mix which blend into the angelic synths. Appropriately, every instrument slowly fades away one-by-one until the song (and album) end in total silence.
Final Thoughts:
Apart from “Radioactive Toy,” nothing from On The Sunday of Life could prepare listeners for the future of this band. In many ways, Up The Downstair is a far better representation of the tones, moods, and styles that Steven Wilson would explore and develop for the next few albums. Although this is an overlooked album in their discography, Up The Downstair is the exact opposite of a sophomore slump—it’s a consolidation and redirection of what Steven set out to do with Porcupine Tree. Don’t start with On The Sunday of Life…start with Up The Downstair and marvel at the ways that Steven develops the sound from here. The lone flaw with this album is that the interludes which segue into actual songs sometimes can constitute a pace-killer and maybe the two would be better off combined into a single track. But that’s a quibble in comparison to what was Steven’s best album up to this point.
The scary thing is that this album—for as good as it is—doesn’t hit my top five Porcupine Tree albums. Which isn’t a slight on Up The Downstair, but rather an acknowledgement that there are several albums that are even better than this one. Something that indicates that Steven Wilson continued to grow and develop as a songwriter, a musician, a lyricist, and a bandleader.
The Next Five:
* No-Man - "Flowermouth" (June 27, 1994)
* Porcupine Tree - "The Sky Moves Sideways" (February 1995)
* No-Man - "Wild Opera" (September 1996)
* Incredible Expanding Mindfuck - "IEM" (1996)
* Porcupine Tree - "Signify" (September 1996)