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Porcupine Tree’s fourth album is often considered the red-headed step-child of their discography. This was simultaneously an album that marked a milestone (it was their first full-band album) and a transitional period (coming between the Floyd-inspired prog of The Sky Moves Sideways and the melancholic yet tuneful alternative-prog hybrid of Stupid Dream). Some have even gone as far as to claim that Signify is the band’s Krautrock album. That being said, Signify tends to be left out of the discussion when considering the band’s best albums. It definitely isn’t my favorite or even in my top five, but this one is still miles better than On The Sunday of Life. Regardless, you get the sense of a compromise between their two sounds.
Another detail of note is the prevalence of instrumental tracks on Signify—seven in total. Meaning that this is the most instrumental-heavy album in the PT discography (in relation to the total number of tracks on the album).
Although this album is not a concept album, the title of the album is a word that is relevant towards every song on the album with lyrics. On some level, “Sleep of No Dreaming,” “Every Home Is Wired,” “Sever,” “Waiting,” “Idiot Prayer,” and “Dark Matter” are all concerned with what people are willing to do in order to feel significant, to feel like they belong in the world, and what are the consequences of being insignificant or inconsequential. That detail is vital towards making sense of this album as a whole. Indeed, Signify contains some of the most obtuse sets of lyrics that Steven Wilson has ever penned, so this unifying idea of significance can function as a grounding to make sure things never get too confusing lyrically. But even by Steven’s standards, a song like “Sever” contains lyrics which can come across as word-salad out-of-context.
“Bornlivedie” (1:41)
While “Bornlivedie” is technically an instrumental, the song starts the album off with a voice sample:
We invite you, wherever you are—whether you are at home or whatever—to kick your shoes off and put your feet up and lean back and get yourself a cup of coffee or something and just relax and join us in enjoying some very quietened, romantic, and relaxed music for a couple of hours.
This can serve as a book-end to the spoken-word message that occurs at the end of the album—for reasons that’ll be clearer once we get there.
Following that, there is a barrage of indistinct samples, overwhelming keyboard layers, and intermittent guitar whirrs thrown all about the mix. Something like this is designed to overwhelm the listener and grab their attention—as if they wonder what could possibly be around the corner for the rest of the album. But before doing so, consider that these words are spoken amidst the carnage of sound:
Live.
Die.
Signify.
Those three words articulate the entire thematic crux of the album—the significance of life weighted against the insignificance of death.
Not much more to talk about—“Bornlivedie” functions more as an introduction to the album that leaves the listener in anticipation for the first proper track, “Signify.”
“Signify” (3:26)
Moving onto “Signify,” which starts with a guitar riff from Steven that soon is doubled by synth and followed by a lock-step rhythm from Colin and Chris afterwards. This time, Richard soars over it with synth. Amidst all the breaks and changes in rhythm, this song sounds like the first time Porcupine Tree has worked as a group instead of Steven Wilson’s vanity project.
Brief and to the point with riffs, guitar and keys solos, and all the rhythms you could want, the instrumental title-track proves that Steven Wilson had assembled a line-up that meant business. Given that Signify contains seven instrumentals, this won’t be the last time that this line-up will show what they’re made of.
“Sleep of No Dreaming” (5:24)
As the first of five songs on Signify with lyrics, “The Sleep of No Dreaming” has a special task to fulfill. That task is to serve by example a form of the thematic concerns (the significance/insignificance paradigm) that the other four non-instrumental tracks will tackle from different angles. Let’s start with the first verse:
At the age of sixteen
I grew out of hope.
I regarded the cosmos
Through a circle of rope.
So I threw out my plans,
Ran on to the wheel,
And emptied my head of all childish ideals.
The vital thing to consider from “At the age of sixteen/I grew out of hope” is that “I” refers not to a character, but to Steven himself. This verse contains one of a handful of his lyrics that can be read autobiographically, but Steven looks back at this time in retrospect. Meaning that this is what Steven’s emotional truth of his life at sixteen was like. As for the sentiment itself, that’s concise—and it’s about a time that almost everyone has experienced.
As for “I regarded the cosmos/Through a circle of rope,” there’s two things to draw from. The first—from “regarded the cosmos”—suggests the narrow-minded way of thinking about things that’s indicative of one’s adolescence. The second thing—“a circle of rope”—comes across as something rather dark, especially if this song is autobiographical. That dark thing is that “a circle of rope” looks a lot like a noose, so that phrase could entail either suicidal thoughts or a failed suicide attempt. While that’s mere speculation on my part, this would hardly be the only time which suicide comes up in Steven Wilson’s music—most hauntingly in “Stop Swimming” from Stupid Dream.
Regarding “So I threw out my plans,/Ran on to the wheel,/And emptied my head of all childish ideals,” there’s a sense of ambition being dashed. The steps taken here reflect a need to get back on track with life. The reason one would do so ties into the album title—Signify. There’s a reason why this verse starts out the first track with lyrics to appear on the album—it can be read as Steven Wilson’s own quest to achieve significance with his own life.
The sleep of no feeling.
Sleep of no dreaming.
This song’s chorus appears to be a simple one, but the context of the first verse makes things bleaker. To put it simply, the “sleep of no feeling” and the “sleep of no dreaming” are both states of life. As to what that entails, to state that life is a “sleep of no feeling” means that this is a hollow, miserable, and insignificant world where everyone struggles to feel significant with his/her/their own life. Likewise, to declare life as a “sleep of no dreaming” suggests that being around in such a hollow, miserable, and insignificant world leaves us feeling as if there’s no room to dream because nothing suggest that any dreams will ever come true.
I married the first girl
Who wasn’t a man
And smiled as the spiders
Ran all over my hands.
Made a good living
By dying, it’s true.
As the world in my TV
Leaked onto my shoes.
As to why I don’t think this entire song is about Steven Wilson’s life, this verse is the reason why—much of these lyrics introduce thematic motifs which later songs on Signify will be centered on. The phrase “I married the first girl/Who wasn’t a man/And smiled as the spiders/Ran all over my hands” should be split into two segments. The first—“I married the first girl/Who wasn’t a man”—has several potentially-loaded interpretations (some of which can veer into misogyny or homophobia, which I doubt Steven intended), but this is an example of what form of word-salad some of the lyrics on Signify contain. The way this lyric appears in context relates to the motif of self-loathing which appears in the next phrase, so this marriage can be the result of repressed homosexuality. The next phrase—“And smiled as the spiders/Ran all over my hands”—touches upon a motif that’ll later appear in “Waiting”: taking pleasure out of one’s pain (the smile says it all).
In regards to both “Made a good living/By dying, it’s true” and “As the world in my TV/Leaked onto my shoes,” these phrases address concerns that are shared in “Every Home Is Wired.” In that song, an attack on what the internet does to people appears in the first verse—something applicable towards both phrases.
Musically, “The Sleep of No Dreaming” starts with smooth organ from Barbieri. This segues into a slow jazz-like rhythm from Edwin and Maitland over which Steven delivers the first verse. This lasts up to 1:07, where a piercing brand of guitar enters for the chorus before shifting back to the verse pattern for a brief solo which leads to the verse-chorus pattern. However, this verse has Steven playing some jazz-like guitar pattern.
Following the second chorus, the song vamps a little on the chorus rhythm (starting at about 2:37)—including some pretty hefty fills from Maitland—until the three-minute mark. At which point, a slow jam is anchored by drums that leads to the third verse—one that is colored by Edwin’s bass and intermittent bits of Barbieri’s atmospheric keys. Once the third chorus comes and goes, the song eventually changes key into something off-putting for the finale—a finale punctuated by Steven’s rhythmic stabs of strings and Chris’s pounding drumwork.
While “The Sleep of No Dreaming” isn’t my favorite song from Signify, it makes clear that Steven Wilson isn’t letting his bandmates get in the way of his creative vision. In fact, his bandmates serve to enhance it better than if it were an I-play-all-instruments-and-program-the-drums scenario like On The Sunday of Life and Up The Downstair. Having the feeling of music coming to life—as opposed to having it assembled—creates a feeling of the music itself having a beating heart.
“Pagan” (1:34)
This instrumental starts with a string flourish by Barbieri before something that sounds like a choral sample is heard in the background. Some soft tom rolls from Maitland can be heard while some intermittent bits of Barbieri’s keys can be heard as well. The overall effect of such a brief and minimalistic composition ends up being a haunting one. Even if the track’s purpose feels like a filler spot of atmosphere between “The Sleep of No Dreaming” and “Waiting (Phase One).”
“Waiting” (10:39) or “Waiting (Phase One)” (4:25) + “Waiting (Phase Two)” (6:16)
As a song, “Waiting” takes up two songs on the album—“Waiting (Phase One)” and “Waiting (Phase Two),” the latter of which is a six minute instrumental track that carries over directly from the end of the former. However, “Waiting (Phase One)” occupies a special place in the Porcupine Tree canon because it was the first single that the band released (not counting Voyage 34 because Steven only put that out as a single as a ‘fuck you’ gesture).
That status as a single makes sense because on a lyrical level, “Waiting (Phase One)” ends up as one of the least-cryptic tracks on Signify. The general takeaway is that while “The Sleep of No Dreaming” is about someone who wants to take steps towards significance, “Waiting” is at the exact opposite point—complete and total boredom with his/her/their life.
Waiting…to be born again.
This first line illustrates the extent of the speaker’s boredom. He/She/They is so sure that things can never become better that being born again appears to be the only escape from a monotonous life.
Wanting…the saddest kind of pain.
Waiting for the day when I will crawl away.
The first part of this ties into the previous line by way of a Buddhism tie-in. That tie-in relates to the notion of desire leading to pain. This means that our speaker is made all-the-more upset because he/she/they know that things should be better. Therefore, the word choice of “Wanting…the saddest kind of pain” could not be any more fitting in the context of the song. Another way of looking at that is that the speaker expects something painful and sad to come into his/her/their life in the not-too-distant future, but he/she/they have resigned themselves to that fact and do nothing to prevent it.
While “Waiting (Phase One)” doesn’t have a chorus, the refrain of “Waiting for the day when I will crawl away” is the closest thing to a chorus that the song has. As to what that means, look at how it portrays the act of crawling away as if it were insignificant whenever it’s the very thing that the speaker of the song should do. This refrain does come across as both pitiful and ironic. Ironic because by saying he’s/she’s/they’s waiting for time to “crawl away,” the speaker is aware that pain and suffering will have to be endured during the waiting period. Pitiful because it conveys such a lack of hope that also suggests the speaker considers themselves pitiful because of wanting to escape from it all.
Nothing is what I feel.
Waiting…for the drugs to make it real.
Waiting…for the day when I will crawl away.
This section of the song (more-so than the first verse) is where the depths of our speaker’s insignificance is able to be grasped. Yes, the phrase “Waiting…for the drugs to make it real” makes it clear that drugs are an aspect of this song. However, the context of the line shows that this song’s not an ode to drug abuse. Quite the opposite, as drugs are merely a symbol of how insignificant the speaker feels. That the speaker takes drugs “to make it real” must be taken in conjunction with “Nothing is what I feel” because the latter entails. The problem with that is that because drugs come with their own set of problems, they aren’t a viable long-term solution to our speaker’s problems. This ties back to the refrain—drugs are a way of crawling away, but he/she/they may have to find another way sooner or later. As to what that way is, the first verse’s phrase of “Wanting…the saddest kind of pain” suggest that any way of escape will be painful.
Waiting…to be disciplined.
Aching…for your nails across my skin.
Waiting…for the day when I will crawl away.
These lines where exactly what I was referring to when I mentioned the ‘pleasure from pain’ motif back in “The Sleep of No Dreaming.” Because no matter how you read into it, the phrase “Waiting…to be disciplined” invites connotations of BDSM regardless of whether Steven put those connotations in purposefully or not. But there’s another layer to this that ties to the previous verse—that this isn’t for the speaker’s sexual gratification. Rather, this sense of ‘pleasure from pain’ reminds the speaker that he/she/they are alive. To this speaker, being able to feel anything constitutes as significant. This also may just be what “the saddest kind of pain” is.
As for the music which is in “Waiting,” Phase One begins with a smooth Indian-style beat before some acoustic guitar arrives from Steven, along with a lead guitar bit. All before the vocals arrive at the thirty-second mark. Before Steven’s voice arrived, the effect was soothing. Afterwards, it becomes heavenly—which is ironic given the disturbing implications raised by the lyrics.
Anyways, this rhythmic structure persists until a slide guitar is punctuated by a thunderous drum hit of Chris’s (at 1:37). At which point, there’s a solo that occurs while the rhythm sections picks up in volume. However, the atmospheric feeling doesn’t fade no matter the volume the band plays. The third verse begins as Steven’s guitar solo ends at about 2:40 (going through a loud and a soft section) and the song goes through another verse-refrain cycle (not a bad thing given how gorgeous the harmonies are in this song).
But as that verse-refrain cycle wraps up at 3:18, the listener hears a drum fill from Chris that leads to a wah-wah drenched guitar solo from Steven. This solo (which ends Phase One) shows both some pretty quick runs and some melodic touches from Steven. I may not consider Steven Wilson to be a guitar player on the level of people such as Joe Satriani, Steve Vai, Andy Timmons, Yngwie Malmsteen, or John Petrucci (Dream Theater). However, there are solos like this, “Way Out of Here,” “Shesmovedon,” “Dark Matter,” “Trains,” “The Sky Moves Sideways,” and “Lightbulb Sun” which indicate that Steven knows what he’s able to do on guitar—so he makes the most of it.
While this is the point where Phase One ends, the song’s far from over. Right as Phase Two starts, the last sustained notes from Phase One are still ringing as some keys effects can be heard playing. Less than twenty seconds pass and Chris’s percussion plays a new rhythm and some choral echoes can be heard. At around fifty seconds, some effects-laden guitar noise can be faintly discerned. Throughout all this, the rhythm builds up in volume—something is being built up to long before bass or piano enter the picture around a minute-and-a-half in.
This jam runs through various forms which have Chris’s percussion rhythm as the anchor. This is one track that could be a remnant of the psychedelic jamming, but the tones used are unlike anything from psychedelic jams. Rather, they exhibit the influence of Krautrock seeping into the band’s sound.
Anyways, a shift in rhythm is signaled via the cymbal crash at 3:22. Soon after, the rhythm morphs into a more jazz-based one which starts interspersing snares, toms, and cymbals. Things kick up an additional notch when electric guitar enters the picture with a guitar solo at the four-minute mark. That the instant at which the guitar enters also signals the arrival of a layer of synths makes the jump in volume significant. Steven’s guitar solo goes on for a little over a minute, after which the song slows down considerably. The drums only play intermittent rolls and there’s the definite sense that the song is winding down
Both parts of “Waiting” constitute the most low-key sounding moment on Signify and it’s clear that that’s part of the reason that Phase One was selected as a single. As a whole, “Waiting” ends up being one of my favorites from Signify. But it’s not the best track on the album—that comes later.
“Sever” (5:30)
Oh boy. Here we go with the song that I knew would be the biggest hurdle in tackling out of all the tracks on Signify and possibly in Steven Wilson’s entire career. I say this because—lyrically, at least—“Sever” is infamous for containing arguably the most out-there set of lyrics that Steven Wilson has ever penned. In fact, when I mentioned that Signify had ‘word-salad lyrics,’ I specifically had “Sever” in mind. As a result, I cannot guarantee that any analysis of this won’t be total hogwash. However, I refuse to say “It’s all about drugs” because I think that that’s laziness unless the song is about drugs, which I don’t think that “Sever” is. At least not about only drugs.
Shall we start this doozy? Here goes! Remember, crying “This song’s about drugs” is for quitters (unless the song is about drugs and only drugs).
Telepath Carbon trapped under stone.
Brother, mother, pale body is thrown.
Only way I know to have fun.
Fill up my blood, my veins, my lungs.
This first phrase—“Telepath Carbon trapped under stone”—is already a weighty one. Given the presence of carbon in lifeforms, “Telepath Carbon” already indicates someone capable of telepathy. However, given that telepathy falls into ESP—something considered pseudoscience by the scientific community—there’s a suggestion that it shouldn’t be taken at face value within the song. While “Brother, mother, pale body is thrown” does suggest the presence of telepathy, to state that the “Telepath Carbon” is “trapped under stone” undercuts the whole notion of telepathy. This whole thing makes the phrase “Only way I know to have fun” sadder—it’s an acknowledgment that reality can’t suffice for the speaker—there must be something more to him/her/them. What develops via the phrase—“Fill up my blood, my veins, my lungs”—is something which will be linked to the ESP concept in the next verse—drugs. Yes, I do think that this is an acid reference, but that doesn’t mean that drugs are the only thing that this song is about.
ESP city—rainy and blue.
Burn down this town, I give it to you.
Aero shallow, photograph blind,
Stage fright, black light, coma divine.
To describe someone’s drug trip as an “ESP city—rainy and blue” implies something about the speaker of the song—that he/she/they believe that the experience of a drug trip is akin to experiencing ESP. This doesn’t mean that the song is about only drugs, but the gist of it is that the speaker has to experience drugs and self-deception as to what drugs actually do in order to feel significant—relating back to the thematic linkage to the song. It would be easy to read “Aero shallow, photograph blind/Stage fright, black light, coma divine” as imagery indicative of a drug trip, but there is one to single out: “coma divine” (not just because PT later released a live album by that name). Those two words paint a telling picture of the way our speaker perceives the trip—he/she/they may be out of it (the “coma”), but he/she/they love every second of it (the “divine”). As for “Burn down this town, I give it to you,” that’s a clue as to what sort of things the speaker believes he/she/they can do while on this faux-ESP drug-trip. It’s a delusion of power, something of importance in cracking the otherwise incoherent third verse.
No sense of time.
Sever tomorrow.
Exitless mind—ESP Sever tomorrow.
This cluster of lines constitutes the chorus, a statement that heightens the extent of the speaker’s power fantasy. This dimension of faux-ESP (courtesy of “No sense of time”) adds a sense of temporal disconnect into the proceedings—telepathy isn’t the only thing that the speaker thinks he has while tripping on acid. This sense of temporal disconnect also exhibits itself via “Sever tomorrow,” a phrase which implies that the speaker believes he/she/they can actively separate from the limitations of time itself. And as “Exitless mind” entails, that isn’t the only limitation that the speaker is deluded enough to think that he/she/they can split from—the speaker thinks that under the power of acid, he/she/they are immortal. This is due to thinking that once divorced from the ravages of time, there’s no way that he/she/they can die. As we’ve established, this is just an elaborate self-delusion the speaker has brought on via tripping acid.
School out invective, losing my voice.
Film shredding on in multiple choice.
America calls, I must go.
Oprah savior, I feel that low.
Until applying the idea that these lines convey the delusion of power hinted at in the second verse, I thought that this third verse was a bunch of gobbledygook like ‘goo goo g’joob’ in “I Am The Walrus” by The Beatles.
The first phrase of “School out invective, losing my voice” makes sense once we define the term ‘invective,’ because it’s clear that “school” is being used as a verb.
Invective [noun]: insulting, abusive, or highly critical language
Using this definition in mind, the first half of the phrase can be read as either being exhausted by the action of schooling out invective or the speaker being so reliant on invective that if it were disallowed, his/her/their voice would become silenced. I lean towards the former because it falls in line with this verse’s running theme of undercutting the perceived power fantasy of the acid-trips the speaker embarks on.
Regarding the second phrase—“Film shredding on in multiple choice”—there is a sense that two formats are being conflated: multiple-choice quizzes and film. However, this also factors into the belief that the speaker has of acid granting him/her/them omnipotence—the only way that a film could have two or more endings at once is if the viewer can warp reality because a film can (in reality) have only one ending.
In regards to the third phrase—“America calls, I must go”—acts as a both a messiah complex-ridden bit of ego-stroking (consider the presence of the religious right in America circa 1996) and as an undercutting of that notion’s viability. The latter is ascertainable through “I must go,” a statement which involves a lack of free-will. Which is contradictory to the notion of omnipotence.
As for the last phrase of “Oprah savior, I feel that low,” that phrase is a curious one that provides two contrasting clauses. First, “Oprah savior” invokes both the media and a messianic complex, two things already seen in Signify as things that people would actually do in order to feel significant. However, “I feel so low” counters this in that this quest to feel significant can also be read as a quest to avoid feeling insignificance. This also entails that the real-world is a place where significance is next-to-impossible to achieve, so people resort to hollow measures in order to achieve a measure of faux-significance that initially acts as a placebo. Once people realize the hollow measures don’t work at all, it’s often too late.
Musically, there are a few things to note about “Sever” before going into how this song is structured. First off, this song is one of the catchiest on Signify in spite of the word-salad lyrics. Additionally, this song’s vocal melody was written based on quartal harmony (4ths)—a musical concept that was frequently used by one of Steven’s influences: Frank Zappa.
“Sever” begins with the sound of electronic effects before a lone guitar drone is heard. That drone is shortly followed by a slow drum rhythm by Chris and a set of keyboard hits (in a rhythm that sounds like Psycho strings) from Barbieri. Then Steven delivers the verse in a coherent, confident manner the band plods along in a strong rhythmic foundation to carry him. But then at 1:25, the foundation for the chorus appears—a massive string-esque synth sound from Barbieri laid over the familiar rhythm. Only this time, the chorus is delivered via harmonies that sound angelic. And without guitar in this picture, Colin’s smooth-and-steady bassline comes across crystal clear. But by 1:54, the droning guitar pattern returns for another verse-chorus unit.
When the second chorus (which feels like it’s in a lower key than the first chorus) ends at 3:03, the drone-lead rhythm repeats. But this time, a spoken word sample plays as Steven wails a bit. Then, the synth-strings grow a little more discordant. Until around 3:50, where everything except the drums and Steven’s wails drop out. But at 4:04, the synth portion of the chorus returns—but as the harmonies re-emerge, you can hear that something’s off on them. They’ve no doubt been given a studio effect, but the reverb on this variant of the harmonies sounds ethereal. But that feeling of severance with the vocals is short-lived since it gets cut-off by the return of the guitar at 4:34, which signals a vamp on the main rhythm that ends the song.
Overall, “Sever” manages to be one of the catchier songs on Signify despite containing lyrics that look like word-salad on paper. The slow and plodding pace may be part of the reason why that combination works so well. Since the tempo is slower, it gives you more time to ponder just exactly what the meaning of the lyrics are. With the confidence that Steven delivers them, it’s pretty clear that he wants you to give some thought on it. However, I’d encourage any listener to come up with their own idea for what these lyrics mean. Who knows? I could have been spouting a load of nonsense for this entire lyrical analysis.
“Idiot Prayer” (7:37)
Given that “Idiot Prayer” is classified as an instrumental, I’ll touch on the song’s structure before going into what the spoken-word passage entails.
The song begins slowly with Barbieri’s atmospheric keyboards—leaving you in a feeling of being washed over. Before long, Chris enters on percussion and then something which sounds like electronic sound comes in. Guitar arrives in waves of fuzz at about the one minute mark, followed by flute. Mostly, this is a slow-paced deal for a while. Things change gears at about 2:30, where an already-ascertainable synth pattern from Barbieri ends up sending Chris’s drums into a faster-paced pattern. All the while, Colin’s bass provides a pulse that serves as the glue which holding things together. The spoken-word segment comes about over this pattern at around 2:49. During which, some droning guitar makes this seem ominous. Especially as the bass riff gets copied on guitar.
Once Steven begins his guitar solo around the three-and-an-half-minute mark, the song has morphed into a full-out jam session. However, the jam (and the guitar solo) are cut-off by a sudden shift into a more atmospheric rhythm at 4:04. This part utilizes a guitar tone awash in the Floydian—but the context creates something unique in a way that only Steven Wilson could execute. That thing is that this mellow-as-heck section—after having a break at 5:05—gives way at 5:36 to the first seeds of the second jam session of the song, one that goes into full-force once the heavy guitars puncture the sound at 6:06. This puncturing is a return to the jam session from earlier, complete with another guitar solo from Steven. However, the session appears to end just a little too soon, giving way to a rolling keyboard rhythm and some percussion to end the song.
Although this song is predominantly an instrumental, there is a passage of spoken-word which does constitute analysis.
I’m having the most perfect hallucination.
Green and blue patterns are forming all over me like a deck of cards.
Ha, ha, ha, ha. I have a feeling this is what almost paradise must be like.
I don’t feel I’ll ever be the same again.
Please help. Please help.
All over the ceiling are geometric patterns and lights.
Please help. Please help.
Just from the word “hallucination” and from imagery such as “green and blue patterns,” the speaker of this song is in the middle of a drug trip. But that’s not the only thing that “Idiot Prayer” is about. And the key line towards understanding the real crux is “I have a feeling this is what almost paradise must be like.” That line should be related to the title “Idiot Prayer,” itself a judgment on the speaker. This speaker is an ‘idiot’ for either resorting to acid or to needing acid in order to achieve an experience akin to that of a religious enlightenment. I say ‘akin to,’ not an experience that ‘is’ religious enlightenment—an important distinction to make given the song does say “almost paradise.” Almost as if Steven is implicitly suggesting that if there’s a God/Heaven, an experience like an acid trip is not the way to achieve it. This is one of the first times Steven has offered something that can be construed as a critique of organized religion/skepticism of faith, something which will be addressed again in later songs. Given Steven’s relatively-private stance on things, it’s not surprising that we’ve never had any official word as to what Steven believes. However, some of his lyrics can entail that he’s (at the very least) doubtful about matters of religion.
That this trip goes sour is made clear by lines such as “I don’t feel I’ll ever be the same again” and “Please help. Please help,” the latter being a dire and repetitive mode of distress.
All things considered, “Idiot Prayer” is usually ranked as the best of the instrumental tracks on Signify, alongside “Intermediate Jesus” and “Waiting (Phase Two).” However, it ends up being my favorite instrumental on the album because it has the sense of a journey that was shared by “Burning Sky.” In this case, the journey-like sensation is achieved by the lengthy mellow section that’s sandwiched between the heavier portions. This does have a meandering quality, but it feels tightly-controlled while doing so.
“Every Home Is Wired” (5:08)
The lyrical concerns of “Every Home Is Wired”—how technology has altered the ways that people go about in their quest for significance—are ones that end up being more relevant now than when Steven wrote the song in 1996. This wouldn’t be the last time that Steven takes on the topic of technology’s effect on humanity. In fact, Steven goes at this topic with even greater spite in Fear of a Blank Planet from 2007. So here’s a look at the lyrics:
Modem load and failsafe.
Electric teenage dust.
Hit the solvent keypad.
Start the neural rust.
While “Modem load and failsafe” describes the technological aspect of a computer, the use of “failsafe” can also apply towards the person using a computer—this is a back-up plan in case the original method of achieving significance doesn’t pan out. However, “Electric teenage dust” brings up a danger in people using it for such purposes—there isn’t a proper judgment as to when that back-up plan is the only plan available. This is especially true of teenagers, who aren’t exactly the best judges of things.
As for the contrast between “Hit the solvent keypad” and “Start the neural rust,” the former (with the word “solvent”) acts as if it is a solution to the problems while the latter indicates a side-effect of technology on the mind.
Power on the highway.
Data in my head.
Surfing on the network.
Part of me is dead.
By the use of futuristic imagery in this and the next verse, Steven seems to project in time and predict what Internet technology will be like at an unspecified point in the future. That is, if we’re to take phrases like “Power on the highway” and “Data in my head” in a literal context. But both have meanings grounded in the present—the former being a reference to Internet terminology (the Information Super Highway) and the latter using human memory to demonstrate how obsessive the Internet can be.
As for the risks entailed by the latter half of this verse, the very action of “Surfing on the network” is (even in 2018) akin to balancing on a knife’s edge in regards to whether internet connection will actually work (never a guarantee). Given how true that is now, one can hardly imagine what it was like when this song was written (1996, firmly-situated in the dial-up era).
Another risk raised is the thread of desensitization exhibited in “Part of me is dead,” which is an effect of technology which Steven would explore in a later Porcupine Tree album (Fear of a Blank Planet). As for how it factors into the idea of feeling significance, this is merely another form of same quest to feel alive that was discussed by the ‘pleasure from pain’ lyrics from “Waiting (Phase One).” Sure, the medium has changed from sex to technology, but the sensations that are trying to be derived from the speakers in the contexts of both songs are not dissimilar.
Every Home is Wired.
This chorus is delivered in a multi-tracked chorus of 37 layers of voices—all of which were achieved through multiple overdubs of Steven Wilson’s voice. That method of delivery informs the listener that the speaker’s experiences are shared by many others. It also functions as a pun on the use of the word ‘wired’ to mean insanity—which leads to the implication that this direction with technology is an act of insanity on the part of the human race, but we’re loving every minute of it.
Swimming in the circuit.
Somebody has expired.
This world will be the future.
These lyrics—more-so than the second verse—portray the failure of the human spirit when pitted up against technology. By describing those who are completely addicted to technology as “Swimming in the circuit,” there’s also a sense of metaphysical loss implied—a loss of the soul which makes the phrase “Somebody has expired” disturbingly literal. Then, by saying that “This world will be the future,” my suspicions about the temporal placement of these verses are confirmed. But because that phrase is followed by “Every home is wired,” there’s a suggestion that the things described in this verse will come true when everyone in the entire world has complete and total access to the Internet.
As for the music, a gentle acoustic guitar is the song’s first sound, followed by a ghostly-sounding synth by Barbieri. But around twenty seconds in, the acoustic guitar part shifts into an electric that plays the same part as Steven sings the first verse. This bare-bones approach lasts until bass becomes audible in the build-up to the second verse, where both the bass and the synth add texture to the foundation which the first verse established. But at 1:31, a distinctly psychedelic-sounding slide guitar signals the shift into the chorus. This chorus—achieved by 37 vocal overdubs on the part of Steven—sounds like a dream due to how easy it is to get lost in the swarm of voices. Once that majestic chorus ends at 2:02, it reverts to another verse-chorus unit.
But after the second chorus ends at roughly 3:03, there’s a break. Soon after that, the first drums of the song are audible—things are shifting to a more psychedelic rhythm. This section has intermittent burst of guitar and synth, as well as some busy basswork that pops out here-and-there. Gradually, things start to sound more-and-more unhinged until the song stops at 4:43, letting spoken-word samples play the song out.
From a musical standpoint, “Every Home Is Wired” captures the ‘beautiful sound, not-so-docile lyrics’ motif which is a hallmark of Steven’s music. In this case, the listener is too awash in the spellbinding chorus to notice that these lyrics have some pretty unnerving implications bubbling underneath the surface. This songwriting technique is one that Steven would use to even greater effect on Stupid Dream.
“Intermediate Jesus” (7:29)
The first thing that greets a listener’s ears in “Intermediate Jesus” is the spoken-word sample of a preacher telling the listener that “you need Christ.” The music itself comes with piano and keys at about ten seconds in with drums playing a laid-back rhythm for Colin’s bass to circle around as Steven’s acoustic arpeggio arrives. Soon, Steven’s guitar shifts to violin-toned sustains which increase in volume with the rest of the band. However, this band doesn’t rest on its laurels for too long—as evident by the flourishes of keyboard and guitar, the hints of harmonics on bass, and the slight deviations on drums that just work in the rhythmic framework.
This jam-session based structure lasts until around 3:30, where the rhythm changes to a faster, jazz-like drum pattern from Chris. Shortly afterwards, this breaks out into another jam session that contains a synth solo, a funk-like guitar rhythm, and various bits of piano scattered here-and-there. This eventually turns down to near-nothing just before the last spoken-word sample plays, after which the sound of wind chimes reverberates as a haze of guitar pluckings and synths play out in a restrained manner—no further bombast required.
In terms of how it’s constructed, “Intermediate Jesus” gives the impression of improvisation of large portions of the piece. This isn’t a bad thing—it adds to the eclectic quality of Signify and also shows a clear reason why it’s a transitional album. That reason is that “Intermediate Jesus”—for better or worse—is the last improv-based song that Porcupine Tree would perform. Given the carefully-constructed nature of the music on every album starting with Stupid Dream, this makes sense—an improvisation wouldn’t gel with the plans that Steven had.
““Light Mass Prayers”” (4:28)
When “Light Mass Prayers” begins, a press of Barbieri’s synth hovers in a tone which feels lighter than air, setting up a definite atmosphere which feels desolate yet serene. The taps of what sounds like thwacks against a bell only heighten the sense that something ominous lies just around the corner. Eventually, there’s a change into a higher key—a quality that feels more human, but more melancholic. But when the key shifts back to the original, there’s a sense of hope being squashed. Not to mention that the repeating pattern has a rhythm akin to that of deep breathing. But slowly, the synths fade out in the last minute—all while the thwacking sound from earlier begins to sound like a rumble. And that rumble grows more-and-more pronounced by the end.
As a piece of music, “Light Mass Prayers” works perfectly as atmosphere. While it may go on for a little longer than necessary, the mood which this ambiance sets serves as a perfect mood-setter to prepare the listener for “Dark Matter.”
“Dark Matter” (8:57)
To many who are confused with Signify, “Dark Matter” functions as the skeleton-key to the album. Which is part of the reason that this song became the fan-favorite of the album.
Before beginning a full-scale lyrical analysis, we should pick apart the title—“Dark Matter.” Yes, this will involve science, but I’ll try to keep this as concise and understandable as possible while remaining accurate. While dark matter may be theorized to make up about 80% of matter in the universe, it’s never been directly observed. However, a cavalcade of astrophysical observations (such as gravity-based effects which are unexplainable unless more matter exists than can be seen). Because of this, most astrophysicist experts think of dark matter as having an ubiquitous place in the universe—ubiquitous enough to have exerted a pervasive influence on how the universe is structured and how it has evolved over the millennia.
Wait, what does this have to do with Porcupine Tree? The thing is that whole explanation about 80% of the universe’s matter being unable to be seen yet being a crucial building-block in the history of the universe lends itself perfectly to the thematic concerns of “Dark Matter.” Those concerns are largely rooted in the notions of disorder, the random, the unknown, and the unexplainable. Additionally, Steven Wilson’s lyrics thematically relate that to three different scenarios (one in each verse), as well as factor all of that into the album-wide theme of significance/insignificance.
Inside the vehicle the cold is extreme.
Smoke in my throat kicks me out of my dream.
I try to relax, but it’s warmer outside.
I fail to connect, it’s a tragic divide.
While “Inside the vehicle the cold is extreme” suggests someone suffering from the frigid cold, “it’s warmer outside” suggests something else. That something else would be an attempted suicide by means of carbon monoxide poisoning. I say ‘attempted’ because the phrase “Smoke in my throat kicks me out of my dream” suggests that this suicide attempt doesn’t succeed despite the speaker’s best-laid plans. That the attempt was a failure ties back into the song title and the factor of the random which is entailed by ‘dark matter.’
The failure “to connect” relates to the name of the album—Signify. As to why this constitutes “a tragic divide,” the suicide attempt described in this verse was the result of feeling insignificant. In a dark sense, this scenario describes a more pro-active variant of the person depicted in “Waiting (Phase One)” and as insensitive as that may sound, that does have some basis in psychological reality in regards to depression. This reflects the idea that most suicides occur when one starts recovering from depression, which suggests that the state of depression leaves one feeling so low that they can’t bring themselves to do anything.
This has become a full-time career.
To die young would take only 21 years.
Gun down a school or blow up a car.
The media circus will make you a star.
This second verse seems to have no connection with the first verse. On a spatial level, it doesn’t. However, each of the three verses in “Dark Matter” are thematically connected via the theme of significance/insignificance that runs throughout the whole album. In the case of lines such as “Gun down a school or blow up a car,” that’s an extreme and horrific way in which people think they can achieve significance. Although this song pre-dated the Columbine shooting by almost three years (a fact that makes these lyrics carry a sting it wasn’t originally meant to have), that particular shooting stands out as an example of what Steven talks about here. In fact, the line “The media circus will make you a star” connects to that and points out why some (in recent years) have suggested removing the names of the shooter/shooters whenever a mass shooting occurs—to remove the notion that any significance can be achieved by horrific acts such as a mass shooting or other forms of domestic terrorism.
As for how the theme of significance/insignificance factors into “This has become a full-time career./To die young would take only 21 years,” one could think back to music for a minute. While the more accurate age to list would be 27 (due to associations with the 27 Club, whose members include Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain), 21 fits better with the meter of Steven’s line. Still, the sentiment of the 27 Club registers in those lines—particularly with the then-fresh suicide of Kurt Cobain at the age of 27. To those select rockers who died at the age of 27, the wasted potential and subsequent public martyrdom ends up securing a perpetual posthumous significance that isn’t altogether different from the analogy that Steven raises with school shooters.
Crushed like a rose in the river flow.
I am I know. I am I know.
As for this chorus, there is a metaphor that appears simple…until one ties it to the significance/insignificance theme of the album. The metaphor itself—“Crushed like a rose in the river flow”—relies on the tired-and-true symbolism of a rose standing for beauty and innocence. While this is a cliché, what isn’t is what crushes the rose in the river flow—the effort to become something of significance to yourself and to the world. As for “the river flow,” that’s the entire world at large imposing its weight on a singular person (marked by the rose). All of this makes “I am I know” register on two possible levels: defiance against impossible odds or a resigned acceptance to the conclusions raised by the chorus.
Dark matter flowing out onto a tape.
Is only as loud as the silence it breaks.
Most things decay in a matter of days.
The product is sold, the memory fades.
This verse appears to be about the music industry and (to some) the cycle of touring. I choose to see it as something else regarding the music industry: the short-minded attention span of the public in relation to the capitalistic system.
The use of the titular image in the phrase “Dark matter flowing out onto a tape” carries a weight of its own when comparing it to music. Remember how I said about the scientific dark matter being invisible? Well, that dark matter can be sensed only via the gravitational pull it imposes on its surroundings. Why is this relevant? Because that also entails that dark matter is empty, making this an ideal metaphor for the asinine music shat out by the music industry—both in how devoid of substance that ‘music’ is and in how it can still exert influence. But the rest of the phrases—“It’s only as loud as the silence it breaks,” “Most things decay in a matter of days,” and “The product is sold, the memory fades”—all reflect the risk of trying to utilize the music industry in order to achieve significance. That risk being that factors such as the short-lived attention spans of people, talent not being prized, and the profiteering motives of capitalism constitute a swarm mess of unknowns and the random—it’s pure chaos and luck trying to guess whether or not a given artist will succeed in the music industry.
At the very end of the song, a break of about twenty seconds of silence. Following that, this bit of spoken-word appears:
You’ve just had a heavy session of electro-shock therapy, and you’re more relaxed than you’ve been in weeks. All those childhood traumas, magically wiped away…along with most of your personality.
The meaning of that spoken-word section is self-explanatory. But that passage also plays into the album’s structure as a whole—there are some who argue that the instrumentals on this album are auditory representations of electro-shock therapy while the lyrical tracks serve as a respite.
But enough about the lyrics of “Dark Matter” because the music is an equally-vital element to why this track ends up as effective as it does. However, before I give the play-by-play, I want to point out that the song’s time signature (7/4) plays a role in how wide-open the song sounds—it operates in measures nearly twice that of common time, so there is a feel of meandering here. By sticking to a 7/4 meter, Steven manages to make a song feel meandering and ordered simultaneously.
“Dark Matter” opens with a spacey-sounding synth passage from Barbieri that plays on its own until Chris enters on the drums at the forty-second mark. While the rhythm that Chris plays may sound simple, keep in mind that he utilizes a lot of ghost snares (quiet hits on the snare drum used to keep rhythm) in this pattern—something that may only be noticeable with headphones. As the pattern progress, bass enters just before the one minute mark and is soon followed by a new keyboard layer, then guitar—all before Steven’s first verse arrives at 1:35. The rhythmic pattern persists without change until 2:02, where a new layer of guitar plays an arpeggio sequence that is matched with emphatic hits on the toms from Chris. This pattern recedes into the original one for the second verse, which continues until 2:43. At which point, the strum of a shimmering-sounding guitar signals the chorus before the resurgence of the original rhythm at 2:56—only with significantly more electric guitar. The end of the wordless post-chorus is punctuated by a taste of the heavier guitars that will come later.
After that, the rhythm changes back to that of the verses. But before the third verse-chorus unit, Steven plays a brief acoustic guitar solo at 3:15. Pattern-wise, things repeat themselves until the aforementioned ‘heavy guitar punctuation’ returns at 4:36. Immediately afterwards, an even heavier set of riffage arrives—complete with the quick strumming of clattering chords—that acts as a rhythmic jam until things drop out at 5:05.
Once everything but drums cease playing for a moment, Barbieri returns with some keyboard scales that form the bedrock for what’s just ahead. From 5:25 to 7:12 (nearly two minutes), your ears are going to be treated to what some deem Steven’s greatest guitar solo. I think that there are a couple better ones, but there’s one thing that I can’t deny about this guitar solo: it accomplishes everything a solo should do to act as a song’s climax. Sense of restraint—check. Letting loose when appropriate—check. Having a sense of melody that heightens the stakes—check But perhaps the most important thing about the guitar solo in relation to this song is also applicable to the rhythm section—how the playing ties into the theme. Like I said at the start of this song, the themes of “Dark Matter” center on the random, the unknown, and unexplainable. Since a controlled structure can hardly represent that, the gradual building-up of the playing of Steven, Chris, Barbieri, and Colin in this section represents something close to the random: chaos. And how appropriate to the notion of the random that the last note of the guitar solo isn’t a crash-out ending—that the song keeps going for a few measures only for drums and bass to abruptly cut off at 8:07 marks a sense of subverted expectations which are then further thrown through a loop by the spoken-word passage.
In case you couldn’t tell from how I gushed about the song structure, the guitar solo, the lyrics, and the relation towards the album’s over-arching motifs, “Dark Matter” is definitely my favorite song from Signify and easily a song I would pick in my top 10 Porcupine Tree tunes. The entire song is one that any musician would kill to write, so to think that Steven Wilson has written roughly half-a-dozen tunes with just one project that out-rank this one is a testament to his abilities—as a songwriter, a musician, and a bandleader.
Final Thoughts:
As an overall album, Signify is far from my favorite Porcupine Tree album. In fact, I hold The Sky Moves Sideways in much higher regard. This does beat out On The Sunday of Life (not hard to do) and potentially Up The Downstair. What I mentioned in the introduction about Signify being a transitional album holds true even if this album also constitutes a step forward. This is a good album in its own regard, but after having heard albums such as Stupid Dream and Lightbulb Sun, there is no way that this album doesn’t seem to come up a little short.
In fact, the next five Porcupine Tree albums are (albeit in no particular order, just to keep you guessing) the best five albums the band ever released. Still, for an album of the quality of Signify to be only the band’s eighth-best album speaks volumes about the material to be covered the next time we touch upon Porcupine Tree.
The Next Ten:
* Bass Communion - "I" (April 1998)
* Porcupine Tree - "Stupid Dream" (March 1999)
* Bass Communion "II" (July 1999)
* Porcupine Tree - "Lightbulb Sun" (May 22, 2000)
* Bass Communion - "III" (March 2001)
* No-Man - "Returning Jesus" (March 27, 2001)
* Incredible Expanding Mindfuck - "Arcadia Son" (May 2001)
* Incredible Expanding Mindfuck - "IEM Have Come For Your Children" (September 2001)
* Porcupine Tree - "In Absentia" (September 24, 2002)
* No-Man - "Together We're Stranger" (September 2, 2003)