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Following being signed to KScope around 1997/98, Steven Wilson felt that the next Porcupine Tree album should take a different direction than before—a direction that drops the last remaining parts of psychedelia from the band’s sound and exercises a songwriter’s discipline. As a result, Stupid Dream and Lightbulb Sun are stylistically similar releases: both have only one track stretching past the ten-minute mark and a second track over eight minutes, both have very listener-friendly sounds, both have strong tracks that give a strong demonstration of what Steven Wilson can do, and both have a number of tracks which are should’ve-been-hit-singles that exhibit a skilled use of melody. The most notable way that Stupid Dream and Lightbulb Sun differ from each other is in tone. While Lightbulb Sun might be the closest that Porcupine Tree have to a feel-good album, Stupid Dream is a real downer of an album.
In fact, Stupid Dream—both lyrically and musically—is the coldest-sounding and most melancholy album of the Porcupine Tree discography. Song topics on this album include murder, obsessively unhealthy relationships, suicidal thoughts, child rebellion, self-loathing, and insanity. Some songs—particularly the full version of “Even Less” and “Stop Swimming”—are among the most personal songs that Steven Wilson has ever written. In fact, even the album title stems from a cynical view of the music industry which is held by Steven:
“When I was writing some of the songs of the album I was very much aware of this contradiction between being an artist, being a musician, trying to be creative and write songs and, then, at the point you finish an album, the music is finished, the creative side is finished, you then have to go out and sell and market and promote. And that's like a completely different experience. It's not a very creative process. It's quite—in some ways—a cynical process going on having to sell your music. But you have to do it. I mean, if a modern musician is going to survive as a musician, you have to—in a sense—‘prostitute yourself' to try and sell your music and your art. And I was very much aware of that contradiction. If you think about that too much, it can drive you crazy, you know. It's an absurd thing to be doing. That kind of led me thinking about when I was a teenager, when I was just starting out and I was interested in being a musician. And I think a lot of teenage kids have this dream of being pop stars, of being a professional musician. This 'stupid dream' of being famous and 'life is a ball and everything is wonderful'. And, of course, actually the reality is that being a professional musician is a very hard work. It can be very heartbreaking, there's a lot of disappointment, there's a lot of hard work, there's a lot of travelling.”
This concept of a “stupid dream” not matching the harsh reality is also reflected on the album cover—a CD processing plant that utilizes the coldest possible colors. And tonally, that frigid feeling of the processing plant matches the music to be heard on Stupid Dream, with the occasional acoustic guitar functioning as a pulse of life.
In many ways, Stupid Dream is the most personal album in the Porcupine Tree catalog…and the most affecting songs on the album (“Even Less,” “Piano Lessons,” “Stop Swimming”) are the ones which the personal viewpoint comes out the most. In fact, there probably isn’t a single song on the album that can be called ‘happy.’ Even songs like “Piano Lessons” or “This Is No Rehearsal,” which have some of the happiest-sounding melodies on the album, have lyrics that can be deemed paranoid, bitter, or dark.
“Even Less” (7:11 on Stupid Dream; 14:08 on Recordings)
“Even Less” is the best Porcupine Tree song that Steven wrote before In Absentia. The song (in the full version) sets the mood for Stupid Dream better than any of the other songs, making it an ideal opening track. However, the truncated take that Steven opted to use on Stupid Dream was a mistake on his part—especially since the full 14 minute take could fit on the album (since CD’s can fit 80 minutes of music and the 14 minute version of “Even Less” would make Stupid Dream last 67 minutes).
The lyrics in the latter half of this song may be autobiographical to Steven. I say ‘may’ because of Steven’s legendary penchant for privacy—for all we know, this whole scenario could be a made-up scenario that Steven felt captured the emotional truth. And honestly, it may not matter in how the lyrics are interpreted—the tragic scenario depicted in “Even Less” is utilized in order to put you in the mind of how Steven became the person he is
This song opens with a slowly crescendo of strings before a cymbal beat and some slide guitar come in. Th. At 1:02, this pattern explodes into the main riff pattern of “Even Less,” a rotating set of scales on layers of guitar and synths which are complimented by some hard-rock rhythm guitar, Colin Edwin’s ever-steady bass, and Chris Maitland’s propulsive fill-laden drumming. At around 1:33, the song settles into a lighter section that’s dominated by folk-like acoustic guitar and Chris’s steady ghost-note laden soft drumming. This pattern leads into the first verse:
A body has washed up on a Norfolk beach.
He was a friend that I could not reach.
He thought I was cold, but I understand.
But for the grace of God goes another man.
The way in which Steven delivers these opening lines is a clear, commanding, and serious tone—he wants you to pay close attention to this, lending itself well to a close analysis such as this.
An opening note regarding the phrase “A body has washed up on a Norfolk beach” is that I feel like I have to clarify that “Norfolk” refers to a beach in a particular county of England. As for the line itself, the tragic situation is introduced with this image. Going further, the phrase “He was a friend that I could not reach” adds more to this—“could not reach” illustrates a sense of guilt/responsibility over not being able to save this person. For all we know, this friend probably killed himself. And that sense of responsibility/guilt is reinforced by “He thought I was cold”—effectively feeling like he drove his pal to suicide. He likely did/said something he thought would help him, but it backfired in a tragic way. Regarding “but I understand,” that line can be restated as ‘but as I understand it,’ but the former fits the meter better.
While it may seem minor that the line “But for the grace of God goes another man” marks the only time in the song that God or any other deity is mentioned, that fact reflects multiple details. The first is echoed in a later line which mentions this friend as a “choirboy”—indicating religious upbringing. The second is that Steven hopes his friend finds salvation according to what he believed, but that could be me being overly generous. This is because the third detail is that this song—particularly the chorus and the second half—has loaded religious connotations. And not necessarily in a flattering light. Heck, those connotations are also present in this line by linking it to “but I understand” in that it implies that this death was a waste both of life and of humanity. In doing so, Steven indirectly asks why “the grace of God” is seen as a reward for a wasted life. Or more correctly, a life where a person lives and dies without having left a mark on the world—on a micro or a macro level.
But the chorus develops both threads (the friend and religion) further:
And I may just waste away from doing nothing.
But you’re a martyr for even less.
While the use of “martyr” may seem blasphemous to some, that is nothing compared to a demo version of the song (which was the b-side of the “Four Chords That Made A Million” single): “But Jesus was crucified for doing nothing/And God is worshipped for even less.” While it is unknown why Steven changed the lyrics to begin with, these earlier lyrics are relevant in relation to how Steven changes the chorus in the second half of the song—a change that’ll be addressed when we get to it. However, there is one thing that both the demo and final versions have in common: both are centered on the negativity which occurs in the world. In the case of the final chorus, what doesn’t change is the very thing that Steven is sour about: death can happen at any moment and mean nothing or less than nothing.
Musically, an additional guitar and strings signals the transition between the verse and the otherwise-identical chorus. As the chorus ends, Chris’s drum fills get more frequent and quick (at least in the second chorus). But at 2:38, the main riff pattern re-emerges just as you remembered it. The rhythm for the verse pattern returns at 3:10, leading to the second verse:
A choirboy is buried on the moor
Where we used to go dreaming when we were bored.
So some kids are best left to fend for themselves.
And others were born to stack shelves.
The first thing in this verse—“A choirboy”—directly identifies Steven’s dead friend as someone affiliated with a religious institution. That this place “Where we used to go dreaming when we were bored” ends up where the choirboy’s final resting place indicates several things about the place and about the friend. Namely, this place was where the friend dreamt up ambitions for the future while he lies there being completely useless to the world—making it so that he is no different in life than in death. And from “So some kids are best left to fend for themselves,” we’re left to imply that the friend aimed to pursue those ambitions without Steven’s help, possibly getting himself killed in the process. This would mean that the ‘suicide’ implied from the first verse isn’t literal, but a case where he worked himself into the ground in an extreme form. That connection would also mean that the line “And others were born to stack shelves” applies to Steven. That such an insignificant job is mentioned indicates just how insignificant his friend would have to be—less than that. But the mention of “born” suggests that this wasn’t a choice for Steven and that it was for his friend, making this all-the-more lamentable. Granted, “born” could refer to socio-economic status, as well.
After this (and the second chorus), wrap up at 4:00, the main riff pattern gets played for a bit as Steven let’s “For even less” echo for a bit. Then, there’s a brief guitar/keys harmony solo played at 4:13, which ends with a rhythm change. This rhythm change has bottom-heavy guitar chords strummed in rhythm with Chris’s kick-pedal. At the same time, Chris’s hi-hat and snare are in a different rhythm. This is what is called a polyrhythm.
This polyrhythm provides the backdrop for a small synth solo (which sounds so distorted that I mistook it for a guitar) from Barbieri at 4:47, followed by another brief guitar solo from Steven. In the middle of these solos, the heavy guitar chords drop out, leaving that rhythmic pattern to be played by bass. After the solos, the rhythm goes on for a small while longer—only to drop out completely at 6:04 and leave only Barbieri’s ominous synth to reverberate for a while.
At the very end of the truncated version, there is a recording of a low-pitched woman speaking these numbers:
0096 2251 2110 8105
These numbers have befuddled nearly anyone who has tried to make sense of them. Not helping matters is that the only explanation for those numbers that Steven Wilson’s ever offered is as follows:
“The counting in ‘Even Less’ is taken from a recording of a shortwave numbers station. It is understood that these stations are used by intelligence agencies to transmit coded messages to overseas operatives, although no government agency has ever acknowledged the existence of these stations or what their actual purpose might be. They are virtually impossible to decode without the key since the message and its key are generated at random.”
That these numbers are undecipherable means that Steven picked them at random. What matters is where they came from, not what they mean. So some have suggested that the dead friend may have been the victim of governmental abuse—either from spies, neglectful politicians, or something else. This isn’t necessarily a definitive inclusion, but there isn’t much to go off of with these numbers. Alternatively, their random nature—in conjunction with their lack of a solution—reflects information that is lost to other people when a person dies: memories, experiences, perspectives, contexts.
While the version on Stupid Dream ends with these numbers, the Recordings version is only half-done at this point. But until something that sounds like a drum loop appears on 6:54, the iciness of Barbieri’s keyboards is enough to put chills down your neck. Once that drum loop appears, there’s a long build-up at work. This build-up goes through multiple stages, a section with cycling time signature changes (between 4/4, 6/4, 5/4, and 7/4), a lengthy wah-driven guitar solo from Steven (which lasts from 8:46 to 10:08), riffs that first appear on bass and are soon doubled by guitar, and Chris Maitland’s greatest performance on a Porcupine Tree album. The massive solo on the toms (where the faster passages change from double-hits to triple-hits as the build-up continues) which starts at 7:24 is a moment I’d sooner expect Gavin Harrison (Chris’s successor) to play.
Anyways, this instrumental persists until Chris Maitland unleashes a thunderous fill at about 10:06. Said fill starts with the snares, goes across the toms, and hits two crash cymbals. This triggers an acoustic guitar sequence where Steven croons these lines:
Fuck you and your book too, you can.
You can have it back.
When I’m gone, these songs will be.
Will be my tracks.
Anger is evident here—not only for the use of the word “fuck,” but for the fact that it’s only one of two times it appears in Porcupine Tree’s entire catalogue (the other is in the title track for The Incident). But there is plenty more to be gleaned from this passage.
For starters, the “book” in question can be construed to be the Bible given the religious overtones of the earlier choruses. However, “You can have it back” entails that whatever the “book” is, that’s not what unsettles him the most about this person. Which makes one consider what does unsettle him the most? The fact that the mention of songs being his legacy is preceded by “When I’m gone” provides a contextual answer—Steven has a fear that if he died tomorrow, anything he was as a person would not be remembered…just his music. This is why this “Even Less” is one of Steven Wilson’s most personal songs—it conveys an anxiety about what he can’t control and a hostility against those who mourn things while talking about him as if he were worthless. This dehumanizing effect of consumer culture (more on that with “Piano Lessons”) is inseparable from:
And I had a stupid dream that I could change things.
But I’m a martyr to even less.
This demands the context provided in the introduction as to why the album is titled Stupid Dream—that the idea of a musician changing the world and ‘living the dream’ is utter hogwash. The gist of that state depicted in the quote entails a theme that runs through every song in the album: that nothing can change for the better, only for the worse. This story of how his friend ended up dead was the result of what happened when Steven tried to make a difference.
Recall my thoughts about this song holding cynical connotations towards religion? One way that you can see this last chorus defuses those somewhat. If we assume that Steven’s an atheist (a reasonable assumption), a result of “But I’m a martyr to even less” becomes an acknowledgement that his own belief is as pointless as that of his deceased religious friend.
Following this final chorus, it’s a temporary return to the main riff pattern from earlier. After that, we reach an outro section. This section has a completely different guitar sequence than the verses—an arpeggio pattern picked on guitar. During this section, these lyrics appear:
I hate the ground that I have walked upon.
Nothing I’ve done has ever mattered long.
The first part of these final lyrics—“I hate the ground that I have walked upon”—uses the imagery of the ground as a synecdoche for the self. As for the walking, that’s the various aspects of the self that we live. The takeaway from this involves a form of self-hatred stemming from the insignificance entailed by the final chorus. As for “Nothing I’ve ever done has ever mattered long,” that ties into Steven’s status as a musician/songwriter and constitutes a perfect lyrical link to the themes of “Piano Lessons.” Even more-so thanks to Steven’s agonized (and then defeated) intonations of “long.” As well as Theo Travis’s sporadic flute solos which appear in this part.
Overall, the full version of “Even Less” is a masterpiece of content and form. There are things for this one that I’ve discovered while writing this that I hadn’t picked up on earlier. I still feel like there’s things shrouded in secrecy regarding “Even Less,” though. This is the greatest song that Steven had written up to this point of his career.
“Piano Lessons” (4:21)
As a song “Piano Lessons” actually was released as a single. Lyrically, “Piano Lessons” takes the concept of ‘the stupid dream of a musician’ and applies it towards. Ironically, it does so with such an upbeat and single-ready tune that many tend to miss the point of the lyrics. Because these lyrics are bitter. Not the bitterest song in the band’s oeuvre or even just on Stupid Dream, but these lyrics are just as cynical as those of “Even Less.”
The first verse reads:
I remember piano lessons,
The hours in freezing rooms.
Cruel ears and tiny hands
Destroying timeless tunes.
In most songs, the opening lines of “I remember piano lessons/The hours in freezing rooms” would suggest a nostalgic romp through childhood times held in high regard. However, the phrase “Cruel ears and tiny hands/Destroying timeless tunes” indicates that “Piano Lessons” is not a typical song. Instead, these opening lines introduce the idea that contemporary culture effectively flays creatively-minded people (musicians in particular). For further evidence, “timeless tunes” cast a shadow that leaves creatively-minded people feeling that they can’t live up to it. Furthermore, that the piano lessons were likely of classical pieces done over-and-over again by generation-after-generation mirrors the imagery of the musical recycling which adorns the album artwork. This indicates that rigid standards never allow for anyone to deviate from pre-conceived norms, rendering innovation risky and/or impossible.
She said there’s too much out there
Too much already said.
You’d better give up hoping.
You’re better off in bed..
You don't need much to speak of: No class, no wit, no soul. Forget you own agenda. Get ready to be sold.
These lines escalate the points made by the previous ones. First, for her to say that “there’s too much out there/Too much already said” constitutes an unwinnable situation—a Catch-22, if you will. This comes from the juxtaposition of what’s already been quoted with “Forget your own agenda,/Get ready to be sold.” Such a sentiment states that while she’s wrong about “Too much already said” (there is room for innovation), the individual voice is a quality is always squashed by the industry—by joining the music business, you’re not doing anything. In fact, you waste your life just like the dead friend in “Even Less.” And an irony of this is that the lack of a meritocracy of musical qualities implied by “You don’t need much to speak of:/No class, no wit, no soul” directly fosters the lack of talent that kills music. Steven clearly believes unless the music you write is true to yourself—not to society, not to politics, not to money, not to anyone else—, you’re a puppet. Not a musician. The issue at hand is that the aforementioned Catch-22 renders (in 1999) Steven’s belief impossible to achieve.
I feel now like Christine Keeler Sleepwalking in the rain. I didn't mean to lose direction. I didn't want that kind of fame.
A bit of history is referenced in the line “I feel now like Christine Keeler/Sleepwalking in the rain” that requires looking at who Christine Keeler was. After doing some research into it, Christine Keeler was a prostitute—possibly what is entailed by “Sleepwalking in the rain.” But that isn’t the only significant thing because the fact that an affair with a politician named John Profumo ended up being the 1960’s British equivalent of the Lewinsky scandal also made put her in the public eye. One thing that “Piano Lessons” touches on is the nature of celebrity and the case of Keeler and Profumo certainly relates to that idea, but in a case that stems from infamy instead of fame. Additionally, this song also targets the notion of talent being useful. With this in mind, the use of Keeler functions as a symbol—Keeler’s fame was achieved by a talent far removed from the conventional definition of what is considered talented in industries such as those pertaining to the media. But remember that Steven stated in the quote (back in the album introduction) something about having to “prostitute yourself” in order to survive in music? With that in mind, the fact that Steven name-dropped an actual prostitute who played a part in a notorious British political scandal doesn’t feel like a coincidence.
As for “I didn’t mean to lose direction,” that relates back to a point in the previous verse in that Steven’s belief about being a musician is impossible. Due to that impossibility, a loss of direction becomes inevitable thanks to the music industry (as was the case in 1999, but the presence of the internet and indie labels has somewhat mitigated things in 2018). Such a concept ties into “I didn’t want that kind of fame” because this fame would feel pointless since it’s not achieved on the speaker’s own terms.
(Take your hands off my land)
This harmonized passage appears self-explanatory in the context—these are Steven’s inner thoughts regarding the music industry. Namely, what he says to himself. This means that the creative impulse is innate for a musician. Furthermore, to be a corporate shill and not exercise your creative mind means to suppress your natural instincts as a musician and as an artist. All of this carries a darker connotation of dehumanization, which the chorus (as much as there is one in “Piano Lessons”) expands upon:
Credit me with some intelligence (if not just credit me). I come in value packs of ten (in five varieties).
Without these lyrics, the harmonies on this one are so thick that the words are a little difficult to make out. The first line of this—“Credit me with some intelligence (if not just credit me)”—must be looked at in two parts because they react to each other. The first part—“Credit me with some intelligence”—relates to the idea of the creative impulse and how that factors into songwriting, specifically in regards to songwriting credits. As for “(if not just credit me)” is the business-based reality of the music industry. In fact, it’s a resigned acceptance to that because it’s a realization that the first part of things is mythic. Therefore, these backing vocals constitute the voice in the back of the speaker’s head—something already established with “(Take your hands off my land).”
The second line of the chorus—“I come in value packs of ten (in five varieties)”—develops things further in a way that can be read in a couple ways. Granted, these ways blend into each other rather well. The first thing to glean from this stems from “I”—he doesn’t say “my music.” Such a sentiment constitutes a direct example of dehumanization that has been coded in the terms of commercialization stripping away the creative impulse. While the line itself may seemingly refer to candy, the numerology suggests something different. Namely, 10 falls in line with the number of songs on an album while 5 comes close to the number of members in a boy band (for instance, the Backstreet Boys were popular at the time of this song’s release). Alternatively, the fact that these are quantified by numbers at all relates to the dehumanization effect—it imposes an artificial limit on the creative impulse, something which is potentially limitless when allowed to be.
And even though I got it all now, My only stupid dream Is you and me together And how it should have been.
While this verse is somewhat obvious to interpret given what I’ve already said, there are a couple things to elaborate on. The most important of these is the ambiguous “you” in the third line. While it may cunningly fit this song (to someone unfamiliar with PT) in the lens of romantic yearning, that is defused because “you” doesn’t refer to a person but an idea. In essence, this “you” is the creative impulse that the speaker can’t freely exercise in the music industry. This technique is a rhetorical device that Steven will use again and again throughout the rest of his career.
I remember piano lessons Now everything seems clear. You waiting under streetlights For dreams to disappear.
This first sentence—“I remember piano lessons/Now everything seems clear”—hinges on one word: “seems.” This word almost casts a cloud of uncertainty on the speaker’s entire viewpoint. This speaker has become the corporate shill, but with “seems,” Steven separates his viewpoints from that of the speaker. As for “You waiting under streetlights/For dreams to disappear,” that’s fairly self-explanatory given what I’ve said.
On a musical level, “Piano Lessons” opens with one of Barbieri’s jauntiest sounding melodies, which is soon joined in by a band that wouldn’t sound out of place on an alt-rock based radio station. But the “Take your hands of my land” harmony is otherworldly, as well as the chorus. The flourishes of guitar that pepper the song are just icing on the cake. This is a song where the lyrics provide the depth, not the music backing it. This is probably the most mainstream-sounding that Porcupine Tree had ever sounded, but who gives a shit when it still sounds this good?
“Stupid Dream” + “Pure Narcotic” (5:30)
The song “Stupid Dream” is just a brief ditty that acts more as an intro to “Pure Narcotic,” which is the meat-and-potatoes at hand.
On a lyrical level, “Pure Narcotic” seems to be about an antagonistic relationship between two people. In reality, the song’s still about an antagonistic relationship—between a man and drugs. Hey, there's nothing wrong with saying a song is a about drugs when a song actually is about drugs.
You keep me waiting. You keep me alone in a room full of friends. You keep me hating. You keep me listening to the Bends.
This first verse and the ambiguous “You” is the very thing that makes me think that the “You” is a drug. Sure, “You keep me waiting” and “You keep me hating” may be comments applicable to a bad relationship between two people. However, “You keep me alone in a room full of friends” makes this into drug-based lens—namely that he’s the only person in this room whose on narcotics and that creates distance. As for that last line—“You keep me listening to The Bends”—that refers to a Radiohead album that has some pretty depressing music on it, nothing special or hidden there.
No amount of pointless days Can make this go away.
While “No amount of pointless days/Can make this go away” isn’t addressed to the narcotics like the first verse, this small half-chorus is merely a small taste of the full chorus proper. So we’ll analyze it with once the full chorus arrives.
Moving to the second verse:
You have me on my knees. You have me listless and deranged. You have me in your pocket. You have me distant and estranged.
Assuming we’re using the drug-based interpretation, each of these lines become literal. While that makes the first two lines almost self-explanatory, “You have me in your pocket” is another story. While one could read that line as referring to the speaker literally keeping the narcotics in his own pocket, the line morphs into a line about the speaker’s drug dependency. Which leads into “You have me distant and estranged,” a statement that entails a sense of disassociation whenever the speaker’s on them—he can’t tell anymore whether he’s in the drugs or if the drugs are inside him.
No narcotics in my brain Can make this go away.
I'm sorry that, I'm sorry that I'm not like you. I worry that I don't act the way you'd like me to.
This chorus functions as a screed against the society that led the speaker to feel that narcotics were a solution in the first place. But the first half—“No narcotics in my brain/Can make this go away”—serves as the wake-up call. As for the second half, that’s a cynical bit of sarcasm which acts as a half-hearted apology for not fitting into society’s conception of who he should be—something that was true before and after he fell into addiction.
You find me wanting. You find me bloodless but inspired. You find me out. You find me hallucinating fire.
These lines can be read as the speaker trying to shift the responsibility of the addiction away from himself via personifying the drug itself. However, the first line—“You find me wanting”—keeps this vague. This thought doesn’t get developed, so the listener is left to assume that the speaker still wants the narcotics—slightly defusing the attempted shift of blame. As for “You find me bloodless but inspired,” that’s partly the desensitization stemming from the narcotics (“bloodless”), even as he sees visions/hallucinations (“inspired”). On the subject of “You find me out,” that states that once the speaker’s finished with his daily routine, the need for the narcotics come back to him like an obsession—a sure sign of habit. In regards to “You find me hallucinating fire,” that’s literal.
Have we ever been here before? Running headlong at the floor. Leave me dreaming on a railway track. Wrap me up and send me back.
This entire passage states that nothing has changed and that his problems haven’t disappeared. That Steven brings up the recurring image of “a railway track” is significant given the train-based symbolism that pops up throughout Steven’s work. In songs such as “Trains,” Steven uses the image of a train to symbolize the perpetual motion of time. This stands in direct contrast with what the speaker does during “Leave me dreaming on a railway track” because not only do these narcotics leave him in a state of no development, but “Wrap me up and send me back” entails that the narcotics cause him to regress.
Musically, “Stupid Dream” is just an eerie 28 second bit of ambience that links “Piano Lessons” to “Pure Narcotic,” which is where the main attraction is. The song proper starts with the acoustic guitar/keyboard mix that provides the bedrock for the first verse. Still a very ‘single-ready’ song. Even with little touches like the bell-esque effects in the second verse. Almost makes this song as addictive as the narcotic that this song depicts. There isn’t any bass in this song until the third verse (about two minutes in) and the only drums are some cymbal hits. So this is a very low-key song. But underneath the warm-sounding instruments, there’s a bit of a frigidness to the overall atmosphere.
“Slave Called Shiver” (4:40)
Lyrically, “Slave Called Shiver” is about a man unhealthily obsessed with a woman—to the point of violence. Definitely not a subject that one can get away with endorsing, so Steven expects the listener to know that this is wrong.
I need you more than you can know And if I hurt myself, it's just for show. I found a better way to curb the pain. You put a trigger here inside my brain.
From these first two lines—“I need you more than you can know/And if I hurt myself, it’s just for show”—the subject of this song can be told. “Slave Called Shiver” is about a man who’s unhealthily obsessed with a woman. From “You put a trigger here inside my brain,” we can gather that this obsession is one-sided. But the detail of hurting himself for show—in addition to indicating that the speaker feels the need to do violent things because of this obsession—implies that he’s not in the best of mental health.
Mother, I need her. I'm falling apart. Mother, I need her. And it's only the start.
The repetition of “Mother, I need her” can be taken in a number of ways. The first is that some can find a Freudian reading of that. Another is that this his own mother is the only person which the speaker can express his problems with in words. However, it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility to suggest that he’s hiding something from her.
For everything else—“I’m falling apart” and “And it’s only the start”—they bear their own analysis. The former supports the idea that the speaker’s mental health is declining—rapidly so. As for the latter, “And it’s only the start” suggests that there’s a brand of escalating wrath in the unhinged, horrific things the speaker is willing to do in the name of his fucked-up conception of ‘love.’
I may be nothing now, but I will rise. I'll have more followers than Jesus Christ.
Through all the smashing things and crashing cars, I love the ground you walk with all my heart.
The borderline-blasphemous boast for the first half of this illustrates that he’s a self-centered ego-maniac who thinks that reputation will get him what he wants. And the second part of this suggests that he’s in the process of acting out violent acts—the very thing he could only talk to his mother about. This is not love, but an obsession that a psychopath has deluded himself into think that it’s love.
As to how the music behind these off-putting lyrics sounds, “Slave Called Shiver” opens with a funk-like bassline from Colin that is soon joined in by a brisk drum rhythm from Chris and some piano from Barbieri. This is the bedrock for the verse, where some volume swells intermittently appear on guitar before the chorus starts at 1:06, where that guitar becomes more prominent before the whole thing relapses to the verse rhythm for the second verse.
After the second chorus wraps up at 2:07, a guitar solo starts from Steven which sounds about as fractured as the speaker of this song—lots of wah-wah. Even more of that in the Barbieri solo that follows (in the same tone as the “Even Less” synth solo), which leads directly to the third verse.
Despite the entire song being about something fucked up and that all-too-many women have experienced (maybe not to the violent extremes of this dickhead), this song was released as a single. After listening to it, it’s not hard to see why a record exec would listen to this, think “This is catchy single material,” and not pay attention to what the lyrics mean.
“Don’t Hate Me” (8:30)
Despite the length (aside from the Recordings version of “Even Less,” “Don’t Hate Me” is the longest song on Stupid Dream), “Don’t Hate Me” doesn’t come across as the centerpiece of the album. This song is just another one to analyze like any other. It just happens to be a little bit longer.
The chorus is the most straightforward part of the song, so let’s start with it and go to the verses afterwards, shall we?
Don't hate me. I'm not special like you. I'm tired and I'm so alone. Don't fight me. I know you'll never care. Can I call you on the telephone, now and then?
These lines are enough to establish “Don’t Hate Me” as one of the only (if not the only) song on Stupid Dream about a relationship. However, the last two lines say it all—this relationship is falling apart and might be no longer mutual.
A light snow is falling on London. All sign of the living has gone. The train pulls into the station And no-one gets off and no-one gets on.
With the context of the chorus being applied to this verse, images such as “A light snow is falling on London” and “All sign of the living has gone” can be construed as emblematic of the man’s loneliness. As for “The train pulls into the station/And no-one gets off and no-one gets on,” there’s the image of the empty train—one which I read as a future that will come even if it’s not wanted. In the case of this guy, that train is the proverbial writing on the wall for the relationship.
Now onto the second verse:
One light burns in a window. It guides all the shadows below. Inside the ghost of a parting And no-one is left, just the cigarette smoke.
The first line—“One light burns in a window”—gives the listener of an image the house which the man has departed from. This house was likely a reminder of this failed relationship. Additionally, “parting” implies that the break-up has already happened between the first and second verses. Granted, the imagery of “shadows” and a house only inhabited by “cigarette smoke” gives the house a sense of desolation akin to that of the first verse.
As to the music in “Don’t Hate Me,” This song carries over from the static that ended “Slave Called Shiver” (fitting as both songs are about failed relationships, but in different extremes) and is introduced by slow acoustic guitar (funereal sounding) and eerie synth from Barbieri. Then Chris explodes into a snare-like rhythm, which leads into the first verse—sounding almost as desolate as the imagery in it. At 1:23 (before Steven can finish the last line of the verse), an acoustic chord strike and a synth pattern from Barbieri usher in the chorus, which is given a less-brisk drum beat and prominent bass work. About 20 seconds later, it’s back to the verse-chorus unit.
After the second chorus (2:58) is where things get interesting since there’s a long instrumental section in the middle. This starts with a liquid-smooth bass pattern from Colin at the three-minute mark, but he’s not the lead instrument of this passage. Just seconds later, the flute of Theo Travis enters the fray and begins trading solos with a saxophone…in the studio version, at least (videos of live performances had the solos transcribed to keys and guitar). These solos last from 3:02 until 5:01. This entire time, Colin plays the liquid-smooth bass riff while Chris’s drums subtly alter the rhythms the further that the solo progresses, which creates a build-up effect. Once the sax solo ends, the intro guitar passage resumes, but it’s accompanied by atmospheric harmonized bits from the flute and sax. In my mind, this bit goes on a little longer than necessary and the song could’ve been cut to a length of about 6-7 minutes without losing much.
Anyways, drums re-enter at about 6:38 and then it’s a little bit until the chorus happens again at 6:58. But just when you think this’ll just be a repetitive retread of the chorus for two minutes, Steven starts a guitar solo at 7:38. This solo’s a slow Clapton-esque one, but with passages that are unmistakably his. Besides, the guitar tone of that lead sounds nothing like Slowhand’s.
“This Is No Rehearsal” (3:26)
Given the subject of this song and the juxtaposition with such a sunny melody, “This Is No Rehearsal” is one of the most disturbing songs on Stupid Dream and the primary reason for including a trigger warning on the Facebook link for this. Simply put, “This Is No Rehearsal” is a song whose subject Steven Wilson ripped from the British news—about the case of James Patrick Bulger, a two-year-old boy who was abducted from a shopping mall and then tortured and beaten-to-death by over at a railway line. But the worst part about the story is that the killers were a couple of ten-year-olds who would become the youngest convicted murderers in the history of the country. So yes, this song is about a child who was kidnapped and murdered by other children.
How many children did I bring into this world? How many did I lose in the shopping arcade?
Almost all of these lyrics become obvious in the above-mentioned context. However, the “I” in these lines give the perspective of this song: the mother of Bulger panicking over the child that she doesn’t know is dead.
This is also a topic that Steven doesn’t touch upon lightly or simply for the sake of being shocking. During an interview that was included in the film which came with some editions of Insurgentes (Steven’s 2008 solo album), Steven looks like he’s about to break into tears when he talks about the idea of losing children as a parent. And this is coming from someone who has sacrificed the idea of having a family in favor of his musical endeavors, to which some have suggested Steven’s reaction in the linked interview stem from something happening to him or someone close to him that caused him to fear the idea of having children—something that Steven’s aspect of privacy means we can only speculate. For added context, this took place during a visit to the Island of the Dolls in Mexico.
This is no rehearsal.
Play it back and throw things at the screen. This is no rehearsal.
Somebody interpret this for me.
The refrain of the title carries a multi-faceted resonance. First, it can constitute a madness mantra. Second, it’s a state of denial over what just happened. As for the other phrases of the chorus—“Play it back and throw things at the screen” and “Somebody interpret this for me”—are from a different perspective than the rest of the song. That perspective can be read as Steven finding out about this story on the news and being outright horrified.
While there are two more lines of lyrics in another verse, they don’t bear analysis. My work on the lyrics is done for this song.
The music, on the other hand, still needs a look. “This Is No Rehearsal” starts with a brisk, snare-driven drumbeat by Chris that wouldn’t sound out-of-place on a mid-90’s alt-rock song (Hey, it’s Katie’s territory again). Additionally, there’s some acoustic work that makes this sound like a sunny-sounding song. Even more audaciously, the disturbing lyrics are sung by Steven in a melody that is ridiculously catchy. Then, the chorus sounds one of the happiest-sounding things—until the instruments drop out at the last line and Steven’s voice becomes distorted at the end of it. Following which, electric guitar and bass come in alongside a faster hard-rock style beat from Chris. But for the second verse, this punk-like pattern drops out and gives way to the patterns from the previous verse-chorus unit.
After the second chorus, a completely-different and bass-driven pattern backs the guitar solo section (drenched in more wah-wah). In fact, this one sounds a little like a less-technical version of a Slayer guitar solo. In that mode, this guitar solo is meant to evoke the sounds of someone screaming while being murdered. Not pleasant sounding, but not meant to be. Anyways, the end of the guitar solo transitions seamlessly to the third chorus. Which ends the song with the punk-like pattern from after the first chorus.
“Baby Dream in Cellophane” (3:15)
Lyrically, “Baby Dream In Cellophane” offers a twist on the clichéd ‘teen rebellion’ song. That twist: it’s still a rebellion song, but for a baby. More specifically, it’s a baby that’s sentient, intelligent, and capable of seeing through the ruses of society.
I am - in my pram. Look you - I'm so new.
I am - sleeping there Underneath the stairs.
If you - wanted to, You'd find - inside my mind Things so surreal. My lips are sealed.
One neat thing to notice is that the way these first few lines are split up—two syllables followed by three syllables—imitates the simple speech/thought patterns that we typically associate with a baby. This goes to show that despite what we find out later, this baby’s still naïve. As for “I’m so new,” that would imply that this baby’s a newborn.
Starting with “If you—wanted to,” there’s a lot more to pick apart from this verse than in earlier lines. The first bit is indeed that starting bit because it implies that no one cares about what the baby has to say—a newborn baby’s lack of speech means that we all take babies for granted and assume they have innocence but no intelligence. An even more cynical way of reading this hinges on the “Things so surreal” that are in the baby’s mind. The word choice of “surreal” almost ensures that this baby already has an uncommonly mature way of looking at things.
Another curious detail comes with the last line of this verse: “My lips are sealed.” While this line does appear in the official lyrics sheet, it’s not uttered by Steven in the song. Normally, that’s something worth chalking up to a mistake, but that’s not an accident in this case. In this case, that omission clues the listener in to the mistrust that this baby already has for the world and for society.
In the rain in cellophane. Pale dogs and demigods They won't bring me down. The clocks go round, they never stop.
While this first line is literal enough (it’s a scene description), the three that follow it are anything but straightforward. Let’s start with “Pale dogs and demigods,” which there’s a lot to pick from. On the surface, “god” is “dog” spelled backwards, which makes this a play on words. But that wordplay doesn’t stop at spelling. The fact that we as a society view dogs as lower than people while viewing gods as higher than people makes Steven’s word choice deliberate—he took opposite things from literal spelling opposites. This entire thing suggests that the baby fully understands the implications of that. Why else would the baby’s next line—“They won’t bring me down”—be a defiant statement?
As for “The clocks go round, they never stop,” that one’s a bit of an abstract touch. That touch goes to show just how much this baby already knows about how people operate. This baby’s already aware that the one thing which people most-frequently rebel from is society’s pre-determined path made for us to follow. This would mean that the “I am—sleeping there/Underneath the stairs” bit serves as a façade of normality. This would mean that the “You’d find—inside my mind/Things so surreal” are the non-conformist way he’s going to approach life. Meaning that the reason that “My lips are sealed” is unsaid (despite being written in the lyrics) is so no-one can foil how he plans to live his life. Because this constitutes an endless vicious cycle, these clocks are non-stop.
I've been - in limousines. I've seen - inside your dreams. It's raining there. Try not to stare.
It’s unknown if these lines refer to the baby’s future of to the faux-naïve way he presently thinks, but there’s a sense that these lines entail that the baby’s aware of what goes on in the world—and he’s not fond of it. The way these lines appear is that everything before these lines reads as the baby trying to convince himself that he could find some solace in his mind. Until now, where he conveys his experience of the real world. And with that, the baby learns of human evil—confirming his refusal to follow society’s path.
While the image of rain pouring down in the prior verse was just a scene description, that image serves a different purpose here—it’s where and when the baby drifts off into his mind. While this seems like an odd thing to do in public, the line “Try not to stare” indicates that he’s aware of that. All this constitutes an effort to escape the reality surrounding him, but he knows that’s impossible. That—and the prevalence of human evil—drive this baby to despise society around him.
The music that supports “Baby Dream In Cellophane” is a slower song than “This Is No Rehearsal.” This one is driven by middle-Eastern sounding acoustic guitar chords, with this rhythm fueling the first verse. At about 0:55, there are some light droning notes on electric guitar for the “Things so surreal” part. These drones slide upward in pitch until 1:11, where the “In the rain with cellophane” part comes with a vocal harmonization that sounds sublime. This gets punctuated by some electric guitar stabs at 1:30 before things drop out and become acoustic again for the last verse. Throughout this whole song, some subtle keyboard atmospherics occur.
Once the last chorus occurs, the rhythmic stabbing part happens and then the song ends.
“Stranger by the Minute” (4:30)
Like “Slave Called Shiver” and “Piano Lessons,” “Stranger by the Minute” was also released as a single.
Ghosts in the park Appear just after dark. Killers, children ... But no-one has a harp. They look like tourists. It makes me want to laugh.
These lines of lyrics produce a chaotic feel, which have led some to suggest the speaker has either schizophrenia, paranoia, or both. Some of the imagery also seems to support this—the ghosts could be seen as embodiments of the ‘voices in your head’ idea. As for “Killers, children…” bit, this speaker is stating that “They look like tourists.” This may be syntactically tricky because of the “But no-one has a harp” line coming between them, but that oddity could serve to reinforce that the speaker’s mentally ill. Ditto with the unfitting laughter in the last line.
Under floorboards, It's hard to fly a kite. Underwater, My cigarette won't light. Standing in the shade, I'm getting frostbite.
These lines function as a set of paradoxical ideas. Of course cigarettes can’t be lit underwater. Neither can kites be flown underneath floorboards. What’s curious to note (given the focus on mental illness in this song) is the juxtaposition between kites and cigarettes in the same verse. That’s a detail which makes the listener think that the speaker is somehow a child and an adult at the same time.
Now for the chorus, which goes:
Strange as I seem, I'm getting stranger by the minute. Look in my dreams, They're getting stranger by the minute.
While “Strange as I seem,/I’m getting stranger by the minute” feels obvious, both it and “Look in my dreams/They’re getting stranger by the minute” both foreshadow a development which occurs in the last verse. But what it conveys this first time is unmistakable: this guy’s mental health is declining rapidly.
When I'm drowning, You drag me up to you. Rings in the water, My only residue. But you're just fiction, And I'm a twisted boy.
The crucial lines in this last verse are “But you’re just fiction,/And I’m a twisted boy.” As to why that is, look at the context of the other lines—someone saving the speaker’s life. A first-time listener would think the speaker just got saved by an actual person…until the crucial line says otherwise. So this is a song about a mentally-ill person who’s comforted by the people that he imagines around him. That’s exactly why this person is “getting stranger by the minute.”
Regarding the music which surrounds “Stranger by the Minute,” this one comes right out the gate with a jovial guitar pattern from Steven that’s backed by a strong rhythm by Chris and given texture by Barbieri’s keyboard layers. This is the bedrock for Steven’s first verse, whose lyrics seemingly betray the joviality. At about 0:37, keyboards become more prominent as the bedrock for the second verse is set up. But at 1:18, the tension from the electric guitars in the second verse subsides…it’s time for the chorus, which is strengthened by slide guitar and intoxicating vocal harmonies. This seamlessly blends into the third verse, which contains added slide guitar flourishes.
Following the second chorus (at 2:37), the drums shift to a different rhythm and guitar soon morphs back to the intro rhythm before a drum fill transitions this into a low-key guitar solo that blends seamlessly into the slide guitar touches that are in the third chorus. Afterwards, this infectiously-catchy song ends.
Honestly, this is the type of song that had this album come out a few years earlier (on a larger label), it probably would’ve been a fondly-remembered 90’s alt-rock single.
“A Smart Kid” (5:22)
When looking at the lyrics to “A Smart Kid,” they mark Steven’s first foray into sci-fi: a boy who’s the last man on Earth following a nuclear holocaust. Even if that story can come across as cliché, it’s how Steven handles it that transcends the associated clichés.
The song’s first verse reads:
Stranded here on planet Earth. It's not much, but it could be worse. Everything's free here, there's no crowds.
Winter lasted five long years. No sun will come again I fear. Chemical harvest was sown.
From the first line—“Stranded here on planet Earth”—a sensation of isolation is conveyed to the listener. Appropriate given the subject matter, but statements such as “Everything’s free here, there’s no crowds” also suggest that the speaker trying to find some good in this. But the hopelessness which comes with “Winter lasted five long years./No sun will come again I fear” deflates that false goodness by implying that he’s not having fun with this at all. And given that this all started from a bombing which triggered a five-year nuclear winter which blocked the sun from the sky, it’s not hard to see why. That this kid/teen managed to be to lone survivor on Earth makes the song’s title of “A Smart Kid” darkly ironic. Because what’s the point of being smart if the resulting isolation makes you miserable?
Now for the chorus:
And I will wait for you Until the sky is blue. And I will wait for you. What else can I do?
The “you” mentioned in this chorus does refer to a physical entity—the “spaceship” that appears in the next verse. But that doesn’t make up the foundation of this chorus—a chorus built on the lack of hope the speaker’s situation carries. This speaker hopes beyond hope that something could happen—like for anyone else to have survived or for some tiny speck to shine light from the sky—but knows this won’t happen. At the same time, this hoping beyond hope is the only thing that the speaker can do thanks to the isolation of being the last person on Earth.
A spaceship from another star. They ask me where all the people are. What can I tell them?
I tell them I'm the only one. There was a war, but I must have won. Please take me with you.
Most of these lines—simple in structure—are straight-up summary of the scenario being described and don’t bear analysis. The exceptions are “There was a war, but I must have won” and “Please take me with you.” In the example of the former, that’s a mockery of what caused the nuclear holocaust—one that can be read in a political light which lambasts the stupid brutality of war given this awful end-result. The latter—a plea for the aliens to take the kid with them—provides the clearest evidence for the feelings of isolation that the kid experiences.
On a musical level, “A Smart Kid” opens up with fading-in-and-out keyboards that sound as desolate as the subject matter. This is soon joined in by a lone acoustic guitar as well as some different layers of synth from Barbieri. This whole time, it’s at a dirge-like pace. At 1:06, the first verse begins and Steven sounds alone. Once the chorus (and the drums) comes along (with a switch to electric) at 1:53, Steven’s voice sounds even more isolated. Almost as if the instruments almost (but not quite) overwhelm him.
After the second verse ends (about 3:22), the instruments drop out save for a distorted-sounding drum loop, the bass, and Barbieri’s keys. This part sounds eerie with the return of the fading in-and-out synths from the intro. But the full band returns at 3:53 for the second chorus, which feels like it has different layers of instrumentation than the previous chorus. After this chorus ends (about 4:26), a guitar solo happens. During which Chris has a fill-heavy variant on the chorus rhythm. Then the song ends on a low-key note as everything but guitar and synth drop out.
“Tinto Brass” (6:17) [instrumental]
This instrumental track is named after an Italian avant-garde film director who was especially known for films in the genre of ‘erotic films.’ Make of that what you will. As to why this instrumental was named after him, that honestly beats me. Honestly, all I know is that it’s pretty rockin’.
As for how the song itself sounds, it flows seamlessly from the off-key noise at the end of “A Smart Kid,” which gives way to a thunderstrike and the sound of a lady speaking Japanese (reportedly Steven’s girlfriend at the time, who just happened to be speaking it in Steven’s presence. He liked the sound of it enough to include it in the song. The meaning of the Japanese isn’t important). Over this, a layer of synth can be heard. Plus the sound of a phone receiver beeping. At 0:52, a couple of snare hits from Chris act as the lead in to a steady beat. Not long after, Theo Travis returns on flute. Around 1:18, Colin begins a walking rhythm on the bass before some flourishes of guitar can be vaguely heard. However, some drone-like sustains from Steven’s guitar can be heard at 1:57 as Colin’s bass begins to play a more complex rhythm But at 2:22, Theo returns on flute while Chris begins to play a more complex ghost-note laden rhythm. This whole time, Barbieri’s synths hover over the jam menacingly. This lasts until the drone-sustains re-emerge on 3:15 for a bit. This time, the beat is more kick-pedal heavy.
Something new happens at 3:40, when the song is split open by thick electric guitar chords—only to drop out in favor of a new beat at 4:05. This one’s definitely slower than anything in the song. And the soloing instrument for this is guitar, who does some spine-tingling drones. The keyboard rhythms and the oscillation of keys as the drums pick up to jazz-like intensity don’t ease the mood any. Not until things change gears at 5:33, where there’s a steady build that leads to the outro.
As far as Porcupine Tree instrumentals (not counting the brief snippets from On The Sunday of Life and Up The Downstair) go, this one’s hardly my favorite. I still prefer “Burning Sky,” “Idiot Prayer,” and “Wedding Nails.” However, this might be the most rocking sounding one besides “Isn’t Beautiful Anymore.”
“Stop Swimming” (6:53)
On a lyrical level, “Stop Swimming” gets routinely ranked as among the saddest Porcupine Tree songs—and it’s not hard to see why. The subject at hand is a contemplation of suicide. The song is also able to be read as Steven pouring every bit of depression that he’s ever felt into the lyrics. While something like that may be written off as angst, the word choice and lyricism of the twelve lines in the song leave much to imagination but just enough to grasp.
The first verse reads:
This song leaks out onto the pavement. It could be a joke, it could be a statement. The more that I fake it and pretend I don't care, The more you can read in to what isn't there
First, we should pick apart the metaphor of “This song.” What makes the most sense in the context of the rest of the song is that “song” is an analogy for life itself or for how people interact with one another. In this light, lines such as “It could be a joke, it could be a statement” apply both to how people analyze lyrics/literature and to how people interpret the words/behaviors of other people. But the point that Steven uses this whole metaphor lies in what follows: “The more that I fake it and pretend I don’t care,/The more you can read into what isn’t there.” The careful construction of those two lines shows that he does care, but it doesn’t matter to the general public how much Steven cares because the public only reads what’s on the surface instead of what goes on in the minds of others. Oftentimes, the external doesn’t match the internal and for other people, that can mean that the internal “isn’t there.” In the view of these lyrics, that process is linked to obscurity.
Although “Stop Swimming” doesn’t have a chorus (this only appears once), these lines are the closest thing to a chorus that the song has:
Maybe it's time to stop swimming. Maybe it's time to find out where I'm at, What I should do, and where I should be, But no one will give me a map.
This ‘chorus’ is one where each line matters. So starting with “Maybe it’s time to stop swimming,” there’s a metaphorical sense of what’s going on—to ‘stop swimming’ is to drown, so to swim is to live despite the struggle. When I said that this song concerned suicidal thoughts, this was the specific line I had in mind. That this line comes after the first verse is significant because it can read as one thought leading to the next. What comes between may be an unspoken realization that entails that the speaker (it’s not Steven, as the next verse will confirm) has a meaningless life. Heck, the obscurity entailed by how the first verse ends suggests that no one will miss him if he dies. As for “Maybe it’s time to find out where I’m at,/What I should do, and where I should be,” those lines entail that if he’s going to go through with suicide, he doesn’t know the method he’ll use just yet. Another way of looking at it ties with “but no one will give him a map” in that the whole three-line sentence is a statement that nobody’s there to aid the speaker, leaving him to stew in his despair.
I see “But no one will give me a map” in a different light than that. Given that a map is a source of directions, that line reflects how we as people are not provided with a foolproof guide on how to live life. Instead, we often find out our own way to live life—sometimes finding out that the rational path isn’t always the feasible path. In this context, the speaker’s panicking and wishes he knew how to get out of this rut in any way besides killing himself, but a life where much is subjective means that there’s no one-size-fits-all answer for everything. Essentially, that line is the back of his head encouraging him to stay alive, but unable to give the rational side of his mind the motivation to avert the oncoming crisis.
The last lines of “Stop Swimming” are the most profound in the entire song:
I'll leave now this can't continue, But I forget which door I came through. And I know that the lift can be painfully slow, So I think I'll leave by the window.
These lines describe a (presumably successful) suicide attempt by auto-defenestration. But what makes these lines profound are the metaphors they contain, namely those of the door and the lift. While the door entails the start of life, the line “But I forget which door I came through” suggests multiple things. First, “which door” suggests the existence of more than one door. Second, “came through” entails that one of the doors symbolizes a person’s birth. So we’re left to presume that the other door represents a death by natural causes. As for “I forget which door I came through,” that’s a phrase with two meanings. The first is that it refers to just how different a person is at the end of life as to how one starts life. The second meaning (and my preferred meaning) is that it refers to infantile amnesia—nobody can remember what we were like at the very start of our lives. The reason I prefer that meaning is that the next possible conclusion to jump to ties to the existential implications of the chorus—that we never asked to be born in the first place, so maybe it’s better that we forget which door we come through. Regarding the lift, that symbolizes the journey of life itself. As for everything beyond that lift, that’s already been said.
During this outro, Steven says something repeatedly towards the end—something which is so well-hidden that it won’t appear on any lyric sheet. This hidden thing varies between one of two different things—either “He is suffering” or “He will softly land,” the only use of third-person pronouns in the song (such a detail makes me think that the speaker is not Steven). Not helping matters is that one of the very last things you hear in the song sounds like a thud.
While Steven’s lyrics to “Stop Swimming” are powerful, the music that supports it is no less devastating. The drumbeat that occurs at the very last second of “Tinto Brass” leads directly into this one. It’s a drumbeat heavy on the cymbals, but having touches of toms (which sound like bongos) and the ghost-snares. In fact, this is the most ‘smooth jazz’ sounding drum beat on the whole album. The drumbeat itself gets one feeling relaxed…just in time for Steven’s lyrics to hit you in an absolutely devastating way.
Then, a crash cymbal at 0:30 signals Barbieri’s piano to come in for the first verse. The majority of “Stop Swimming” is backed up by this foundation. Yes, these are simple piano chords, but they are effective. Towards the end of this verse, a drone-sustain of Steven’s comes into the mix. Another crash cymbal at 1:14 leads the verse to an end and puts the ‘chorus’ into motion. This ‘chorus’ is backed by some synth-strings. At 2:15, something new is played on piano by Barbieri. This leads into an almost-euphoric melody that’s likely the only remotely-happy moment in the song. Appropriately, the last verse arrives at 3:26 and dispels that momentary happiness with the most-devastating verse in the whole song.
After that verse wraps up at 4:10, the “He is suffering”/”He will softly land” vocals can be heard. All the while, the almost-euphoric bit of keyboard occurs again. Around five minutes in, there’s a low-key and reverb-driven guitar solo that is just barely audible in the mix. This beat continues for a while until the song slowly comes to a stop. At that stop comes about twenty seconds of inhuman-sounding quiet electronic synth. Then comes the thud at 6:52, right at the end of the song.
Some will go as far as to declare “Stop Swimming” to be the absolute saddest song that Steven Wilson has ever written. And considering just how much of his lyrics can be sad, that’s saying a lot. However, I disagree with that claim. Yes, “Stop Swimming” is an extremely depressing song on a lyrical level. But there is one song on a later album that’s even sadder.
Final Thoughts:
With Stupid Dream, Porcupine Tree wrote an album that was definitely more streamlined than anything prior to it. The result was (in my mind) the best album up to this point. Yes, this is a tonally-bleak album, but it is near-flawless. Any artist would be glad to release just one album as good as Stupid Dream, but Porcupine Tree has three of four (Lightbulb Sun is very neck-and-neck with this one) albums that outclass it. Despite the overall bleakness of Stupid Dream, it and Lightbulb Sun (a much lighter album, tone-wise) are the best ‘starting points’ to Porcupine Tree for a newcomer. This is because that despite the fact that they’re the two most-accessible releases, there’s a little bit of everything that they would do after this in them. This leaves you with a primer for the three releases after Lightbulb Sun, which are the Golden Trio—In Absentia, Deadwing, and Fear of a Blank Planet.
Furthermore, with the release of To The Bone in 2017, it’s clear that Steven Wilson aims to break into the singer-songwriter/pop arena without sacrificing what makes him such a joy to listen to in the first place. The fact that he could do that at all is a testament to how the music industry has changed between 1999 and 2018. However, Steven would do well to take after albums such as Stupid Dream and Lightbulb Sun, whose usage of melody offer some of the best moments in the Porcupine Tree catalog.