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Editors Note: Please read Part 1 and Part 2 before reading this part. I know both parts are massive, but they provide crucial context for the album and indicate just how ambitions of a project Hand. Cannot. Erase. is.
The Visitors + Fate of H
I have gone on at-length about the Visitors and have implied over-and-over again about what I believe happens to H at the end of the album. But I feel that it’s important that I elaborate and provide a brief recap just before delving into the lyrics proper.
A: The Visitors
The Visitors are—in H’s mind—extraterrestrial beings that have abducted countless women across the span of centuries. All of these women also happen to be notable missing-persons. It’s also implied that H believes the Visitors to have qualities of divine beings—such as living in a paradise and being imbued with immortality.
However, there’s nothing in the Hand. Cannot. Erase. narrative which entails that the Visitors are an objective reality. For all anyone knows, they’re the elaborate construction of H’s imagination.
B: Fate of H
I’ve beaten around the bush on the topic countless times within both parts of this analysis, but my attempts to conceal what I consider as H’s final fate were rather thinly-veiled. From H’s lapses in logic, I’ve drawn the conclusion that H devised the entire mythos regarding the Visitors as a way of explaining the disappearance of J and the other missing women—very much in-keeping with a conspiracy theorist with an overactive imagination. This—in conjunction with H’s social isolation—acts as a factor in what I believe to be H’s outcome at the end of the album: losing the last threads to her sanity whist experiencing a vivid hallucination that she’s finally been abducted by the Visitors and reunited with J.
By the way, I also consider J a fictional person constructed in H’s imagination. There’s too much evidence of dates that don’t cohere with the ages and inconsistent details to convince me otherwise.
Lyrical Analysis
“First Regret/3 Years Older” (12:19) [featuring Dave Gregory (XTC) on additional guitars)
From a musical perspective, “First Regret/3 Years Older” are the first two tracks on the album—but they seamlessly transition into each other and “First Regret” serves more as an atmospheric intro track that’s bolstered by the synthesizer work of Steven and Adam Holzmann. There’s a lot of programmed loops in this short intro which imbue the sound with a cold, detached feel—almost as if H’s life was doomed from the start. Then (at 0:34), a piano part from Steven/Adam can be heard playing a minor-key motif which will recur throughout the album—call it the “First Regret” leitmotif. Once the programming ceases, there’s (at 2:01) a lush break involving strings/mellotron playing a melody that sounds as if it could function as the counterpoint to the “First Regret” leitmotif.
But this oddly-soothing intro soon gives way (at 2:28) to a brisk, jangly guitar riff (regardless of whether Steven, Dave, or Guthrie Govan play it) that’s played in 8/4, but subdivided as alternating measures of 7/8 and 9/8. This proves true (at 2:41) once Marco Minnemann’s frantic live drums and Nick Beggs’s tensely-bubbling basslines enter the fray, creating the foundation of a jam which comprises the first four minutes of the song. Marco’s drumming in-particular warrants attention since his off-kilter rhythm of ghost-snares, off-beat cymbal strikes, syncopated kick pedals, and quicksilver tom-fills seem like it shouldn’t work—but ends up serving as the ideal beat for the constantly-cycling time signatures. As for the production work, every note of bass, drums, guitar, and keyboard register in a crystal-clear manner—something which some may deem sterile, but proves thematically relevant towards the too-perfect lifestyle which ultimately sinks H.
After a brief bit of heaviness (at 2:57) involving thick, low-toned guitars, the song shifts back (at 3:03) towards the main body of the jam, but now with a guitar melody (played by Guthrie or Dave, can’t tell since I haven’t heard a lot of XTC) overlaid on it which—on my first listen—I mistook for a synthesizer part. A close listen leaves one to realize that the scales played by this guitar melody bear resemblance to that which the strings played earlier (back at 2:01). At which point, one realizes that that motif has symbolic resonance with the name of the song and the themes of the album. Simply put, “First Regret” conveys a regret of having been born into a world as ruthless as this one. With that consideration, the initial appearance of that melody with a string section/mellotron conveys H (as a young child) having optimistic promise about the future whereas the reappearance on guitar denotes H struggling to maintain that optimism in the face of reality.
Once the melody wraps up, the music abruptly stops (at 3:30) aside from an acoustic guitar for a split-second before a thunderous fill from Marco batons the band (at 3:36) back into the now-familiar rhythm figure. But now, it’s the framework for a bass solo from Nick that’s reminiscent of ones pounded out by players such as Chris Squire (Yes) and Geddy Lee (Rush) back in the prime of their careers—all over the entire neck of the bass, but with a specific focus on higher-register playing. As the solo starts to wind down (at 3:53), a more laid-back rhythm from Marco—one involving toms as part of the beat itself—plays whilst Steven has a set of descending arpeggios for a bit before everything stops, builds-up within a second, and (at 4:06) launches into a guitar solo by Guthrie or Dave. This section feels less herky-jerky in rhythm—partly since it changes into a 7/4 time signature (except for the last two measures, which are in 8/4). That regularity in rhythm allows one to bask the cream-toned guitar that carries the jam to a close.
Once things wind down (at 4:33) into a lilting acoustic guitar melody bolstered by upper-register bass from Nick, Steven opens his mouth (at 4:53) to deliver the first lyrics of the album:
You cross the schoolyard with your head held down. And walk the streets under the breaking cloud. With a hundred futures cascading out. It's complicated.
From merely the opening line of “You cross the schoolyard with your head held down,” there’s already some nuggets of information trickling out of the words. For instance, the pronoun “You” indicates that this song’s not from H’s perspective, but from J’s as she’s talking or writing about H. Such a detail’s striking since (as will be further exhibited in later verses) the lyrics of this song pull something Bob Dylan did in “Tangled Up In Blue”: they divorce themselves from linear time by jumping from one point to another. As such, J (in this song at least) acts as an omniscient narrator who cycles through various memories at different points in H’s life. Regarding where this first verse occurs in the chronology, “cross the schoolyard” denotes that it’s during H’s childhood—either before or during the “six months” that J was in her life.
While on the subject of J, the phrase “with your head held down” conveys that—even at this early age—H exhibits signs of isolation, depression, and guarding herself from others. How this enters a snag is by asking ourselves “If J’s a different person and/or taken by the Visitors, then how can she know what H feels like or is thinking about at any given moment?” That’s a good question—and one which entails telepathy in J. Furthermore, it suggest that J (if real) can peer into and access memories (as well as read the interior of a person at any specific point in time)—possibly a power gained in the company of the Visitors. If one considers that J’s not real, than this is just the J persona of H attempting to explain how she has access to what regular H knows.
Aside from the pronouns, J also uses imagery (namely “And walk the streets under the breaking cloud”) that manages to pinpoint the scene she sketches H’s participation in down to one rainy day. That specific day—if going by page five of the Handbook (positioned just before a printing of the lyrics to “3 Years Older”)—may fall on Monday, October 7th. As to what year H and J were together, that’s uncertain since H was thirteen-going-on-fourteen at the start of the six months (making the year 1992)—even though October 7th (in 1992) fell on a Wednesday.
The manner which J concludes this first stanza—via the lines “With a hundred futures cascading out/It’s complicated”—aren’t simple and contain multiple meanings. First off, the “hundred futures” are the potential places H can end up going to in her future—one that seems far off considering that she’s at the start of her life. As for the motion of these futures “cascading out,” that entails that the differences between these various futures will emerge with greater clarity as time progresses—a real-life Butterfly Effect.[1] Such an idea renders matters “complicated” in both the adjectival and verbal senses of the word. In the case of the former (‘complex’), it’s impossible to predict a future with certainty, let alone every possible future—especially once mistakes attributable to human error are factored into the equation. For the latter (‘messed up’), the tiniest of mistakes—in accordance with the Butterfly Effect—can render a desired future more difficult to obtain.
Without skipping a beat, Steven follows up H’s situation with the second stanza of this verse (at 5:13), now accompanied by additional cream-toned guitars from either Dave Gregory or Guthrie Govan:
You think of love as just a memory. A fog that smothers you, it’s hard to breathe. But when you're on your own, that's when you're free. You're three years older And you'll always be now.
Initiating matters comes “You think of love as just a memory,” a line with several methods of interpretation. But for each of them, one should recall that H is either thirteen or about to turn fourteen during the events of this verse. As such, she's reaching the age of puberty and approaching a state of emotional, romantic, and sexual maturity. These are also the years where one begins to question ideas related to religion, love, and life. To call love “just a memory” has two purposes: On one hand, it entails that the idea of love that society pushes is a non-existent one and that it only exists in the collective memory of society. Therefore, some individuals (such as H) reject that notion. On another, memory—with its tendency to linger—ensures that this idea of love will endure under the principle of William Faulkner’s “Memory believes before knowing remembers” (Light In August, published 1932). That is, if the social concept of love doesn't exist, the mind believes that idea as a valid one despite evidence to the contrary. One has to question whether J is capable of such a complicated train of thought—further proving that it can’t be H's perspective narrating the song since this is a little high-brow for a thirteen/fourteen year-old to be casually pondering.
That love itself is allied to the line “A fog that smothers you, it’s hard to breathe” isn’t a comforting thought. Especially given that the smothering of this “fog” is that of poisoning, unoriginal ideas, rendering individualism a double-edged sword which sits on the knife’s-edge of isolation. Additionally, love is one notion which society pushes onto the people—even if it’s an idea that doesn’t gel with how some people operate. For a creatively-minded person (she is an artist) like H, commonly-held ideas may prove stifling instead of invigorating.
J observes (via the line “But when you’re on your own, that’s when you’re free”) that H is only truly herself whenever isolated. Attempting true originality is one thing, but it's another to cut yourself off from everyone that values you. Furthermore, the pervasiveness of influence ensures that true originality is a myth—H attempts it anyway by closing herself off. And in the eyes of most, originality isn't worth so steep a price. H isn't like most people and sees nothing wrong in her isolation. But that can just as easily serve as a facade presented to readers in the blog entries and as a cover-up for a laundry list of anxieties. In which case, H is effectively a feminine, Internet-age version of T.S. Eliot's J. Alfred Prufrock.
Memory itself becomes the target in the lines “You’re three years older/And you’ll always be now,” which also identify H as older than J. However, the topic of memory is—through the words “always” and “now”—implied to have something new which proves relevant to the narrative. That new quality is that the state which one remembers an experience (if it’s vivid enough) remains preserved in the mind even while that same mind distorts it further and further as the years pass by—one remembers childhood memories occurring during childhood, not during adulthood. With the two words, the state of constantly remembering the past (“always”) and living in the present (“now)” are placed both in opposition and within a perfect union.
As the acoustic guitar grows more prominent, the chorus appears (at 5:36) in an abridged form:'
I can feel you more than you really know. I will love you more than I'll ever show.
With the knowledge that “3 Years Older” stems from J’s perspective, the line “I can feel you more than you really know” conveys a quality that’s distressing, heartwarming, and lamentable all at once. Considering the hypothesis of J peering into H’s memories, this line denotes that the effects of that activity remain imperceptible to H. The distressing part of that arises from the similarity between that and (here’s a stretch) unwarranted government surveillance. For the heartwarming aspect, this line connotes that J still cares for H even after departing with the Visitors. So that’s lamentable since J can still express that sense of caring, but H is left unable to know that J’s expressing it.
That sadder context shapes the line “I will love you more than I’ll ever show,” where “love” refers to the sister-to-sister bond between J and H. However, both lines inhabit even more emotional weight when one wonders if H’s isolation could’ve been prevented had J’s signs of adoration been perceptible to H. Alternatively, if J’s not real, the whole song can register as a fever dream in H’s mind.
The song’s second verse (at 5:49) has accompaniment from a mellotron and a string section while Steven exhibits a shift in time regarding the lyrics:
There was a time when someone seemed to care. A tourist in your bed you left him there. You found a simple life with no one to share. It's not complicated.
As immediately as the first two lines (“There was a time when someone seemed to care/A tourist in your bed you left him there”), this second verse jumps to a point in H’s adulthood—remember that it’s J looking at H from here. For instance, the “someone” in question refers back to the relationship H had during her “second year at college” (see Entry 9 of the blog). Notably, Entry 9 also notes that that relationship ended because H's sense of independence (isolation) led to self-sabotaging the relationship. In fact, she says as much by ending that entry with the sentence “So in the end I got what I wanted, and I was alone again.” But there's darker implications from “seemed.” First, that word implies that because this person didn't know when and how long H wanted to be alone, he was unable to truly care about her. Secondly, “seemed” implies some form of unstated abuse. As for the description of him as a “tourist,” that has two meanings. On one hand, “tourist” suggests that he was a foreigner at H's college—a possible in-joke of the album’s photography sessions since they used Bulgaria to stand-in for London and Polish actors/actresses to stand-in for British people. On the other, “tourist” conveys that H considers this person useless. With “you left him there” afterwards, there's problematic implications one can draw (namely xenophobia) which the lack of detail on H's ex leave open. However, what's of greater importance is that H got her independence back by returning to isolation.
As the song continues (“You found a simple life with no one to share”), the description of an isolated life as a simple life works insofar as it conveys an annoyance with having to assume a mask in order to form meaningful bonds with other people. Just like how H describes it in Entry 9 by stating that the relationship boiled down to “playing a role in a dream of a life, but only by somehow sacrificing my real self.” From that sentence, it’s entirely possible to interpret H's isolation as one that’s not fully borne by external factors, but also indebted to her character and neuroses. Such neuroses leave open the possibility of various conditions of the mind, with a few being depression, certain forms of autism, insanity, and others. By leaving it open, H becomes a blank canvas. On the flip side, some room for problematic interpretations (such as conflating autism with insanity) is permitted by the lack of clarity. Although I doubt Steven would approve of such interpretations.
Where this stanza ends (“It’s not complicated”) marks a construction with two purposes. One of which entails that this line acts as a response to the previous line’s use of the word “simple.” As for the other, this line marks a contrast with the previous verse’s usage of “It’s complicated.” Regarding what that all means, keep in mind that—as an adult—the holding patterns of H’s life and future are now firmly-established. Given that, nothing shy of a miracle will break the pattern. With what appears like a future that’s certainly isolated, the “hundred futures cascading out” become a “single thin, straight line” (Nine Inch Nails’ “This Isn't the Place[2]”). And the use of a quote of a song that's inspired by a death isn't unfitting—at the very least, the isolation begins and ends with part of H dying.
Steven’s second stanza of verse two harbors subjects which will continue to resonate throughout the album’s duration:
You make a list of all your big regrets. You share with people that you never met. You slowly move towards the medicine chest. You're three years older And you'll always be now.
That quality of resonance begins as early as the first two lines: “You make a list of all your big regrets/You share them with people that you never met.” Starting matters with the “list,” there’s a bit of a bait-and-switch given that one may consider that list to pertain to the blog itself. But the use of the word “regrets” creates associations to the Book of Regrets. However, this also hits a snag as “the people that you never met” links this to the Internet. Especially due to the associations with Entry 18 regarding anonymity, social media, and the balance between sharing and oversharing—all of which are rendered topics of discussion during “Home Invasion/Regret #9.”
One line with ambiguous meaning is “You slowly move towards the medicine chest.” A listener unfamiliar with the blog materials may read this in the way I did upon my first listen to Hand. Cannot. Erase.: as an extremely-depressed woman reluctantly attempting suicide via an overdose of pills. Upon reading the blog and the Deluxe Edition materials, one realizes that this line isn’t referencing a suicide attempt. Instead, it functions as evidence supporting Entry 24, where H’s pill consumption numbs her from dealing with the pain of the world.
At first glance, the lines concluding this verse (“You’re three years older/And you’ll always be now”) remain identical to those that ended the previous verse. With a closer look, the placement of these lines after the one preceding it implies a possible allusion to the Joyce Carol Vincent case. Namely that because JCV’s corpse was found more than two years after her death, that span of time was one where her family likely thought she was alive. In that sense, JCV was only dead to them about “three years” later than the time of her actual death. As for JCV being “always” three years older, that’s a result of the mind and memory playing tricks. As for the resemblance between this line and the one in the previous verse, the identical construction ensures that the original meaning of this line remains in-play simultaneously with the new one.
Although the chorus appeared earlier in abridged form, the second instance of the chorus (at 6:31) marks the first time it presents itself in its entirety. Therefore, Steven’s words carry new weight:
I can feel you more than you really know. I will love you more than I'll ever show. You only have to say And the world will slip away From you...
On the topic of the first new line (“You only have to say”), that this line is from J’s perspective proves vital. If nothing else, the line states that all H has to do is call, summon, recall H. Afterwards, the rest of H’s divergent sense of reality will arrive in tandem. Clinging onto J was H’s original, fatal mistake.
In regards to the rest of the new lines (“And the world will slip away/From you…”), that’s a guarantee that H’s mental decline will overrule any sense of objective reality. Due to that, H retreats further into her own world and sees nothing wrong, worrisome, or concerning about it. However, this surrender into solipsism isn’t worth celebrating since it amounts to regression clothed as progression.
At the very instant (at 6:51) which Steven’s layers of harmonies sing “From you,” a thunderous double-kick-pedal fill from Marco corrals the rest of the band (mellotron included) into a reprise of the core body of the jam—complete with alternating 7/8 and 9/8 time signatures. This section sounds otherworldly with the ethereal mellotron calmly gliding over the chaotic instrumental backing. But that calm proves short-lived since the mellotron (at 7:04) gives way to a boisterous lead guitar passage from what appears as the technical finesse of Guthrie. However, the tone of the guitar doesn’t sound like Guthrie. Instead, the golden-brown ring of the quick runs of lower-register notes brings to mind a hybrid of similar leads played by Lindsey Buckingham (Fleetwood Mac) and Steve Howe (Yes) in the peaks of their careers.
Once a madcap roll from Marco caps off the section, the song (at 7:17) transitions into an 8/4 time signature of rock-steady beats that Marco manages to vary enough to avoid coming across as stale. All the while, little nibbles of guitar pop in-and-out of sound just as Nick’s bass remains within hearing. But it’s no question as to who this section belongs to: Adam Holzman’s classically-tinged, jazz-trained chops performing a piano solo with gusto. It’s not the longest of solos, but it gets the job done.
Just as the final glissando of Adam’s piano solo ends, an extremely Steve Howe-esque guitar tone ushers in the song’s third verse (at 7:50), which registers as the most damning one in the song:
Shame on you for getting older every day. This place is not for you, so why do you still stay? You're standing with the other fuckers in the rain. Life is not some sinecure for you to claim. You have to pay.
Much like an earlier line (“You only have to say”), “Shame on you for getting older every day” is a line where J’s perspective remains crucial for interpreting. In this case, that’s reflective in the scorn exhibited regarding H’s aging. For that to cohere, one should recall that H believes that the Visitors are divine beings. Not only that, but that the Visitors are capable of imbuing their abductees with immortality. With this in mind, the reason for J’s scorn regarding growing older reveals itself—in the eyes of someone that’s immortal, “getting older every day” would come across as pointless.
In that sense, both that line and the one which follows (“This place is not for you, so why do you still stay?”) register in the manner of a taunt—and not a playful one, given the level of scorn J displays. Although the thread of pointlessness carries through into the phrase “so why do you still stay?,” another topic infects the phrase “This place is not for you.” For that to cohere, it stands to reason that since J’s a persona of H, J has access to H’s state-of-mind at any given moment—including the present. As a result, J concludes that H feels as if she’s either not fit for Earth or too good for the planet—a sense of wanton escapism that only seems valid if one devises an elaborate fiction (like that of the Visitors) in order for the chaotic to appear orderly.
This idea of H being unfit for Earth persists into the next line (“You’re standing with the other fuckers in the rain”), wherein a smattering of otherwise-mundane imagery symbolically furthers the points of the verse. For starters, “standing” exists in opposition to the flights of fancy which H imagines as the lifestyle of the Visitors. More pertinently, the vindictive usage of “the other fuckers” extends the scorn from “Shame on you” into a palpable sense of rage. Said rage ends up being leveled at an indirect target (most likely a group of people, hence the plural) that’s content with existing in mediocrity as opposed to excellence. Such a mediocre state of existence is something which J deems contemptable, as depressing as remaining “in the rain,” and beneath H’s potential.
In order to ascertain the final two lines of this verse (“Life is not some sinecure for you to claim/You have to pay”), one must take a gander at the definition of “sinecure,” since Steven uses that rather obscure word choice for metaphorical effect:
Sinecure: an office/position requiring little/no work and usually provides an income.
In essence, this definition presents the fantasy which H wishes to live—no effort, but the capability to live doing what she loves. Moreover, if one assumes that the Visitors are a post-currency society, than the definition can link to how H imagines their paradise.
But the meat-and-potatoes of the definition’s implications stems from how it factors into J’s connection inherent to being a persona of H. Since the two are (on a mental level) inseparable, J’s words here function as the back of H’s mind having an awareness that H’s lifestyle can’t prosper. However, the constantly-active part of H is the same part which devised the complex fiction she devised regarding J and the Visitors. As a result of that devising, what H believes she must do in order “to pay” isn’t the method which matches up with objective reality. Instead, it’s the subjective reality that H remains dead-set on fulfilling—no matter the toll it inflicts on her physical and mental well-being.
Following another chorus, a supremely-beautiful 4/4 piano flourish occurs (at 8:50) during which a classical-esque set of arpeggios are played on both piano and a delicate finger-picked acoustic guitar. This is supported by some light cymbal taps from Marco and higher-register sustains from Nick which flow like butter. The quiet volume of the section likely represents H quietly retreating away from society. Which would cohere with Steven’s previous conceptual works since the first tracks of In Absentia, Deadwing, and Fear of a Blank Planet were all thematic overtures which introduced the core concepts of the storyline, but weren’t necessarily the start of the story. In the case of Deadwing (to name an example), there was a fair amount of in-media-res inherent to that album’s storytelling.
Once the last notes of the quiet part are struck, a muted synth-like bit of programming (probably of Steven’s invention) plays (at 9:22) a pulsating set of rhythmic chords that crescendo in volume until (at 9:28) the rest of the band enters back into the alternating 7/8 + 9/8 pattern from earlier. Only this time, that pattern’s played more aggressively and in a higher-key. All of that supports a solo played on a Hammond Organ by Adam Holzmann that’s a madcap display of his prowess. Appropriately, the solo sounds as fragmented as H’s mind—a sonic harbinger of the thematic decline which H will experience later in the album. As for the pulsating rhythm, that represents the buzzing sense of panic constantly at the back of H’s mind—growing louder and louder until it can’t be ignored.
Another key-change—along with the most animalistic drumming from Marco in the entire song—supports a third guitar solo (at 10:13). Regardless of whether the solo’s played by Guthrie or Dave, it’s the most out-there sounding solo in the song. One that’s distinguishably by a tempestual roar of whammy-bar, high-gain, and lightning-fast runs from either Guthrie or Dave—sound a lot like something played by Adrian Belew. Furthermore, the tone of the solo’s unlike any I’ve ever heard—it’s without peer. That ‘alien’ tone could mark H remembering the time when J was abducted—a painful memory for H which would warrant the abrasive nature of the rhythm section.
However, the solo does (at 10:36) wrap up in an appropriately-bombastic fashion, giving way to a techno-styled break where the drums are partially electronic (via a beat that’s programmed by Steven) and partly live drums. During this, a variant of the bassline from the earlier jam section (from 2:41) re-emerges, followed by the guitar variation of the “First Regret” motif (from 3:03). Soon enough, the drums re-enter (at 11:08), leading to a reprise of a large portion of the opening jam section—including (at 11:35) a repeat of the bass solo (from 3:36) and (at 11:51) the laid-back rhythm from Marco (from 3:53).
Once the latter passes, Marco’s laid-back rhythm doesn’t transition into another cream-toned guitar solo from Guthrie (like at 4:06). Instead, all the instruments (at 12:01) abruptly stop apart from a clean-toned guitar playing a couple of chords. The last of which—a major-key design—connotes that H has found happiness, but that happiness is via a lie: believing in the Visitors.
“Hand Cannot Erase” (4:17) [featuring Dave Gregory on additional guitars)
Structurally, the title track is the album’s most radio-friendly song: verses, chorus, and bridges in a format not far-removed from a traditional pop song. Even with that, there’s some irregularities with how Steven executes the song. The most noticeable being that while most songs on the radio are in a time signature of 4/4, “Hand Cannot Erase” is in a time signature of 9/4. As for the lyrics, they can refer to the dissolved love between H and her ex-boyfriend (from Entry 9) and/or the love shared between H and the imagined sister J. If the latter, one can claim that (due to J being a persona of H) the song represents a sense of narcissism in H.
“Hand Cannot Erase” begins with a two-measure (in 9/4) clean-toned guitar riff that’s played by both Steven and Dave while an electronic drumbeat of kick and snare (do-do-chi-do-do-do-chi, in my mouth-sounds comparison) gradually fades in before (at 0:15) Steven’s first verse begins:
Together we have this love.
Even so, it’s not enough.
Bruised and burned, we won’t lose heart,
And just because life gets hard.
Ambiguity peppers its way through the line “Together we have this love,” with one example being the identity of “we.” An additional thread stems from the gerund “have,” which denotes possession—a trait in-line with the control-freak tendencies of H. But that possessiveness also provides a linguistic indicator that this “love” won't last. Plus, that and “Together” are word choices which undercut each other—hollowing the line of meaning.
Such a sense of undercutting gets reinforced by the next line (“Even so, it’s not enough.”) while also juggling with the possibilities of who “we” (from the previous line) referred to. If the song refers to a relationship between H and her ex-boyfriend (the same one mentioned by the “tourist in your bed” from “3 Years Older”), than this line acknowledges that she can’t sustain the “role in a dream of a life.” However, if one deems the song about the bond between H and J, this line posits a fear within H's mind regarding losing touch with J after she's taken by the Visitors.
Regardless of which relationship (or both) one considers the song’s subject, the following line (“Bruised and burned, we won’t lose heart”) contains references to bruises and burns which aren’t literal. If they were (and if this song had an undercurrent of Stockholm Syndrome), the lyric would read “I won't lose heart.” Instead, the bruises and burns are figurative language to illustrate the trials and tribulations of a relationship. Such a literary tactic only makes the line (and the sunny tone of the music) register harsher since listeners know how this will end.
As for the last line of the verse (“And just because life gets hard”), the simple sentence construction places the previous one in a context that's identifiable towards the common listener. Despite the concept, Steven probably knew that he had lyrics which can be read as anthemic outside the context of the concept. Which is probably why “Hand Cannot Erase” was chosen as the album's first single (despite it sounding almost nothing like the rest of the album).
Immediately afterwards (at 0:47), there’s a key-change in the guitar line. During which, some feather-light celesta hits sync up with Steven’s vocal as he delivers these two lines as a pre-chorus:
Writing lying e-mails to our friends back home.
Feeling guilty if we sometimes wanna be alone.
For some naysayers, the line “Writing lying e-mails to our friends back home” appears as an example of Steven’s deficiencies as a lyricist. Such naysayers claim that the name-dropping of a technology-based term such as “e-mails” renders a lyric hokey and doomed to become dated as technology advances. However, their usage in “Hand Cannot Erase” works due to the surrounding words. In a sense, the crucial word of this line isn't “e-mails,” but “lying.” That's a word which leaves listeners pondering the motive fueling the lie—especially for close friends. Considering what's known about H from the blog and the Deluxe Edition materials, the lie can have a few purposes. First and foremost, the lie’s designed to avoid disclosing information regarding J and the Visitors. Especially since (as ascertained from Handbook page 5) J concluded that no other human would accept the truth behind the Visitors (as H and J perceive them).
As for the second line of the pre-chorus (“Feeling guilty if we sometimes wanna be alone”), a number of elements ensure that it registers on several levels. Starting with the word “Feeling,” there’s a phrasing that links to sensation—which bears recalling the familiar theme of subjectivity not matching reality. But it’s conveyed via the aspect of H’s emotions. A second element—“guilty”—directly connects to the idea of “lying” and suggest that H’s seeking of isolation provides the motive behind the lie within the e-mails. Following that, “we” renders the entire line relevant to more people than just H—it now applies to anyone who’s ever felt isolated and/or overwhelmed enough by the modern world that they wish to run away and hide. That relevancy imbues the song with the characteristics of an anthem. But in applying this to H, “we” can refer to a split personality between H and J. Element number four (“sometimes”), further connotes the song’s anthemic qualities since it falls a little flat when applying it to solely H—entailing that her isolation occurs “sometimes” provides a massive understatement.
Lastly, as a 23-year-old with mild autism-spectrum-disorder that affects my in-person social functions, this line always hit a raw nerve for me because isolation can sometimes leave me remorseful of missed opportunities. Opportunities that I have borrowed time to fulfill before moving on to the next stage of my life. Even if one believes self-care is important, that self-care takes up time. So I've taken steps to make what felt awkward/anxiety-inducing for me into a manageable task. Therefore, I used some of H's pitfalls (Internet usage, isolation) as a stepping stone into something else. But that's just another reason why Hand. Cannot. Erase. struck me as a pivotal album: the arc of H's isolation could've easily been mine had I not been driven to avoid a similar ending.
For the song’s first chorus (at 1:02), everything from before persists. Except now, there’s a new line of palm-muted guitar chords played in-conjunction with the clean-toned guitars. Although the words are simple, Steven’s delivery only provides a prelude to the later choruses. For instance, choruses two and three have multiple layers of harmonies, one of which measures at an E5 falsetto (making it Steven’s highest-recorded vocal note as of this writing):
Hand cannot erase this love [x2]
This chorus carries some weight in these five words: “Hand cannot erase this love.” This phrase demands that we’ve broken down how the words “Hand cannot erase” applies to the album as a whole: Sure, H could commit suicide in a way which her body would never be found, but records that she existed at all would still persist. In this respect, the work of one’s own hands cannot erase the evidence of one’s existence. To apply the phrase to a quality such as “love” bonds the notion of memory to the album’s theme of wanton dismantling. However, just like a hand can't erase physical evidence of existence, a hand can't tamper with or purge qualities such as memories, feelings, and emotions. This is true regardless of if the “love” in question refers to H's ex-boyfriend (from Entry 9) or to the sisterly bond between H and J. But the tone in which H expresses the line changes depending on which “love” the song's about. If it's about H's ex-boyfriend, this line comes across as a lament that the memories can't be erased now that the relationship's over—a notion probably more relevant for the final chorus (with the higher-pitched harmonies connoting an agonized lament). Even so, it's an idea that’s in opposition to the optimistic tone of the instrumentation. But since Steven's married depressing lyrics to both optimistic and depressing music before, it’s hard to tell if the dissonance between sound and subject's deliberate. If it pertains to the bond between H and J, than this line registers as H being thankful that memories can't be actively removed since J's abduction means that no new memories with her can be constructed from experience. In essence, it constitutes a lyrical segue into “Perfect Life” (the next track) while solidifying H's retreat into isolation.
Upon the ending of the chorus, there’s the entry (at 1:18) of Marco’s live drums and Nick’s bass. Regarding Marco’s drums, they tend to punctuate every measure with energetic fills which utilize every part of the kit—adding variety to an otherwise steady kick-peda/snare/ride-cymbal beat. Furthermore, there’s a new harder-edged guitar figure that dances up-and-down the scale while rhythm guitar plays steady chords. All the while, there’s mellotron chord-sustains mirroring those played by guitar, but that imbues the section with an airiness which belies the depressing content of the album.
The song’s second (and last) verse (at 1:34) isn’t a 1:1 replication of the first verse. For instance, the palm-muted rhythm guitar from the chorus lingers as a driving figure which Nick’s bass mirrors. Regarding the addition of Marco’s live drums, it shifts to a hi-hat focused beat while stuffing in ghost-snares, sixteenth-note streams of cymbals, and tom-fills into what’s an otherwise basic beat which happens to be played in 9/4. As for the lyrics which Steven sing in this verse, they’re the type which seem heartwarming outside of the context of the album’s structure:
And a love like this makes us strong.
We laugh it off if things go wrong.
It’s not you, forgive me if I find I need more space.
Cause trust means we don’t have to be together everyday.
Within the span of the first line (“And a love like this makes us strong”), the ambiguity crops up again. For instance, “a love like this” probably refers to H reflecting back on J—especially considering that qualities such as “makes us strong” suggest a constructive, healthy, mutually-respectful bond. Unless “makes us strong” refers to growing accustomed to traits which once bothered both people in the relationship. In which case, the “love” can link back to H’s ex-boyfriend. If the latter’s the case, than “makes” denotes a façade akin to H’s wording (in Entry 9) of playing a “role of a dream of a life.”
Such a façade starts to fail in the form of “We laugh it off if things go wrong.” Here, the laughing “it off” can entail nervous laughter or latent insecurities—both of which indicate that the relationship between H and her ex-boyfriend’s beginning to crumble. However, this line’s also ambiguous in construction since the trait of laughing “it off if things go wrong” reads as a positive trait.
Anyone thinking the song remains ambiguous should heed the line which reads: “It’s not you, forgive me if I find I need more space.” Although this doesn’t identify the subject of “you,” the tone of “forgive me if I need more space” strongly suggests the failing relationship between H and her ex-boyfriend. Stating that “It’s not you” suggests a tense relationship (as opposed to the loving one between H and J) that’s made tenser by H’s isolationist leanings.
Steven’s final original line of lyrics (“Cause trust means we don’t have to be together everyday”) operates on two levels. On one level, this line appears as a romantic sentiment that people should take to heart in developing relationships with people. However, that's only true outside of the context of the album. In that regard, it’s a similar situation to Polonius’s famous line of “To thine own self be true” (from Shakespeare's Hamlet)—where that line seems like perfectly-sound life advice, but the character speaking it is a serial hypocrite who tries to preserve his daughter's chastity yet hires prostitutes for his own pleasures. Here, H speaks confidently that the relationship will endure. But from the blog (namely Entry 9), we know that this relationship falls apart.
Although the second chorus (at 2:05) follows the same structure as the first (from 1:02), but it benefits from the live instrumentation that carries over from the second verse. Furthermore, the added layers of harmonies (including the aforementioned E5 note Steven hits) elicit different tones. In particular, it’s those of agony—agony that H can’t sustain a relationship or agony over J’s abduction.
Following the harder-edged riff from the post-chorus, the band momentarily drops out only to return (at 2:36) with mellower instrumentation for the bridge. Apart from being the only part of the song that’s played in a 4/4 time signature, it also stands out for opting towards mostly-acoustic instrumentation for guitar while Nick plays a vibrant bassline that sticks out as prominently as the brief, melodic guitar solo which concludes the section. All the while, Marco’s drums play a rhythm based on a ride-cymbal/snare/kick-pedal beat which he tends to stuff full of ghost-snares and tom flourishes. Within the background, bright tinkly notes from the celeste emerge clearly. The whole thing registers as a muted resignation that the relationship (or the time with J) has ended.
After the bridge wraps up, it’s a bit of formulaic radio-friendly structure for ending the song. That being the final chorus and post-chorus unit. Only this time, the band drops out because the song ends.
“Perfect Life” (4:46) [feat. Katherine Jenkins]
In musical terms, “Perfect Life” was and is my personal least-favorite song on the album. Although realizing its importance to the narrative has led me to appreciate it far more than when I first heard the album, repeated listens have also raised other tracks in stature. Roughly 90 percent of the lyrics aren’t even Steven singing, but a spoken-word monologue by Katherine Jenkins.
The song begins (at 0:00) via two sounds: a slow drone of a slightly-warm synthesizer and the in-and-out popping of what sounds like a celesta. With those two sounds, there’s two sensations elicited—warm nostalgia and melancholic pain. In the instance of the former, it invokes the memories of the good times H had with J. As for melancholic pain, that’s reflected in the ominous tones of the instrument—this memory was once pleasant, but became painful in hindsight due to how H and J were separated.
From there, the drums arrive (at 0:26) with an electronic programmed beat that uses a snare which reverberates like a garbage can. This mechanical rhythm conveys that this form of nostalgic exercise has become second nature for H and that these memories continuously echo in her brain. With that template in mind, the stage is set for the majority of the song. During this, Katherine Jenkins begins her spoken-word monologue which occupies the majority of the lyrics. Although I already analyzed the lyrics which comprise the spoken-word section back in Part 1 (because an entry quoted them verbatim, plus two lines which were cut from the final album), I recognize that some will only read Part Three because it has the lyrics. Therefore, I’ll put what I said in Part 1 below:
Cluster One:
When I was 13 I had a sister for 6 months.
She arrived one February morning, pale and shellshocked,
From past lives I could not imagine.
She was 3 years older than me,
But in no time we became friends.
An astute observer/listener will notice that this entry consists of the lyrics the spoken-word section read by Katherine Jenkins in the first half of “Perfect Life.” However, there’s a difference between this entry and the album version of the spoken-word section. That difference being that there are two extra lines in this entry since “Later that year my parents separated and my sister was rehoused with a family in Dollis Hill./For a month I wanted to die and missed her every day” doesn’t appear in the album version of “Perfect Life.” Although “Perfect Life” has importance to the album as a whole, an analysis of the majority of the song’s lyrics may be required for this entry.
There’s a curious detail about “When I was 13 I had a sister for 6 months” which doesn’t quite cohere with a sense of time. Partly because “had a sister for 6 months” seems to imply that this is a newborn baby girl (something supported by “She arrived”), yet this is refuted by the notion that the sister “was 3 years older than me.” This blatant defiance of logic can point towards three things: a mixing-up of chronology akin to that of Benjy Compson from William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury,[3] H considering the bond between herself and a close friend to be akin to that between sisters, or this sister being a product of H’s imagination. Given the precarious mental health of H, the last of those three isn’t an out-there notion.
Going off of the assumption that H’s sister exists only as a hallucination, then there’s a treasure trove of relevant information to mine from the next couple of sentences: “She arrived one February morning, pale and shellshocked from past lives I could not imagine.” For starters, the symbolism of “February morning”—the last month of winter before the renewal/rebirth entailed by spring—marks a conscious effort by H to impose a degree of order onto reality. Unfortunately, reality’s oftentimes a disordered mess that flies in the face of what’s deemed logical. Much of that disorder comes from what’s unknown or unable to be known—a concept applicable to “past lives I could not imagine.” However, ascribing “pale and shellshocked” to past lives opens up elements of the supernatural into the equation, which must be interpreted in conjunction with H’s possible mental illness.
As for “She was 3 years older than me, but in no time we became friends,” there’s a deluge of details which expand upon those previously-established. First, the phrase “3 years older” carries such importance to the album that it’s the name of the first non-instrumental track on the album—such significance indicates that H unconsciously never forgot her sister. That H claims that “in no time we became friends” informs listeners on the intensity of their bond—that it’s like that shared between friends and like that between sisters. One would think that’s the case with any pair of sisters, but that the bond was established suddenly instead of over multiple years connotes that H doesn’t know from experience what having a sister is like—another hint that H’s sister isn’t real. Therefore, this sister wasn’t born, but rather imagined as being three years older than H.
Cluster Two:
We’d listen to her mix tapes;
Dead Can Dance, Felt, This Mortal Coil…
She introduced me to her favourite books,
Gave me clothes, and my first cigarette.
For one to understand the lines of “We’d listen to her mix tapes: Dead Can Dance, Felt, This Mortal Coil…/She introduced me to her favourite books, gave me clothes, and my first cigarette”—lines which seem like a depiction of various rites of passage—, one should have some context regarding why Steven specifically picked those three musical acts as the mix-tapes. In the very first blog post, H mentioned that she had turned 30 in 2008, meaning that she was born in October 1978—if she was thirteen during the six months where her sister existed, the time is February 1992. All three of these musical acts—an art-rock duo (Dead Can Dance), an early forerunner to alternative rock (Felt), and a gothic-rock/dream-pop hybrid (This Mortal Coil)—were based in the UK and had their original run in the 1980’s. These were musical acts that had run their course, but their demises were recent enough that they were still in the memories of others—a parallel to how the memory of the sister lingers in H’s mind.
Cluster Three:
Sometimes we would head down to Blackbirds moor
To watch the barges on Grand Union in the twilight.
She said “The water has no memory”.
A couple of curious lyrical choices render the following line striking: “Sometimes we would head down to Blackbirds moor to watch the barges on Grand Union in the twilight.” Namely the references to places such as “Blackbirds moor” and “Grand Union” which—while extremely specific—aren’t in the knowledge of most listeners/readers. These details aren’t made-up locations, but they’re specific landmarks from Steven’s hometown of Hemel Hempstead—these locations are facets drawn from Steven’s own childhood. Considering that Grand Union canal system does pass through Hemel Hempstead around the same area as Blackbirds Moor, so these details are geographically-accurate. But the point here worth driving home is that Steven’s choice to insert locations that he knows imbues a sense that he’s trying to understand this story and that situating it in what he knows helps him in doing so.
The line that follows—“She said “The waters have no memory””—is one that’s allusive and multi-faceted. In one respect, the phrase “The waters have no memory” functions as an allusion to a Porcupine Tree b-side (found on Recordings) from the Lightbulb Sun-era titled “Oceans Have No Memory.” In another, the same phrase appears to defy nature—stating that people are superior due to memory and imagination. Particularly imagination since that quality can allow one to create anything. Ironically, these words may indeed be coming from a figment of H’s imagination. Yet another way to perceive the phrase “The waters have no memory” is that because of nature’s ability to constantly renew itself, it’s in a constant state of a blank slate—it doesn’t have to worry about anything that plagues the minds of humans. Therefore, nature can live out an idealized existence by simply being.
Cluster Four:
For a few months everything about our lives was perfect.
It was only us, we were inseparable.
These next few lines—“For a few months everything about our lives was perfect./It was only us, we were inseparable”—hold notions which don’t quite hold up under closer scrutiny. Sure, the detail of “a few months” supports the “6 months” from earlier, but it still conflicts with that earlier notion of the sister being “3 years older” than H. That contradiction, the idealism of “everything about our lives was perfect,” and the overly-bright imagery which complements the music video for “Perfect Life” all seem to point towards H having a mental illness and imagining/hallucinating this sister.
Immediately after Katherine says “inseparable,” the song abruptly shifts (at 1:46) to a brief new section. The section in question has a vaguely industrial sensibility given the cold air it gives off. Although the programmed drum beat still lingers, the warm synth drone (that’s likely been burned into one’s brain by this point) drops out completely, which seems to render things chillier and more meaningless. On top of that, there are rhythmic pulses (probably some programming by Steven) which sound like vacuum cleaners that begin to chug along. All of this—combined with the words in Cluster Five—entail a sense of dread at the future and a feeling of hollowness now that J’s been abducted.
During the industrial section, the last two lines of Cluster Five are spoken by Katherine. The first three lines are only found in Entry 6 and in the demo version of “Perfect Life”:
Later that year my parents separated
And my sister was rehoused with a family in Dollis Hill.
For a month I wanted to die and missed her every day.
But gradually she passed into another distant part of my memory.
Until I could no longer remember her face, her voice, even her name.
Although one can interpret the line “Later that year my parents separated and my sister was rehoused with a family in Dollis Hill” as a blunt narration of how events unfolded, there’s more to it underneath. First off, it seems like H picked a location at random since “Dollis Hill” isn’t far enough away from Hemel Hempstead (looking it up on Google Maps gives me 24 minutes by car, 1 hour and 8 minutes by train, and 1 hour and 49 minutes by bike) to believe that H won’t see her sister again. That fact makes me think that the detail of “my sister was rehoused with a family in Dollis Hill” reads like H suppressing what she thought happened. As for what H suppresses, it’s connected to the Visitors.
While I dispute the mechanics behind the disappearance of H’s sister, the line “For a month I wanted to die and missed her every day” leaves little doubt regarding the psychological impact of that loss. That it’s of a traumatic enough nature to leave a thirteen-year-old H to contemplate suicide conveys that it’s more severe than the sister simply moving away. In a cruelly-ironic way, the use of “every day” in this line alludes to the line “Cause trust means we don’t have to be together everyday” (from the song “Hand Cannot Erase”). But unlike its usage in Entry 3, this usage applies it toward the one person H truly valued—and that person may not exist.
The previous line’s severity informs how one reads the last two contained in the spoken-word section: “But gradually she passed into another part of my memory./Until I could no longer remember her face, her voice, even her name.” At this point, the coping mechanisms of trauma have distorted what H considered reality. In a weird sense, this ‘fading out’ marks the only way someone imagined can truly die: by being forgotten. However, it doesn’t quite cohere with how the sister gets brought up in future entries. If anything, this ‘death’ is just a metamorphosis from one concept of the sister into another—from the idyllic to the mythic.
Following the end of the industrial section, the chorus (at 2:13) begins and slowly builds with layers of brightly-toned synths, a shimmering guitar part, steady bass, and the continued presence of electronic drums functioning as the backbone for a wall-of-sound. Despite that spoken-word monologue occupying nearly all of the lyrics, there’s a little bit to dissect from the long-and-repetitive refrain which comprises much of the back half of the song:
We have got.
We have got the perfect life…
This long and repetitive refrain serves to undercut itself—it’s a mode of denial by the speaker of the song. Additionally, the phraseology of “have got” conveys a sense of mutually-assured possession via the use of the gerund form. Since the “We” unambiguously refers to H and J (or H remembering J), this “perfect life” appears as a quality which both parties possess in their memories. However, one would be quick to note that the phrase “perfect life” offers—through a contradiction—an example of a self-defeating construction. Anyone who's lived long enough surely knows that life's the epitome of imperfect—that’s partly the motivation behind the fantasy genre. Unless H dreamed up J as an elaborate imaginary friend, the phrase “perfect life” undoes itself.
Once the final words of the song are sung, Nick launches (at 4:00) into a brief bass solo where the instrument’s sound pops out against the wall-of-sound generated by the synth and guitar. Only for the synth to drop out (at 4:27), leaving a final couple beats from the drums before a final sustained piano note ends the song abruptly. Almost as abruptly as the “perfect life” dissipated away from H.
“Routine” (8:58) [feat. Ninet Tayeb on vocals, the Schola Cantorum of the Cardinal Vaughan Memorial School on choir, and Leo Blair on solo vocal]
A song which was released as the third single from Hand. Cannot. Erase., “Routine” is a significant song in Steven Wilson’s solo discography for a handful of reasons. One being that it’s the first sight of Israeli vocalist Ninet Tayeb, who found a shared musical bond immediately—leading to frequent collaborations on each of Steven’s main releases since: those being the EP 4 ½, his fifth album To The Bone, and the 2018 live album Home Invasion: In Concert at the Royal Albert Hall (a great live album). Additionally, this track (along with the title track and “Happy Returns”) informs the musical direction of material from the To The Bone album the strongest. Moreover, this song embodies everything which makes Steven such a compelling songwriter: understanding of how the mind works, melancholy which conversely inspires hope in the audience, epic-length which feels much shorter than the runtime suggests, the utilization of influences which stem from multiple genres of music, and a mastery of harmony and melody to which Steven has few peers.
Musically, “Routine” functions in a state of crescendos up until the soft-spoken finale acts as a breather. While the song approaches nine minutes, it doesn’t have extended instrumental sections which balloon the length like the more prog-style tracks on the album. Believe it or not, “Routine” has a structure that’s not too far removed from a pop-song. There’s just sections of transition between the verses and choruses which end up making the song feel more lived-in and vivid in the long run. As far as the instrumentation goes, Guthrie and Steven have typically-solid guitar work that’s more to the service of the song instead of the showboating which the former sometimes exhibits, the rhythm section of Marco and Nick exercise restraint in a similar way that Guthrie does on this song, Adam’s keyboards function as the color which makes this song so special, and Ninet makes the song crackle with energy (especially in the latter parts of the song).
As for where “Routine” falls in the Hand. Cannot. Erase. narrative, the song’s a story-within-a-story. The story told is that of Madeline Hearne, a mother and wife whose husband and two sons died in a school shooting. That last bit of information is nowhere in the song, but is found in both the music video and the Deluxe Edition materials. But it’s important as to understanding the behavior which Madeline exhibits throughout the song.
Unlike some songs on the album, “Routine” opens up immediately with the first verse, where Steven softly sings these words backed only by a fragile piano playing in a 5/4 time signature:
What do I do with all the children’s clothes?
Such tiny things that still smell of them.
And the footprints in the hallway.
Onto my knees scrub them away.
Within the span of the first two lines (“What do I do with all the children’s clothes?/Such tiny things that still smell of them”), a detail with extreme specificity emerges which illustrates Madeline’s plight in a concise, poignant, and poetic manner. The detail in question lies in the fact that the “children’s clothes” indeed “still smell of them.” That Steven’s lyrics convey that information through the sense of smell entails that Steven bucks a common symptom of poetry in the generations following the advent of film: an over-abundance of sensory input regarding sight and sound. Furthermore, that detail contains relevance towards both Madeline’s dramatic situation and her notion of routine. For the former, remember that Madeline’s a mother whose husband and two sons had just died in a school shooting. In the case of the latter, the sentimental attachment towards the clothes (because her sons once wore them) creates a snag in the routine which she’s used as a coping mechanism. Namely that if she leaves the clothes as is, she breaks the routine of washing the clothes. But if she sticks to the routine, she’ll erase the scent of her children—which would break her further since that smell reminds her of when they were alive.
Additional examples of a hand erasing material reminding someone of a deceased person’s existence exhibits itself via the lines: “And the footprints in the hallway/Onto my knees scrub them away.” But unlike the children’s clothes, these lines indicate an instance where Madeline does stick to her routine. Likely because the children’s clothes can retain the scent (and therefore the sentimental value) for a much-longer length of time than the footprints could. So Madeline likely feels a ‘Sophie’s choice’ of sorts in her brain—remove one reminder or the other—in order to keep up the routine and satisfy the lingering of the memory of her deceased family.
Although the piano continues to vamp about for a little bit after the end of the stanza (at 0:22), it soon stops on a single chord. At the same time, the sounds of seagulls and the rushing of waves begin to appear. These sounds situate the listener in the same cliff-side home that Madeline is seen living in during the music video.
Following a dead stop, the piano picks up (at 0:40) and plays slightly more vigorously as Steven croons these lines:
And how to be of use, make the tea and the soup.
All of their favorites throw them away.
And all their schoolbooks and the running shoes,
Washing and cleaning the dirty steel sink.
Reading lines such as “And how to be of use, make the tea and the soup” involves Steven (in constructing the lyrics) messing about with gender roles while playing them straight. On one hand, the tasks ascribed to Madeline appear outdated at best and sexist at worst (especially with the phrase “how to be of use”), but the fact that they're undertaken by a routine-driven obsessive who’s uses them as an unhealthy method of coping with loss says something about the inadequacy of the gender roles themselves—you’d have to be in a situation like Madeline’s in order for them to work. In this respect, Madeline's a victim of those gender roles. However, gazing at the ingredients of “tea and soup” reveal something else. For example, both of those are (in some cultures) comfort foods, so it’s possible that these foods are part of Madeline's methods of self-comfort—an attempt to take the pain away. Unfortunately, painful memories—like happy memories—can’t be erased by hand.
Conversely, the image displayed by the line “All of their favorites throw them away” connotes that happy memories can never be fully-restored. This same image—that Madeline still continues to cook the types of dinners that her children liked—lends credence to the music video. During which, a claymation Madeline’s seen alone at a dinner table with fully-prepared plates for three other people. Such an image ties to the inability to move on from the memories of the deceased that’s found in the lines which end the verse: “And all their schoolbooks and the running shoes,/Washing and cleaning the dirty steel sink.” There’s a surplus of routine-driven imagery which directly connects towards the memories of the kids. Almost as if Madeline’s discovering things about her children that she never learned while they were alive. Additionally, the word “schoolbooks” points out the location of their deaths.
At the same time Steven finishes singing those lines (at 0:59), one can hear an instrument performing some tremolo strumming. If not a guitar with a tone similar to that of a violin, than it’s an actual violin. But the sonic significance of this serves as a symbol of the obsessions that constantly eat at the minds of both Madeline and H—with grief and the Visitors, respectively.
For the song’s first chorus (at 1:08), the guitar ends up dropping out completely while piano (can’t tell if played by Steven or Adam) begins playing a series of slow arpeggios. One can faintly discern Nick plucking staccato notes on his bass whilst a children’s choir can be heard singing in the background. But the most noticeable difference stems from the addition of a programmed drum loop (which carries over for the second verse). Moreover, it’s not Steven singing the chorus, but Ninet Tayeb:
Routine keeps me in line.
Helps me pass the time.
Concentrate my mind.
Helps me to sleep.
Any wording conveying that the routine “keeps me in line” implies that the routine has taken on a life of its own—and in a way, it has. Especially considering the music video is implied to occur several weeks after the shooting, enough time for the routine to become an obsession for Madeline. In that respect, the grief and the response to said grief has resulted in Madeline’s mind opposing her own well-being.
The lines which follow (“Helps me pass the time/Concentrate my mind”) demonstrate an aspect of the routine that constitutes a double-bind. In a weird way, this routine—a waste of time to some—marks a constructive way to “pass the time.” Namely since the alternative of facing the pain at the source runs the risk of descending deeper into despair. As for the process detailed by “Concentrate my mind,” that’s the avoidance at the root of Madeline’s routine. But the avoidance ensures that she’s stuck in a holding pattern since she never faces the pain head-on. Although either option—avoidance or direct conflict—can destroy Madeline, only one can result in recovery.
Avoidance—as of the line “Helps me to sleep”—appears what Madeline opts towards since the word “sleep” symbolically conveys a state of non-reality. That Madeline needs aid in order “to sleep” strikes on a few points. First, her dreams are of happy memories spent with her family when they were alive. Alternatively, Madeline dreads sleep since she’s haunted by nightmares of when her family died. In the latter case, the sleep schedule’s part of the routine and said routine’s so strong that it overrides her fears.
Without skipping a beat, the chorus transitions into the next verse (at 1:40) while preserving the programmed drum loop from the chorus and the piano patterns from the prior verses. The new sonic additions derive from Nick playing a series of ascending eighth-note scales on his bass and Guthrie picking an ostinato-esque pattern on an acoustic guitar. This forms the backing for a more energetic delivery from Steven as he sings the following lines:
And keep making beds and keep the cat fed.
Open the windows, let the air in.
And keep the house clean and keep the routine.
Paintings they made still stuck to the fridge.
There’s a couple components of striking imagery over the course of the line “And keep making beds and keep the cat fed.” For instance, the plural “beds” means that it’s not just Madeline’s bed in question, but that of her late husband and children. As for “the cat,” that's a striking image containing multiple layers. On the most literal level, this refers to Madeline’s own cat and has nothing of significance beyond that. Depending on what point of the Hand. Cannot. Erase. narrative that H makes this detour into ‘story-within-a-story’ territory, the mention of a cat can reflect H associating Madeline’s cat with Laika (see Entry 13). In that sense, it’s H perceiving aspects of herself within the narrative. Additionally, Steven Wilson’s been a noted cat lover (not quite to the extent of Queen’s Freddie Mercury, who penned the song “Delilah” [from 1991's Innuendo, released nine months before he died of AIDS] as a goodbye to his pet cat), so it’s possible that this is a subtle bit of author-insertion. So subtle that unless one knows of Steven’s affinity for felines, you wouldn’t know it was an author-insert. But that bit of insertion has a dramatic purpose in its specificity—it’s Steven using aspects of himself in order to see how he'd function were he in Madeline’s predicament as well as the ‘reading into things’ quality exhibited by H. As a result, a sense of empathy's formed—one which is reflected on the song and the album.
More familiar territory rears its head via the line “Open the windows, let the air in.” This action of opening “windows” touches upon a similar note to that of the “children’s clothes” and the scrubbing of the “footprints in the hallway” since exposure to fresh air has two purposes which support and deny the root of Madeline’s routine. One can say that to “let the air in,” Madeline’s livening up the place. But in doing so, the fresh air can allow new microorganisms to arrive and replace the old ones which allowed for the clothes to “still smell of them.”
With that in mind, one has to read the next line (“And keep the house clean and keep the routine”) with the detail that the procedures of keeping “the house clean” and maintaining “routine” aren’t mutually-supportive. In fact, the tasks in the routine enact the opposite of what Madeline aims to accomplish by sticking to the routine. Which entails that by keeping “the house clean,” Madeline’s destroying the reason for the routine to begin with.
Although the line “Paintings they made still stuck to the fridge” presents a rather mundane image, there’s something darker lurking just underneath. Within the span of a line, Madeline convinces herself that even if the evidence such as scents embedded in “the children’s clothes” were to vanish, physical mementos such as artwork and photographs still persist as evidence of their existence. However, those same mementos also taunt Madeline by reminding her that it’s impossible to construct new memories with them due to their deaths.
Once the main component of the verse ceases (at 1:59), Steven and Ninet harmonize a set of non-lexible lyrics (“La da dan-da” and so on) to the tune of the regular lyrics. That these lyrics aren’t even words yet follow the same melody as the rest of the lyrics demonstrates the unthinking nature of keeping the routine—as well as suggesting that thinking of a way out would end up hurting Madeline. Yet she must deal with the pain sometime. That these are sung by both Ninet and Steven suggest that this will befall both Madeline and H. The reappearance of the violin-esque tone (from 0:59) implies that this obsession’s both unthinking and self-destructive.
After the non-lexible lyrics run their course, the song shifts (at 2:37) into a 3/4 time signature. Apart from piano and some synth lingering over from the end of the build-up, all the instruments have dropped out completely. For a while, I thought this section lacked lyrics and mistook the boy choirist (credited as “Solo choirister – Leo Blair” in the liner notes) for a high-toned synthesizer. With a few more listens, I made out words Leo utters—striking because no official lyrics appear to print Leo’s words. To the best of my ability (although open to being proven wrong on the first line), Leo sings the following lines:
What are you afraid of now?
What are you so terrified of?
For this is now gone.
Since these lines are delivered neither by Steven nor Ninet, but by a boy choirist (credited as “Solo chorister – Leo Blair” in the liner notes), there can be a perspective shift. One way to read these lines is that they're coming from H, but on the outside of the story-within-a-story looking in--by imagining that this is the voice of a Visitor. Another way of interpreting these lines entails that they're Madeline's conscience rattling about inside her mind, but Madeline's so dead-set on the routine that the conscience may as well be screaming at a brick wall. I tend to opt towards the latter since it seems supported by the sparse instrumentation (just a piano) of the passage. But they are lyrics.
Assuming these lines are spoken from Madeline's conscience, the questions act as an internal interrogation on Madeline's routine. Particularly as to what's the use of maintaining the routine since nothing will come from it. This conscience states that no matter what, Madeline's family will remain deceased and no attempt to preserve the past can change that “this is now gone.” However, in the questioning of the root of Madeline's fears, there's a disparity between what Madeline instinctually fears and what Madeline's conscience knows. For the conscience, the fact that there's no way to bring Madeline's family back renders her fears pointless—she’s better off dropping the routine and moving on sooner rather than later. But Madeline's instinctual fears keep her from moving on since this routine's the last unsevered connection to her family—and she's reluctant to surrender it.
A brief piano flourish punctuates the end of Leo’s lines and that seems like the end of the song—until (at 3:02) a set of eighth-note acoustic guitar arpeggios begin to fade in. During this section, chilly-sounding synth sustains pop in-and-out of the song and once Nick’s bass (at 3:24) splits the air with a set of reverberating sustains, the tone shifts to one that’s downright morose. This extended build-up section paints the portrait of Madeline stewing in misery at the end of a day—such a sensation derives mainly from the steely tone of the acoustic guitar playing minor-key scales.
Via a sudden cymbal flourish, Marco segues from that section into the next (at 4:11)—one which returns to the 5/4 time signature from earlier and has a clean-toned electric guitar playing rhythm figures before Guthrie initiates a guitar solo. While this occurs, Marco plays a steady, arena-ready drum beat based on ride-cymbal/snare/kick-pedal that’s occasionally punctuated by furious drum fills. Meanwhile, Nick’s bass operates in a higher-register whilst playing smooth runs up-and-down the scale until the guitar solo starts, where his deep-toned bass functions as a pulse. Both the piano pattern from the verses and a new mellotron figure are discernable from Adam’s array of synthesizers/keyboards—and both flavor the song with distinct sounds. But without any question, this section belongs to Guthrie’s brief and melodic guitar solo. Although it’s not the best one he plays on the album, the tones elicited from his guitar embody the song’s melancholic heart yet offer a glimmer of hope. Even better, the ending of the solo forms a smooth transition into the next verse—much like how Brian May’s guitar solo in Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” constitutes a seamless transition into the opera section of that song.
Once Marco’s last snare hits punctuate the air, a new set of piano arpeggios begin (at 5:09) and hold together Ninet’s next verse as the rest of the instruments drop out. Apart from the last line (where Steven harmonizes for a haunting effect), the entirety of this verse belongs to Ninet:
Keep cleaning, keep ironing.
Cooking their meals on the stainless-steel hob.
Keep washing, keep scrubbing.
Long until the dark comes to bruise the sky.
Deep in the debt to night.
A couple of actions remain ascertainable from the first line: “Keep cleaning, keep ironing.” For starters, the insistence on the word “keep” functions as a mantra for Madeline’s repetitions, grammatically mirroring the process and mundane qualities of her routine. As for the actions of “cleaning” and “ironing,” those are actions which preserve the conditions of the house and the children’s belongings. In a way, it’s almost as if Madeline’s attempts to preserve the past are analogous to an embalming.
More familiar themes tease their way in the next line (“Cooking their meals on the stainless-steel bob”), wherein the mention of “their meals” reflects back towards the cooking of “All of their favorites” from an earlier verse. That it reflects at all points back to the repetitions entailed by “keep” from the previous line. Additionally, the music video depicts Madeline sitting alone at a table with four plates whenever this line’s sung. Furthermore, there’s symbolism in the fact that the hob’s made of “stainless-steel” since the hob’s clean-slate parallels how H wants to preserve her way of life prior to the school shooting having killed her family.
The line “Keep washing, keep scrubbing” demands recalling how “washing” and “scrubbing” were utilized within the opening verse. Upon that recollection of “the footprints in the hallway and the suggestion that Madeline’s routine undoes the reason she enacted the routine, there’s another instance of language mirroring between this line and the first one of this verse. That mirroring itself entails that the embalming of the first line isn’t far removed from the erasure of the third line. If not because of the routine undoing the evidence of her family’s existence, than it’s due to the routine itself taking a slow-burning mental toll on Madeline—sooner or later, she’ll break down and the grief will hit her all at once.
How the line “Long until the dark comes to bruise the sky” carries over seamlessly from the “scrubbing” in the previous line gives a hint as to the manner one should read it. From that seamless connection, there’s a guarantee that Madeline will stick to her routine until she reaches a breaking point. At which point, who knows what’ll happen. From the point hammered home by the symbols of “the dark,” bruises, and “the sky,” Madeline appears to have some awareness of when or how that breaking point will transpire. For the hammered-home point, one should note what each symbol entails. Regarding “the sky,” there's the sense that that's Madeline's ideal status-quo: that her way of life when her family wasn't undergoing rigor-mortis endures in-perpetuity. Since that's impossible to maintain forever, “the dark” represents the bitter reality encroaching upon her fantasized coping mechanism. That the dark ends up “bruising” this sky evokes the imagery of night-time, but there's more to it than that—it’s an indicator of how Madeline will perceive reality kicking in: as a cosmic slight against her. Hence the celestial imagery.
Further symbolism emerges from the line “Deep in the debt to night.” But how the word “night” serves as a multi-purpose symbol informs us how we read that Madeline’s “in debt” to it. On one level, “night” denotes the light leaving Madeline’s husband and sons when they were killed in the shooting. Such imagery does have a prior usage in Steven's work—one example being the lines “Black the sky, weapons fly/Lay them waste for your race” (from “.3” off of Porcupine Tree's In Absentia) and how that signaled Our Nameless Killer's final decision to go hellbent on a killing-spree. While Madeline’s not going on a killing spree, death's affected her life and she's on the precipice of lashing out (in an action depicted in the music video). In this regard, the “debt” entails that because no one can revive people from the dead, death itself functions as a debt collector that can strike at any given moment for any given reason. And much like the IRS, attempting to cheat this particular debtor will only hasten the inevitable. Coming off of the thread of “the dark comes to bruise the sky,” one could assume that “night” amounts to reality styming Madeline's efforts to preserve her former way of life. In which case, the “debt” acts as a sobering reminder that any attempt at escapism will backfire hard if it persists long enough. A third component is that “night” is just that—the hours of the day imposing a limit on Madeline's routine. On such a concept, the “debt” which Madeline's obliged to follow is that of being bound to time itself and how she must schedule her routine around the finite hours of the day.
Once the familiar piano pattern flourishes for a few revolutions, the band re-arrives (at 5:47) in full-force. That full-force consists of hammering guitars from Guthrie and Steven, dynamic drumming from Marco, bubbling bass from Nick, and a pulsating array of mellotron and synths from Adam. It's the heaviest moment of the song thus far and (going by the music video) also the instant that Madeline stumbles across a newspaper article on the school shooting that's adorned by a family portrait. Appropriately enough, this sets Madeline in a rage where she tears apart the entire house—repudiating anything connected to the horrific day in an action that's difficult to watch.
The tension generated by the increased heaviness carries over into the final chorus (at 6:11), where a slide-guitar solo by Guthrie's played alongside Ninet wailing in an Adele-esque manner. Considering the fit of rage that Madeline's in the midst of, a rough-around-the-edges quality fits since it's as unhinged as Madeline's breakdown. As such, tiny details such as a stray voice crack from Ninet only make Madeline's breakdown more vivid in the music.
And just after the chorus ends (at 7:14), Madeline’s breakdown becomes embodied in a terrifying 4/4 sequence. Here, a momentary build-up of Guthrie’s thick chords, Marco’s pounding toms, and Nick’s throbbing bass lead to Ninet unleashing an unnerving wail that I’m sure Steven couldn’t replicate. Not helping matters is that the wail’s accompanied by a blitzkrieg of kick-pedal and cymbal smashes from Marco. But everything about it ends as suddenly as it began, wherein the music video cuts to white before (at 7:25) a clean-toned guitar plucks away a set of blissful arpeggios in the most serene section of the song. The aforementioned cut-to-white implies that some time has elapsed since Madeline’s breakdown, so the final verse (harmonized beautifully by Steven and Ninet) unfolds with a difference in mindset:
The most beautiful morning forever.
Like the ones from far off, far off away.
With the hum of the bees in the jasmine sway.
Don’t ever let go.
Try to let go.
Don’t ever let go.
Try to let go.
Don’t ever…
Two elements of the first line (“The most beautiful morning forever”) are pertinent: that it’s the “most beautiful morning” and that it endures “forever.” With the former, keep in mind that Madeline's family were killed during what appeared like an ordinary and beautiful day of school. This “most beautiful morning” can be any morning before that time, but it ties to the concept of her routine—that she'll conduct her routine in the usual way and her family will return from school at the day's end. The beauty stems from the fact that—unlike that fateful day—her family did return from school. In the instance of the latter, there's the invoking of what Madeline's routine aimed to accomplish. Namely that since any point in time following the shooting won't live up to her life before, the only course of action's to constantly relive the final day of her family's life.
Within the line “Like the ones from far off, far off away,” there’s grammatical support in the line’s phrasing towards the notion that a significant amount of time passes with that white flash (in the music video). Especially when factoring that those times being “far off away” are an acknowledgement that Madeline's family isn't coming back. While “like” renders this a simile, it's not a 1:1 replication of earlier times.
The song’s next line (“With the hum of the bees in the jasmine sway”) factors some of the imagery surrounding Madeline at this point of the music video. Said imagery has symbolic resonance since it presents evidence that life will progress forward with or without Madeline’s involvement—just as the world did before the school shooting. Furthermore, the specific flower mentioned (“jasmine”) has symbolic connotations of love and romance, a detail with two meanings. First, there's some elements of regression since Madeline's recalling the time she first fell in love with the man she eventually married—and that she's remembering it as a happy time. Secondly, the fact that Madeline's able to find something new to love about life and about herself in the time beyond the shooting. Such an ambiguous wording leaves the two meanings completely open and the conflicting messages in the Deluxe Edition articles covering Madeline's case veer towards one meaning or the other, denying any clear consensus. And there's nothing prohibiting both from being true simultaneously.
In fact, if they're both simultaneously true, that mirrors the ethos fueling the song's final pair of lines: “Don't ever let go/Try to let go.” In essence, it's a divide at the crux of any mourning period: that because memories mold a person's identity as they morph over the course of life, letting go destroys a part of the self. But in order to resume any way of life that one can call ‘living,’ an attempt at letting go is required. Furthermore, that the final words of the song are an incomplete “Don't ever” render vague whether Madeline ever resolves this conundrum insomuch as—like the infamous top-spin which ends Christopher Nolan's film Inception (2010)—the audience is denied definite closure. However, from the implications of a line such as “With the hum of the bees in the jasmine sway,” one can imply that Madeline does find some peace. If not fully-content, Madeline's at least in a better state-of-mind than at the start of the song.
After that, the guitar arpeggios begin to slow down, ending the song.
·“Home Invasion/Regret #9” (11:24)
A track that’s become a mainstay in Steven’s live set, “Home Invasion/Regret #9” may (like “First Regret/3 Years Older”) consist of two songs, but they flow seamlessly on the actual album—and Spotify lists them as one track. Structure-wise, this song’s roughly divided into three sections: the djent-meets-fusion jam which takes up the first three minutes, the laid-back piano groove that provides the bedrock for Steven’s verses, and the energetic solos from Adam on synthesizer and Guthrie on guitar which end the song. However, each of these sections have relevance as to what they represent and how they’re placed within the song itself.
The “Home Invasion” portion of the song begins with a synthesizer of Adam’s (on a string-esque setting) playing a descending chromatic scale that gives off a similar vibe to that of the famous Psycho strings from the shower-stabbing scene of the Alfred Hitchcock movie of the same name. With that feeling in mind, there’s a sense of dread present before Steven (on bass), Guthrie (on guitar), and Marco (on drums) play (at 0:18) an off-beat rhythm in 4/4 not unlike one that’s found in djent (pronounced with a silent ‘d’). Such an off-kilter rhythm only accentuates the dread for two reasons. First, it interferes with how one perceives music as being on-beat—which runs counter to Marco’s poly-rhythmic playing involving a hi-hat/snare pattern being played on-beat while his kick-pedals follow the guitar and bass. Secondly, the brisk pace and chromatic scales of the notes used in the rhythmic pattern result in the off-beat pattern shifting before a listener can get a handle on what’s being played—meaning that a listener experiences a sense of disorientation at first before the ascending riff (at 1:06) brings the section to a dead-stop while the entrance of Adam’s Wurlitzer electric piano (at 1:11) allows one to collect their bearings.
With just enough time to get one’s bearings collected, Marco’s drums return (at 1:25) with a whirlwind of a fill that segues into a brisk, jazz-trained beat that’s littered with ghost-snares and peppered with highly-technical drum fills. Shortly thereafter (at 1:41), two more instruments enter: Steven’s chugging bass guitar and Nick’s slick runs on a Chapman Stick that effortlessly glide from one end of the scale to the other several times over. As such, the main rhythmic foundation for the ominous sustains of Guthrie’s lead guitar (at 1:59) to give way to a playfully-syncopated guitar solo (at 2:31) which glides around and in-harmony with the rest of the band before the re-appearance (at 3:02) of the ascending riff (from 1:06) puts a kibosh on this instrumental section. And it’s probably an instrumental section conveying the frantic pace of progress in our society and how easily one becomes sucked into the world of the Internet.
At the exact instant which the final chord of the ascending riff is struck, Adam proceeds to play (at 3:04) a lounge-esque rhythm on his keyboards before Marco pounds out a slower figure while Nick hammers away on his Chapman stick. This formulates the bedrock for Steven’s first verse (at 3:29):
Download sex and download God.
Download the funds the meet the cost.
Download a dream home and a wife.
Download the ocean and the sky.
One-by-one, each of the clauses in the verses of “Home Invasion” constitute an argument against addiction towards technology—and one that's sinister yet convincing.
Beginning with the idea behind “Download sex,” that's a dig at pornography. But the way Steven tackles that subject isn't as simple as ‘porn is bad.’ On the contrary, it's not the sexual aspect of pornography which Steven takes offense to. Instead, it's that with the internet, people access porn for purposes other than sex—whether it be self-stimulation or simply watching it. In a way, that defeats the purpose of what porn was made for while also presenting unrealistic expectations regarding sex (on top of those that porn itself presents, but that's another topic for another day).
Now as for “download God,” that's a bit more open to interpretation. One method of reading that suggests that with the ability to ‘have the whole world at your fingertips,’ people on the internet feel like a god. Some evidence of that appears via the curtain of anonymity and how people under that curtain say and do things they wouldn't dare enact if that curtain were stripped away. Additionally, the ability to tailor-make the persona one presents on the internet seems to have careless people lose track of themselves whilst becoming deluded with a God-like feeling in the digital sphere. And since being a God's presents less obstacles than being a human, that leads into the most-unnerving part of Steven's entire argument: that getting caught up in the pursuit of the almighty download is easier than living life.
On one hand, the line “Download the funds to meet the cost” can refer to the advent of online banking. But on another, it links to the notions of internet piracy and of hacking in order to gain money. Regardless, it’s a reflex of the god-complex outlined by “download God.”
Three elements are at play with the mention of downloading “a dream home”: materialism, capitalism, and idealism. Idealism comes first since it ties towards the other aspects of the house—by using the word “dream,” Steven points out that this most likely won't become real unless you're a billionaire with excess money to spare. That quality of ‘excess money to spare’ leads into materialism insofar as it fosters overly-showy decor such as the gobs of gold coating locales such as Trump Tower (a location I flipped off in Chicago). And capitalism ensures that this will only be done by those at the top since they're the only people with money to burn.
Whenever the lyrics mention the download of “a wife,” a few ideas are evoked within a fraction of a line. One of which is the prevalence of online dating sites, but that's small-potatoes compared to the more-loaded commentary which this image provokes. Said commentary involves how some male-centric spheres of the internet have encouraged a retrograde view of women—a message more relevant in 2018 with the rise of neo-fascist hyper-masculinity than when Hand. Cannot. Erase. debuted in 2015. However, the juxtaposition of “wife” next to “dream home” contains relevancy via the implication that the latter's a purchase. Therefore, Steven's lyric choice both evokes and criticizes sectors of the internet that deem women a commodity—a critique suggesting that such a viewpoint's tantamount to an aberration of how inter-gender relations should be.
From the notion of downloading “the ocean,” the ideas of Google Images and photography are imbued with maliciously simple traits. By simply going to Google Images and typing the name of any location one wishes, a person can witness anything in the world without ever experiencing it. In one respect, this functions as the epitome of why Plato deemed art as one degree removed from reality—proving that maybe there was more truth to the words of that Greek philosopher than he could've known in his lifetime.
Yet it's the phrasing of downloading “the sky” which informs listeners as to why the notion of downloading “the ocean” is an appealing one. In essence, by downloading the outer limits of nature, a person downloads what the Romantics (which included writers such as William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelly (and his wife Mary Shelly, the author of Frankenstein), and Lord Byron) considered the embodiment of God. By doing so, users of the Internet are symbolically committing the folly of Milton's characterization of Satan: declaring themselves superior to God—not a wise idea if He's all-powerful. Even though Steven's an atheist, there's an irony there.
Between the end of the verse and the start of the chorus, the backing rhythm of the verse (at 3:54) ends up supporting a jagged-sounding guitar riff from Guthrie that eventually gets cut off by a drum fill of Marco’s. At which point, the entire tone of the song shifts (at 4:06) into that of melancholic bliss. With reverb-drenched instrumentation, softly strummed chords, echoing synths, higher-register bass work, and Marco’s steady rhythms, there’s an ideal backing for Steven’s chorus:
Another day of life has passed me by,
But I have lost all faith in what’s outside.
They only are the stars across the sky
And the wreckage of the night.
Within the span of two lines (“Another day of life has passed me by,/But I have lost all faith in what’s outside”), H's entire mindset at this point of the narrative is articulated in two ways: on a surface-level and on a deeper level. Regarding the deeper level, the passivity of language such as “passed” conveys a sensation of helplessness in H's isolation. On one level, that H has “lost all faith in what's outside” denotes the result of the delusions of divinity enabled by the internet. But on another, the fact that that divinity's a hollow one—combined with that it doesn't negate the power-trip of the delusions—renders H's isolation into a state akin to purgatory.
The wording of the last half of the chorus (“They only are the stars across the sky/And the wreckage of the night”) echoes one which ends Entry 38 of the blog: “I look out at the awning of the stars across the sky. And the wreckage of the night.” When I examined those lines in the blog, I claimed that the difference between how they appeared in the blog and how they appear in the lyrics offered a warning shot of H's mental decline. That's still the case, but there's a lot of ambiguity within the construction of these two lines. With the first of these ambiguities stemming from the identity of “They.” Given precedent of the album, one may claim that “They” refers to the Visitors—a claim supported by the phrase “the stars across the sky” and how H (in Entry 17) construes the lights in the sky as the physical presence of the Visitors. But that's not what “They” refers to. Instead, “They” indicates the presence of memories—and not necessarily H's own. Remember that in Entry 38, H sifts through a “burned out shell of a building” and that—unlike the people killed in the fire—she comes to a haunting conclusion amongst the refuse of time: with the choice of isolation, all that's left to watch are the phantoms of memories and people. In this regard, phantom memory becomes collective memory to the isolated. However, this isn't living. That much is reinforced by wording such as “only”—connoting a one-dimensional quality—and “wreckage of the night.” The latter of which serves as a decimation of anything new emerging that's worthwhile because of a staunch emphasis on the past. Additionally, with “night” symbolically marking death, there's the suggestion that H's existence is a fate worse than death since at least death doesn't prolong the suffering that's part of isolation. Of course, such symbolism also ties back into the notion of H's existence representing purgatory.
As the chorus ends, a one-measure riff transitions the song (at 4:32) back into the verse rhythm. However, it’s not the verse just yet. Instead, a harmonized lead played by Guthrie’s guitar and Adam’s keyboard ascend up a jazz scale only for the last note to descend in an off-scale note. Such a detail reflects all of H’s ambitions crashing down in musical form—something which the Internet will only accelerate the decline.
In just the same manner and the same rhythm as the first verse, Steven delivers the second one (at 4:57):
Download love and download war.
Download the shit you didn’t want.
Download the things that make you mad.
Download the life you wish you had.
Several threads of information are ascertainable from the clause reading “Download love.” The most transparent of which refers back to dating apps. Another one targets the notion of what the media peddles as ‘romantic’ and how those notions—despite how ill-suited they are to reality—still find young people to believe in them. But the most significant target in Steven's crosshairs comes from “love” as a word, not a concept. Even within Western culture, “love” alone is a vague word insofar as it's connected to so many different things (with sex, friendship, romance, family, and intimacy being a few) with varying implications for different demographics. That we've become more aware of things such as polyamory, transgender people, and asexuals within the 2010s serves as evidence of just how many different demographics love in different ways. And that's not even going into different cultures that likely have conceptions of love (whether discriminatory or not) that radically differ from anything found in Western culture. All of which factor into the idea that—even with the faux-deific powers of the internet—there’s no way to achieve a universal definition of love.
Just as many ideas derive from “download war” as from “Download love.” For starters, war marks the intersection of capitalism, sensationalist news coverage, political corruption, and wanton violence—all of which are things Steven's critiqued at one point or another. But the juxtaposition between “war” and “love” strikes poignantly since one's the inverse of love yet—since the idiom of 'all's fair in love and war' exists—a lot of people in our culture tend to approach the two with similar methods, a perversion of one or both qualities. As for the “download” part of “download war,” that's possibly a tacit reference to methods used by ISIS to recruit domestic terrorists--a topic which Steven revisits on two tracks from 2017's To The Bone. Finally, juxtaposing “love” and “war” brings up another point: that just like there's no one way to love, there's no one way to fight a war. However, the engine of capitalism almost guarantees that only one method--the method with the most advanced capabilities—will emerge victorious.
Following one ugly thread of ideas leads to another that's decidedly more personal to Steven: the phrase of downloading “the shit you didn't want.” This shifts the topic back into consumerism via the internet, which has become so rampant that sometimes people tend to download out of curiosity—a term for that being an ‘impulse buy.’ However, a case of buyer-beware should be advised since the product in question can be lackluster—whether due to poor quality or poor expectations.
As to why that notion's personal to Steven, there's two reasons which are able to be extracted from “things that make you mad.” First, with an artist that's veered into political territory on occasion (moreso in recent years), Steven's probably had his fair-share of witnessing news articles regarding politics that have infuriated him. And given that Steven's British, one can safely presume that the result of the BREXIT vote galled him—just to name an example. However, that's not really why the toxicity of internet consumerism has rankled Steven. For that, one should look at the reaction of a Philadelphian ‘fan’ as to this very album: sending death threats to Steven while he was touring the US. While bringing it up in a 2017 interview (found here), Steven said the following:
“We were very scared, and finally we gave it the importance it deserved: that day I didn’t go out to meet the fans, I stayed all the time in my dressing room and we hired specialists to look for knives and guns. Paranoia is involved in everyone because we already live a lot of situations like this, particularly in the United States, with attacks in schools and other places. As a musician I feel more and more vulnerable every day, because every time I get on stage, I can get shot. We all can be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. But what am I going to do?”
Something as morally-repugnant as that likely informs why there's a noticeable echo-effect in how Steven delivers the word “mad.” Even a detail as minute as a split-second echo effect on a single word contains implications of its own. With that sole sonic facet, Steven conveys that anger's the ugliest emotion because of the atrocities that have been committed throughout history in the name of unrestrained anger.
At the most basic sense, the line “Download the life you wish you had” denotes an example of hollow wish-fulfillment that registers as pathetic. But another component of this phrase links back to the mask-like implications of the phrase “download God” and how (by creating how one present themselves online) the internet allows one to feel like a God. Why that concept remains relevant here is that because of the oppressive forces pervading the modern world, it oftentimes seems that the only way to achieve “the life you wish you had” is through having powers akin to that of a God. Since no human truly has such power, the beauty of the facade created by the Internet's far more enticing than the nigh-impossible odds of achieving such a life in the real-world.
Following the second chorus, there’s a brief slide-guitar solo (at 5:58) from Guthrie that’s exquisite and fits the music like a glove. After which, the song uses the same one-measure riff to seamlessly shift (at 6:24) into “Regret #9,” flowing as if it were a single song.
When “Regret #9” begins, one is hit by a tantalizing vacancy in the music. For the longest time, I heard no guitar or bass in this section (at 6:24), but then I realized it was heavily muted by effects processors—a technique which Steven’s band skillfully replicates on Home Invasion: In Concert at the Royal Albert Hall. With a relative dearth of synthesizer effects apart from atmospheric sustains, the primary instrument that one notices comes from Marco’s machine-like precision on the drumkit—a steady beat that’s interrupted every-so-often by a creative fill.
However, it’s a mistake to suggest that this section (the bridge of the song) is unimportant to the song. In fact, the fact that this marks where the numbers are spoken by Steven in the obscured backing vocals. Considering that these numbers are tied to the Key of Skeleton and that Steven’s stated that the KoS holds the answer to the album’s mystery, these numbers (as well as the one’s in "Ancestral") are among the most important sonic details in the entire song. But these numbers have two layers of audio which overlap with each other.
Once the numbers cease, Adam’s Moog synthesizer launches (at 6:42) into an extended synth solo which demonstrates his jazz-trained (Adam did play in Miles Davis’s 80’s-era band before the former hit the age of thirty) chops with gusto. And like a lot of jazz, some of the quickest runs in the solo are improvised—evidence of such stems from the slight differences in Adam’s solo between the studio and live versions of the song. But this solo wouldn’t be much without the tight-playing of the vamp sequence from the rest of the band: Marco’s varied, over-the-top drumming, Nick’s bass throbbing a steady stream of eighth notes, the orchestral mellotron layers, and the pounding muted guitar of Steven’s. For two magical minutes, a listener wonders where Adam will go next—but he has the foundation of a killer band ready to pick him up if he falls. Unlike H, which—as this solo demonstrates—grows frustrated of the Internet and opts to disconnect permanently, isolating her further. Conversely, the Internet’s effects in the song isolated her and cut her off from people and the world—effectively a Catch-22.
Immediately after Adam’s Moog solo concludes, Guthrie Govan wastes little time jumping (at 8:53) into a barnstormer of a guitar solo. In fact, it’s one of his best—coming behind only those played in “Drive Home” and one other track on Hand. Cannot. Erase. This solo—an expert display of melodic expression, tonal complexity, and technical dexterity—has parts of it that were composed, but Steven (in constructing the solo) allowed Guthrie enough freedom to fill in the gaps with jazz-trained improvisation. As for what the solo stands for symbolically, its H’s dismantling of her connections from the Internet—if Adam’s solo marked H making the decision, than Guthrie’s solo provides a sonic representation of H acting on that decision. Hence the sense of grandeur and finality in this solo—it’s a determined effort for H to get exactly what she’s after: isolation at any cost.
And then once Guthrie’s solo reaches its final exhilarating bend (and the rest of the band crash out), there’s only (at 10:31) warm tones of a synth left reverberating before minor-key piano chords crash down. In sharp opposition to the melancholic piano marks the presence (at 10:43) of a banjo played by Steven. It’s been said that it’s next-to-impossible to make a banjo sound sad. That much holds true here, but the clashing between the muted-happiness of the banjo and the deeply melancholic piano leaves a listener on an ambiguous ending as to which way to feel. The way I interpret it, the piano symbolizes either harsh reality or depression crushing down on H whereas the banjo distinguishes a false sense of hope or security. That hope or security is—for H—found in nostalgic remembrances of her time with J. Although, H goes further into the past than that for “Transience,” the symbolic connection made between a banjo, happiness, and nostalgic memory constitutes a thematic segue into that very song.
“Transience” (2:43)
To some extent, “Transience” serves as a palate cleanser following “Home Invasion/Regret #9.” But on another, has the same function to Hand. Cannot. Erase. that “A Warm Place” served for Nine Inch Nails’ 1994 album The Downward Spiral—it’s the final moment of bliss before everything goes to hell. Structurally, “Transience” is a simple, acoustic number with minimal support from synthesizers and no percussion. Therefore, the backbone of the song comes from Steven’s brisk finger-picked melody—allowing total clarity to emerge from the lyrics. Considering the similarity of the imagery between the lyrics to “Transience” and that of Entry 21, a safe assumption to make entails that the song involves H remembering that same memory of when she was “4 or 5 years old” in 1982/83. As for when H recalls this memory, that's less certain and is limited to a vague window of time between the events of the tracks "Transience" is sandwiched between.
After the song fades in, Steven’s voice delivers the first triad of lyrics:
Cut through the country, speed through the dark.
A child in a train, tristessa departs.
It’s only the start.
The opening line of the song (“Cut through the country, speed through the dark”) holds multi-purpose language. For starters, there's the scenic description of “country” likely indicating Welsh countryside given Entry 21 mentions that this is en-route “to the seaside in Wales.” Just a little deeper stems the words "cut" and “speed,” both of which must consider the role of trains in several of Steven's lyrics. In songs such as [Porcupine Tree's “Trains,”[4] trains symbolize both nostalgic memories and the perpetual movement of time. How "cut" links to that notion can be observed by contrasting it with a phrase from “Trains”: “scars in the country.” In that Porcupine Tree classic, that phrase is a poetic image for railroad tracks that—since In Absentia is a concept album about a serial killer with eerie parallels to Fred West—also applies to the messed-up mind of the album's protagonist. Although H isn't a killer, she's far from a paragon of mental health. With Steven's naturalistic leanings on tracks such as “Deform to Form a Star,” (from 2011's Grace for Drowning) one can infer that (like the deforestation to make railroad tracks) these scars have ruined a part of H's human nature. As for “speed,” that's a perversion of nature from a Tolstoy-esque bent since that's the type of language asserting where humanity asserts dominance over nature via technology. The similarity to the effects of the internet which are spelled out in “Home Invasion/Regret #9” constitute a thematic segue from one track to the next.
Another image (that of the “child in a train”) entails that H feels disconnected from this memory—one which the blog states was a time when she “was completely happy”—because of how she refers to herself in the third-person. This disconnect, combined with that it was apparently a happy memory, speaks volumes on H's current mental state and that it's riddled with depression and isolation-induced anxieties. But Steven uses a curious phrasing in the form of “tristessa departs,” one with several layers of meaning. Most apparent is the relation to the Spanish/Portugese word for sadness: tristeza. This departure of sadness ties into the notion of this being a happy memory. However, the spelling of “tristessa” evokes the name and title character of Jack Kerouac's 1960 novella Tristessa—which was based on Kerouac's own affair with a Mexican prostitute. That name has thematic significance towards both the novella and the album. The disparity of the novella's content—where Tristessa’s morphine-addled self-destructive impoverishment clashes with the sheer beauty of Kerouac's prose—isn’t dissimilar to the jump from the purgatory of “Home Invasion/Regret #9” to the warm nostalgia of “Transience.” Furthermore, parallels can be drawn between Tristessa’s self-destructive lifestyle of addiction and that of H. But the name of the song hints that the calming memory isn't real because it's in the past. As such, the reprieve will be brief before the storm known as “Ancestral” arrives.
This song's refrain has appeared before in the blog entries, but not in Entry 21. Instead, that line appears in Entry 3 and its appearance here amounts to H either conflating two memories together or that the quote was spoken around the same time as the memory depicted in Entry 21. As for the sentence in Entry 3, it's a piece of relevant context:
The closest he got to giving me fatherly advice was to remind me and my brother that I had the whole of my life to get things right and if things didn’t make sense now, then don’t worry, be patient; “It’s only the start”.
The usage of the song's refrain here renders “Transience”—otherwise a tranquil break after “Home Invasion/Regret #9”—into the deep breath before the plunge of “Ancestral.” As for the advice of “It’s only the start,” it's unsound since it’s an instruction to waste one's life waiting for improvement—something H ends up fulfilling. An additional issue with that advice appears via “the whole of my life” since no one knows the duration of that length of time—wasting it isn’t smart. Finally, the isolation of H’s dad breeds that of his daughter since dad’s unable to prevent H from falling prey to the same fate. There are other connotations to when this refrain appears in later parts of the song, but this instance of the refrain's merely H recalling the words of her father.
Matters shift from bad to worse via Steven’s second set of lines:
Filigree circles round her young wrist.
Her mother is frowning at something she missed.
She fixes her hair.
Steven's choice of words in the first couple of lines (“Filigree circles round her young wrist./Her mother is frowning at something she missed”) are unusual in that “filigree” is defined as follows:
Filigree (noun): ornamental work of fine (typically gold or silver) wire formed into delicate tracery.
From this, one wonders how H's “circles round her young wrist” can be considered “filigree.” Especially since the fact that her mother's “frowning at something she missed” implies that H has begun practicing self-harm. One hint stems from the diction found in the definition—namely words such as “fine,” “delicate,” and “tracery.” Those words entail that the blade used by H in her wrist-cutting is rather thin and not as effective at cutting as a razor or a knife would. Which suggests that H doesn't wish to die. Of course, since the song's narrated by modern-day H referring to child H, this could be modern-day H's thoughts on self-harm intruding on the narrative—that there's an artistic beauty to self-harm scars. If so, it's ambiguous as to whether that ‘beauty’ stems from a viewpoint of owning one's scars or of glorifying self-harm. Considering H's profession and her mental state, it could honestly be either one or both. As for the “frowning” of the “mother” over “something she missed,” that's the mother wondering whether she didn't pick up on any warning signs of depression and/or self-harm.
However, it's noted from the phrase “She fixes her hair” that H's mother doesn't worry about her daughter's condition for very long. If she did, it's doubtful that H would remember this as a happy memory. Moreover, this lackadaisical attitude regarding parenting reflects a line written by H in Entry 3: “My mother just said that if I was happy then she was happy. And I suppose I was, so they both left me to it.”
The last few lines of lyrics are delivered by Steven in a way that’s simple yet breathtaking in the use of harmonies: But they are far from comforting in implications:
At the failing of the day she heard
Her father always say, “Remember, it’s only the start.”
When she drifted off to sleep,
She had the whole world at her feet
Because it’s only the start.
Before they fell away it seemed to matter all the same.
But it was only the start.
It’s only the start.
Right at the start of this last verse, the lines “At the failing of the day she heard/Her father always say, “Remember it's only the start”” evoke a number of implications. From “failing of the day,” the symbolism of day transitioning into night offers an example of present-day H's views invading the flashback via her fatalistic outlook of life informing the language. That split between past H and present-day H factors into “she heard,” wherein—by referring to herself in the third-person—the suggestion is raised that H's identity differs so radically from that of her childhood. Which provides a sign of the protracted nature of H's decline, along with the questionable validity of “always,” a possible misremembering since its unknown how often her dad was part of her life following the divorce of her parents. With that topic of faulty memory in mind, “say” becomes debatable as to whether the quote contains the actual words of her father or H's misremembrance of them. But what's clear from the beginning of the quote (““Remember””) is that H took it as wisdom which should be heeded.
The triad of lines (“When she drifted off to sleep,/She had the whole world at her feet/Because it's only the start.”) which follow up that train of thought offer plenty of room for H to delve into the disparity between childhood and adulthood. Beginning with “she,” the recurring motif of H applying the third-person to herself creates a sense of detachment in the subject between the past self and the present self. Perhaps that detachment's a way of avoiding the truth staring at her with “drifted off to sleep.” That phrase—with the passive verb “drifted”—exhibits subtle foreshadowing since passive verbs pervade H's actions (or lack thereof) in her adult years. Further character flaws emerge via “had the whole world at her feet,” where the utilization of a possessive (“had”) conveys a feeling that nothing can stop H—a self-centered notion that's incongruent with reality. Even if “the whole world” lay at H's feet for one moment, the principle of change guarantees that it won't stay there for long. Those connotations are clarified with “Because” preceding the refrain—a construction denoting that holding such a view with unshakable conviction requires youthful naiveté or ignorance.
But the final insult from H's flashback comes from the last duo of lines in the song: “Before they fell away it seemed to matter all the same/But it was only the start.” While “Before they fell away” can refer to H's parents falling asleep, it also conveys that reality ensures things won't be as good as this again. Such a concept ties into “it seemed,” wherein “it” marks an idea (the same one as “had the whole world at her feet”) which “seemed” suggests is irrelevant to how life works. Despite that, the phrase “to matter all the same” denotes that H exhibits unshakeable conviction in an unsustainable belief—both as a child and as an adult. Since adult H merely redirected that conviction to another unfeasible idea: the Visitors. Finally, that “But” signals the refrain is a construction which entails a disparity between expectations (which H remembers being made in the flashback) and reality. That disparity invites the clashing characterizations of H as a child and H as an adult. Once that comparison's made, one realizes that there wasn't any possible way that H's youthful expectations could ever come to fruition as an adult.
This last instance of the refrain doesn't mean the same thing as it did in prior cases. Recall that modern-day H—fatalistic outlook and all—acts as the narrator in this song, where she's presented as a child that's somewhat optimistic about the future. Then consider that the song's title (“Transience”) fits snug as a glove due to that word's connotations of fleeting time. Both qualities combined imbue the last use of “It's only the start” with a bitterness absent from the other times those four words appear in the song. Although that bitterness steadily increased with each use of the refrain, it's only at this final point where the source of that scorn is fully discernable. That's because throughout the time H has recalled the refrain and the memories associated with it, she's also been stewing over the connotations of that refrain. Now that she's fully aware of those connotations, she realizes that she's lived up to it. As a result, all her regrets come crashing in at once while she curses herself because she's wasted her life and now she has to lie in the bed she made.
After that, the song winds down. But not before one can faintly hear a woman’s (credited to Daniela Guarnaccia in the liner notes) speak the following words in Italian:
Amore, stiamo arrivando, preparati.
Translations of that into English reveal that she’s saying “Love, we’re about to arrive, get ready.” Hints at the Italian heritage of H's mother (something stated in Entry 3) and functions as a message indicating that the Visitors are approaching. Also suggests that parents (at least mom) was taken by Visitors (or H believes that). “Ancestral” marks the climax of the Hand. Cannot. Erase. narrative. “Happy Returns” is merely the denouement.
“Ancestral” (13:30) [featuring Ninet Tayeb (backing vocals), the London Session Orchestra (strings), and Theo Travis (flute and baritone saxophone)]
“Ancestral,” as the climactic track on the album, has a lot of weight on its shoulders throughout its thirteen-minute runtime. That's true of the lyrics—ambiguous whether they're told from the view of H or J, but loaded with some of the album's best lines—as well as the unorthodox musical composition. Said composition utilizes nearly every musical style in Steven Wilson's playbook—ambient, electronic, rock, metal, jazz, and prog—with such gusto that it's unmistakably his. For some listeners, “Ancestral” comes across the weakest link on Hand. Cannot. Erase. due to the ending jam seeming to go on for as long as it does just for length’s sake. That’s something I disagree with since there’s something which that long jam represents. Even without considering the symbolic significance of the jam, the instrumental interplay in “Ancestral” has the high-quality expected from this line-up. There’s one of Guthrie Govan’s best guitar solos in Steven’s band (bested only by “Drive Home”), Marco Minnemann’s finest drum performance during his tenure in Steven’s band, solid bass lines by Nick Beggs, and typically-excellent keyboard work from Adam Holzmann.
The song begins at a slow-tempo and a time signature of 7/4—a common motif since “Ancestral” has the most-varied meters on the entire album. One can hear immediately hear a programmed drum loop based on hi-hats with off-beat snares and kicks—while this draws influence from electronic and industrial music (Steven is a noted admirer of Nine Inch Nails’ 1999 album The Fragile), their usage here evokes a cold and alien fell. As such, it’s a sign that the rules of what some deem music are subtly breaking down just as H stands at her wit’s end. Furthermore, there’s a solemn, eerie sensation that’s bolstered by the droning synthesizer layers which hover in the background. Before long, Adam’s piano and Steven’s guitar harmonize minor-key chords which ring out an air of total despair—outlining H at her lowest ebb.
This leads into (at 0:20) the arrival of a hammered dulcimer. Although this is an instrument that Steven (one of very few notable players of this instrument, alongside Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler) has used on Porcupine Tree tracks such as “Lips of Ashes” (from In Absentia) and “Last Chance to Evacuate Planet Earth before It is Recycled” (from Lightbulb Sun), this was the first time he’d played it on-record since 2002. However, the chilly sound of the instrument invoked an inhuman feel that was perfect for the subject matter of those songs (necrophilia and the Heaven’s Gate mass suicide, respectively). How the hammered dulcimer’s ice-cold tone factors into H’s character stems from how truly isolated and disconnected H has become from humanity—both spatially and metaphysically. Not only is she cut off from anyone who values her, but one gets an inkling that she hates the limitations of being human. In this sense, the hammered dulcimer conveys a tone of nihilistic desolation in the same way that a saxophone entailed loneliness in David Bowie’s ambient suite on Side Two the “Heroes” album (from 1977).
Steven’s echo-drenched first verse (at 0:34) in “Ancestral” contains some of the most profound lines that he’s written to date—and they warrant an extensive look:
Reason never seems to come to guilty men.
Things that meant so much mean nothing in the end.
Their function is dysfunction and to hide the truth.
Distracted by their faith, ignoring every proof.
An exceedingly-vague line (“Reason never seems to come to guilty men”) for a number of reasons—nearly every word muddies the waters a little further. Including the first one (“Reason”), which contains connotations of rationality, emotional coldness (if in overabundance), and common-sense. Furthermore, “Reason” entails what's empicarally provable, but it's doubtful whether the Visitors qualify since it seems like a conspiracy theory constructed by H. Partially enabling that construction is that in matters which can't be ascertained, a modicum of emotion's required for the judgement call. All of those elements formulate an ironic conclusion: on person's sense of what's reasonable doesn't necessarily match another's--but few would deem H's “Reason” reasonable. Perhaps a component of why H's “Reason” registers as unreasonable can be ascertained from “never seems,” a phrase that--on one hand—qualifies as a blanket statement. But within that blanket statement derives the familiar motif of the interior mind not given away by external features, so this wording reflects H's failure to discern what people are like. Such an ability isn't possible without communication, rendering H's isolation highly detrimental in the long-term—this song just illustrates the end-result. Such a sense of isolation ties into the inaction of the passive verb in the phrase “to come.” Passive verbs conveying inaction have been seen before in both the blog and some of the album lyrics, but tying it to the failure of reason denotes that H's skewed sense of reason was facilitated by her inaction. Furthermore, the irrationality of H is further referred to in “come” evoking the language of a beckoning, conveying the cosmic significance H imbues in things that don't warrant such value. But the kicker of this line stems from “guilty men,” a phrase with an ambiguous wording. For starters, it's vague whether or not "men" refers to humanity as a whole or to the male gender. Additionally, the following things are unknown: the nature of their guilt, the authority/morality of those that deem them “guilty,” and whether these “men” are aware of their own guilt. More pertinent to discussion is that this phrase radically alters if the song's from the perspective of the J persona. Since it's established that J was ‘abducted’ years ago and has lived among the Visitors, than the J persona's looking down on humanity as a whole for being irrational. Given that J's a persona of H, this means that “Ancestral” marks the point where the split personalities of H weave in-and-out of each other—a detail mirrored in both the lyrics and the musical structure.
The next line (“Things that meant so much mean nothing in the end.”) registers nearly as obtuse as the previous line, but there's a toehold in the blog (specifically Entry 13) which renders this less inscrutable:
Of greater importance comes from the fact that “things that meant so much at the time mean nothing in the end” and the consequences of that fact coming to fruition. Such a consequence stems from only having access to one’s own mind--without communication, no one can know who or what other people consider important. Therefore, H’s solipsism and her isolation converge into a self-fulfilling prophecy.
As for what the line itself means, “Things”—as distinct from ‘people’—harbors an element of depersonalization in the word itself, showing how people are an afterthought to H. As a result, these objects “meant so much” insofar as they marked what H attempted to fill the void in her life after J's ‘abduction’ and the resulting isolation. However, that they meant “nothing in the end” states not only that the objects were hollow, but J as well since she didn't exist in real-life. That hollow quality failed to allay the storm in H's mind when it was preventable, so it won't at this moment of crisis.
Another inscrutable set of lines ends this particular verse: “Their function is dysfunction and to hide the truth/Distracted by their faith, ignoring every proof.” Beginning with the pronoun “Their,” it's a rare instance where that pronoun applies to the entire human race instead of the Visitors. In doing so, humanity is implicated by the maladies conveyed in phrases such as “function is dysfunction,” an extremely pessimistic view of humanity. Pessimistic because it denotes that—whether intra-personal, inter-personal, or to nature itself—humans are so much better at destroying than creating that fostering discord is the only thing our species is good for. Even if one considers such misanthropy a valid viewpoint, it undoes itself by H's phrasing of “and to hide the truth.” Considering that it's H's (by way of the J persona) mindset uttering these words, the “truth” involves the Visitors. Therefore, the hiding entails that world leaders know of the Visitors yet conceal their existence from the public—a train-of-thought right-at-home with H's fractured state-of-mind. Where this carries over into the next line isn't a coincidence since “Distracted” appears as the first word of said line. The same word was used in the missing person’s entry for Jane Rimer, which invoked the connotations of insanity regarding the stage direction in which this is applied to Ophelia in Shakespeare's Hamlet.[5] Of course, if H/J is aware of her own decline, this wording registers as hypocritical. However, the word “distracted” does—in its modern sense—tie into the album itself since modern culture operates at such a relentless pace that a precise focus on anything proves a daunting task. That it's apparently “their faith” which distracts humanity evokes connotations of extreme conviction and obsession. Since both qualities are exhibited in H, she's utilizing the J persona in an attempt to shift the blame to something other than herself. As a result, these words apply to H/J just as much as the humans she condemns, but she's too narcissistic to see her own flaws. Furthermore, since the J persona may be divine by way of the Visitors, this character flaw can be utilized as part of a Grand Inquisitor argument[6] in order to defuse the validity of H's theory of the Visitors. Moreover, H deflects the notions of her character flaws and shifts things back towards world leaders in the phrase “ignoring every proof.” Here, it's suggested that the political elite “hide the truth” out of a willing refusal of belief due to evidence of the contrary. However, that behavior's the same as that exhibited by H—who's too far gone to perceive that she's opting to ignore info that quashes the notion of the Visitors. Ironically, both conclusions are drawn by the “Reason” of different people.
Just as the Steven’s last line concludes, there’s a small flute solo from Theo Travis (at 0:59) that soon gives way to a lonely, isolated piano (at 1:13) playing in a time signature of 8/4—upon which Nick’s bass guitar finally enters the song. This forms the foundation for the chorus (at 1:27), where Steven takes on a more imagistic approach for the lyrics. Unlike much of the song, these lines (the closest thing “Ancestral” has to a chorus) use first-person pronouns. With this in mind, one can note a switch in perspective. If the rest of the song comes from the J persona speaking to H, than this section marks H's genuine voice—and given how fragile Steven's/Ninet's voice sounds delivering these lines, there's twin sensations of resignation and fear:
A bicycle.
A garden wall.
A mother’s call.
A love is born.
And after all the sleep that falls on me.
As for what these lines connote thematically, one should consider that four of these lines (“A bicycle/A garden wall/A mother's call/A love is born”) are highly imagistic and are delivered in a style resembling stream-of-consciousness while presenting a seemingly-unrelated set of items. In reality, these lines (while complex) aren't quite as difficult to parse as those of the first verse. Crucially, these items are various “things that meant so much” which didn't matter long-term. For instance, a “bicycle” marks a childhood source of joy that—considering how H doesn't seem like an exercise-heavy person—is also a relic of that childhood. In fact, this is the only mention of the bike in the entire Hand. Cannot. Erase. narrative since the handbook pages state that H walked with J “to Camden” by the time she was thirteen—this bike's a relic of a time before J was imagined by H. In one way, that this “meant nothing in the end” proves symbolic of the downward path which imagining J sent H hurtling down. Specifically, the health connotations of a “bicycle” provide a contrasting path—another one of the “hundred futures cascading out.” Such a contrasting view didn't become reality partly due to the “garden wall,” a symbol of mankind taming nature with structures, technology, and architecture. However, the concept of structure can also mirror that of a scheduled, orderly life. Unfortunately, this “meant nothing in the end” due to H's isolation, her internet addiction, her disillusionment with the world, and drinking the Kool-Aid of the Visitors. All of which also factor into “mother's call,” where the bonds of family are carried over from the memory depicted in “Transience.” Only for the inability to know another person's inner thoughts to foster the isolation, rendering it so this call “meant nothing in the end.” Where the concept of meaning falling apart hits a snag is via the phrase “A love is born.” At this juncture, the “love” undoubtedly pertains to the sisterly bond between H and J. For that to “mean nothing in the end” suggests two facets. First, there's H harboring a sense of bitterness over the ‘abduction,’ which can be used to link the idea found in Surrealist Art (from Deluxe Edition materials) that H blames the Visitors for not taking her with J. Alternatively, that this “love” meant “nothing in the end” amounts to H realizing the devastating impact that all her machinations—J, the Visitors, and the conspiracies regarding the missing persons—have essentially destroyed her life. The only problem is that, despite having an awareness that she must change her ways immediately, H feels it's far too late to turn back now. In fact, with the wording of this love having been “born,” there's a hint of Coleridge which factors into the picture:
“But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted/Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!/A savage place! as holy and enchanted/As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted/By woman wailing for her demon-lover!/And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,/As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,/A mighty fountain momently was forced:/Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst/Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,/Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:/And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever/It flung up momently the sacred river.” [Samuel Taylor Coleridge - “Kubla Khan”, 1798/1816, lines 12-24]
In reading this passage from “Kubla Khan,” one should consider that the poem itself is a metaphor for the imaginative process. Therefore, the sexually-charged imagery in this passage likens the creative process to a physical birth. How this links to the narrative of H is simple: J sprang from H's imagination in an inspired moment, much like the push of nature in the Coleridge poem. But the uncontrollable aspects of nature suggest that H's fate was sealed the moment she imagined J.
Following the list itself, their lasting effects are elucidated by means of this passage's concluding line: “And after all the sleep that falls on me.” Two different wordings of the phrase “after all the sleep” exist, but the primary one involves “after all, the sleep” (which is supported by how Steven and Ninet sing it), wherein any and all of H's efforts are rendered meaningless since the sleep still persists. With this meaning into the equation, sleep's likened to a dulled state-of-mind which befalls H in a passive manner since she's so dead-set on her obsessions that she physically can't stop. As for that this “falls” on H, that's H ascribing the passivity of action to nature. On one level, that contrasts with how humans need to act in order to function and survive. But on another, one can read that as H shifting the blame away from herself in order to make herself feel better.
Without a hitch, the second verse (at 1:43) segues into the 7/4 time signature from the previous verse—only now with Nick playing a steady bass line. However, Steven’s words are just as important:
In this city there are those that live alone.
Twilight brings them from the gloom into our homes.
And hiding there among the wreckage left behind,
They see things that haunt them when they close their eyes.
Pushing the second verse into motion is the line “In this city there are those that live alone.” Starting with “In,” there's the use of specific direction denoting that the isolated people in-question become—by blending in like a chameleon—as much a part of the setting as the architecture. This segues smoothly into “this city,” which—using passages from the blog entries and the first line of “My Book of Regrets”—refers to London. Which proves an apt choice since London (as a large city) remains easier to conceal anything in plain-sight than a medium-sized town with a close-knit community. But that ‘large city’ quality also implies that the name of the city is irrelevant compared to the fact that the bigger and more modernized the city is, the easier that the process of hiding becomes possible.
And then, there's the needlework present within the phrase “those that live alone.” From the reference to these people as “those,” recluses seem nameless, faceless, and devoid of identity—or have their identity so rooted in the setting that their own self dissolves. Moreover, the reflexivity of the language constitutes (on different levels) H attempting to justify this lifestyle and distance herself from it. For the former, it's the causal manner in which “those that live alone” emits from Steven's voice—almost as if H claims her isolation's no big deal. In the instance of the latter, the language itself doesn't directly place her among “those,” connoting an uneasiness in the situation.
Such a mental leap on J's behalf constitutes the train-of-thought powering the next line “Twilight brings them from the gloom into our homes.” Merely “Twilight” holds symbolic resonance insofar as the darkest moment of day is also the most effective at concealment. In such a consideration, the image of night also links to that of darkness, wherein there's symbolism associated with death, the hiding of metaphysical truth, and menace. The last of which probably stems from the social stigmas regarding isolation and mental health. Following that, “brings them” appears to offer more passive language only for a closer look to undercut that. Instead, it's that the “Twilight” coerces them to migrate. Regardless of what the “Twilight” represents, it's something worthy of fear.
Perhaps a reason for that fear's provided from the phrase “from the gloom into our homes.” Simply the word “gloom” evokes connotations of an Elliot-esque wasteland within the modern city insofar as it acts as an agent of slow-burning dehumanization. If a person has mental-health conditions, that dehumanization's exacerbated and possibly occurs faster. That's the very quality of “Twilight” which people fear—and exactly the same detail which renders “our homes” into a refuge from the city's desolation. Ironically, a stable home becomes the epicenter of H's purgatorial existence.
Further coloring the portrait of isolation as purgatory proves the modus operandi of the remaining half of the second verse: “And hiding there among the wreckage left behind,/They see things that aren't there when they close their eyes.” An opening phrase of “hiding there” reinforces the notion of “our homes” as a shelter from modernity's desolation while also conveying that the wasteland will run its course and go away. However, that latter notion's one borne of ignorance—the twin engines of modernity and progress won't stop or slow-down. From that oversight on H's part, one can conclude that her desire for abduction by the Visitors is partly delusional, partly Romantic (insofar as it's a wish to reunite with J), and partly a method to evade the clutches of modernity.
Aspects of the isolation are trickled out over the course of the phrase “among the wreckage left behind.” On its own, “among” entails that the isolated person (really H referring to herself without naming names) isn't of any more value to society than discarded rubbish. Instead, society has left them “behind” and stunted their growth so that they only know how to slowly kill themselves. Such a self-loathing assessment gains further traction via the language of “wreckage,” a word evocative of a broken machine.
But it's the final line of this verse (“They see things that aren't there when they close their eyes”) where H's mental collapse registers the clearest. Inaugurating matters with the ambiguous (since it's been ascribed to both humanity and the Visitors at various points of the narrative) pronoun “They,” H's declining mental-health becomes tied to the notion of the isolated—indicating that “They” refers to the humans in a reflexive manner. However, it's not much of a stretch from that to assume that H is now referring to herself under the guise of the group of prior abductees (found in Image 11 of the Surrealist Art Sketches from the Deluxe Edition). Judging from “see,” part of H's decline still remains entrenched in the media—since sight's a unit of sensory detail with over-emphasized importance in the generations since the advent of film. Regardless of the media's involvement, “things”—a word invoking a non-human quality—points towards the role of the Visitors in H's breakdown by referencing the visions of them and (by proxy) the people who invade H's apartment in certain passages of the blog entries. Additionally, “things” is a self-reflexive wording insofar as it applies towards H's self-perception at this point of the narrative. Once matters shift towards the fact that these things “aren't there,” there's a hint that the Visitors are an illusion—despite the concept that H may have inklings that what she wants to believe isn't true, the fervor of her desires outweigh evidence refuting them. More fuel to the 'Visitors aren't real' fire derives from the phrase “when they close their eyes.” Consider that H witnesses the Visitors most vividly are in dreams and nightmares, a detail supported by the instance in the blog (Entry 20) where the Visitors invade H's dreams. This also outlines another component of the obsessive focus H exhibits towards the Visitors: possible instances of psychosis. Which conveys that H stands right at the door of irreversible insanity.
Immediately following that last line, there’s an extended build-up section (at 2:09) which utilizes Nick’s bass riff from the verse as the glue while the programmed drums begin adding additional layers at a pace that’s blinding to many listeners. But the tension of this section falls squarely upon the layers of synthesizers, piano, mellotron, strings, and celesta which Adam and Steven add to the piece one-by-one. As more-and-more layers begin to pile up, one wonders how anything following this section can live up to the expectation set in the listener, but perhaps it doesn’t—and by forgoing that need to meet expectations, Steven manages to place the listener in H’s state-of-mind. Namely that with H’s unrealistic expectations for the Visitors destined to be dashed, the sonic anticlimax of how the build-up gives way to the last verse provides the embodiment of H facing bitter reality in a subtle manner. And like that, all this section’s grandeur meant nothing.
With a beep that sounds eerily like an EEG, the build-up gives way to Steven’s third and final verse (at 3:02), marking a shift back into 8/4 from the earlier chorus section. But that elongated time signature holds arguably the eight most important lines on the entire album:
Come back if you want to
And remember who you are.
But there’s nothing here for you, my dear,
And everything must pass.
When the world doesn’t want you,
It will never tell you why.
You can shut the door, but you can’t ignore
The crawl of your decline.
Just how the passage starts with minimal instrumentation and Steven howling “Come back if you want to” conveys that these words appear in arguably the most crucial verse of the entire album. With J assuming the voice of reason (in a setting where “Reason” remains a skewed quality), these words evoke the refusal of conformity found in Herman Melville’s short-story “Bartleby the Scrivener” (“I'd prefer not to.”)—a comparison particularly loaded since both H and Bartleby are dehumanized in their own settings. But of greater relevance is how the same line (“Come back if you want to”) appears in Entry 44, wherein it's followed up by “but no one ever does.” That construction indicates aspects of the Visitors (in H's mind) involving paradise and divinity. Furthermore, that construction accomplishes—by implying a refusal to return—the defusing of active language through the denial of action. As such, the utopia of the Visitors is posited as one which stems from inaction. Simply the fact that J relates this to H denotes that J's had extended time to drink the Visitor Kool-Aid. Because J's a persona of H, one can infer that H's belief in the Visitors remains unshakable.
That crucial difference between H and the J persona has been distinguishable up until the subsequent line: “And remember who you are.” With those five words, J directly insinuates that H has lost sight of her identity—an identity that (by proxy of the J persona) is partly connected to the Visitors. With this in-mind, the connections between H and J are so strong that there's a dark effect: the components of H's identity comprising H and J's personalities are converging with one another. As a result, an effect of H's decline is the erosion of her identity that's linked to her association with the Visitors.
Such an erosion ends up spun as a harbinger of change within the subsequent line: “But there's nothing here for you, my dear.” Introducing proceedings is the connective “But,” which serves to branch from the conclusions raised one line prior while setting up the rest of this line to refute earlier predictions. That process of refutation initiates via “there's nothing here,” wherein the conclusion is raised that the modern world, technology, and isolation formulate a vacant world incapable of building people up—a brutal decimation towards any metropolitan setting. That this line ends with “for you, my dear” removes all doubt that this entire section of lines are from J's perspective. For starters, the direct address of reverence isn't the type of language used by a young teenager. But more importantly, this phrase—when placed in conjunction with “there's nothing here”—registers as a lament that H can't quite leave this urban wasteland yet. Furthermore, by utilizing language similar to a line spoken from J's perspective in “First Regret/3 Years Older” (This place is not for you so why do you still stay?“), the album's opening becomes tied to its climax.
Such connections imbue “Ancestral” with a sense of finality, but a phrase like “And everything must pass” states that it won't end happily for anyone involved. That much is ascertainable from J applying an extremely-fatalistic viewpoint in order to shatter H's last line of defense in regards to her resolve to remain on Earth. Here, J's of questionable morality since she goads H into abandoning an idea. However, that's something H would gladly oblige towards so long as it brings the Visitors to abduct her.
Although the concept that J's a different person than H would be convenient, the phrase “When the world doesn't want you” involves a dismal sense of self-hatred on a cosmic scale which entails several aspects of H: the reflexive references to the self (itself a suggestion that J and H are the same person), the isolation, the social stigmatization, and the self-loathing. But the words themselves are dire insofar as they depict a new low which assume that the inability to befriend anyone results in a feeling that everyone's against you. As someone with ASD, this hits way too close-to-home since my own social isolation (as partly rooted in something unpredictable and innate) sometimes feels like I'm fighting a war that will overcome me at some point.
All of that falls apart even further via the phrase “it will never tell you why,” which presents something as even worse than the sense of being discarded from a large entity. That 'worse' thing is the coldness of a world which judges even the tiniest of actions without offering the opportunity to learn from errors and function in a healthy, productive manner—you're expected to know immediately with the precision of a master. That the world doesn't “tell you why” denies anyone from knowing their mistakes or to make up for them. This guarantees that the errors will occur again, that the person won't know they're in the wrong, and leave them walking on eggshells in a paranoid manner regarding their own actions and words. And that's another all-too-real feeling for me given that any silence lasting over a week from someone I deem a friend leaves me wondering whether—in my attempts to minimalize ASD's effects on my life—I did something wrong. So I end up stewing all the possible spots of a potential fuck-up whilst waiting on a word of what happened—leaving myself to assume the worst. I know I'm not broken, but in times like that, it can seem like I'm an irreparable machine waiting for demolition.
But as dire as that may be, this section's final duo of lines (“You can shut the door, but you can't ignore/The crawl of your decline”) haunt me, form a defining takeaway from J which might function as the album's moral, and comfort me whilst in the throes of sadness. From the line “You can shut the door, but you can't ignore,” there's a potential solution presented (“shut the door”) that's soon squashed via “but you can't ignore.” In this sense, the action of shutting “the door” only avoids the problem—allowing the passage of time to make matters worse. Such a dark view carries over into the line of “The crawl of your decline.” At this juncture, “crawl” denotes that any “decline” (whether mental, physical, spiritual, or emotional) operates at a snail's pace. Therefore, the “decline” begins undetectably and gradually envelops the sufferer. However, at this late stage of the game, this “decline” proves impossible to evade.
It's not much of an exaggeration to state that these lines—by providing a stark look at a potential future of mine—saved my life. Had I not heard these words back in 2015, I likely would have shunned the world like H in order to avoid feeling like a fuck-up. But H's way of life is no way to live—one needs self-control and socialization, even if (like me) you need to push yourself through each day.
Out of what seems like nowhere, a pummeling and cinematic bridge emerges (at 3:31) in a 4/4 time signature. Much of that cinematic quality owes a debt to the clanging-about of Marco’s live drums providing a Bonham-esque (especially the torrential rhythm of Led Zeppelin's "When The Levee Breaks") feel, but unfortunately (despite playing in-line with the guitars), Nick’s bass feels obscured. Likely because of the blend of melancholic mellotron and crushingly-heavy guitar which blankets the entire section, enveloping the listener like a cloud of smoke that embodies the weight of H’s depression and need for escape—it’s reached a violent, worrisome, and frightening endpoint. On top of all of this arrives the most-haunting aspect of the entire section—the song’s final major lyrics:
(Come child)
Come back if you want to [x2].
Come back.
These haunting harmonized chants of “Come child” that cycle in-and-out of each other act as a beckoning (especially with how the verb form of “Come” is used), but it's from the Visitor aspect of J inviting H to take the final step and prepare for abduction. For a reading of “child,” consider that H perceives that J's one of the Visitors now and that H believes the Visitors to hold powers of divinity and immortality. With this factored into the equation, “child” registers as the Visitor part of J looking down on the human species, which (in the J persona's view) is short-sighted to the point of absurdity and should be abandoned if possible. Such a conclusion indicates that the Visitors are synonymous with enlightenment. But this also creates a contradiction given that H believes that this development renders herself both deserving and unworthy of any 'redemption' offered by the Visitors. Also, that factors back into the Grand Inquisitor argument by implying that J was worthy of abduction by the Visitors since (as an imaginary being) she's an ideal image created by H.
Although the rest of this section consists of words and phrases which originated at earlier points of the song, two things imbue “if you want to” and Steven's final “Come back” with different significance than before: the section's musical intensity and Steven's vocal delivery of those phrases. In the instance of “if you want to,” there's the restrained, almost crooning vocal that's—when juxtaposed with a wall of sound—nearly imperceptible. That sonic detail conveys that any wish to return home gets canceled out by the splendor of what the Visitors promise. Such a delivery also implies the sentiment of “but no one ever does” (from Entry 44) so well that it can be left unsaid and register just as vividly. On another level, the delivery can connote J mocking the notion of returning.
Concluding matters with the final original lyric of “Come back,” there's the way Steven sings it—an anguished wail—just before Guthrie's guitar solo which allows quite a bit to interpret what warrants the wail. Ascertaining that requires one to consider how those two words (“Come back”) function both here and in earlier sections of the song. Recall how in the calm verse from earlier, the phrase “Come back if you want to” presented a utopia of the Visitors as one obtainable via H's inaction. Contrast that with the wall-of-sound beckoning that dominates the section of the song and one notices a progression from realization to acceptance. Therefore, that final wail (if it's from J's perspective) registers as something along the lines of “Dammit H, it's been so long. Please return to me.” However, if that wail's from the perspective of H, it's a little more complicated and multi-layered in meaning. First of all, that wail's a skyward scream pondering why H can't “Come back” to the Visitors—as if that's where she truly belongs and the human world's an irredeemable wasteland. Secondly, the wail conveys a wish for not only J to return to Earth, but for the times denoted in “Perfect Life” to return—an impossibility due to how time, experience, and the warping of memory mutate a person over a lifetime. Third, this wail marks H's final realization that her decline's irreversible and imminent—she can't “Come back” to anything in this world, so she's left to hope for a fantasy of the Visitors to take her away to a better world. And—on some level—she knows that they don't exist, but can't stop believing in this obsession since giving it up is tantamount to laying down to die.
Immediately following Steven’s final agonized howl of “Come back,” Guthrie launches (at 4:01) into an unbelievable guitar solo which—as the climax of the album—has to carry the emotional weight of an album loaded with motifs of isolation, escapism, mental illness, the dangers of technology, and conspiracy theories completely on its shoulders. Given that the instrumental backing’s largely the same as the bridge, Guthrie admittedly has an ideal rhythm to play on top of. And play he does—the emotional depth exhibited by the array of bends, quick runs, tone phrasings, and jazz-like improvisation which Guthrie manages to string together results in a solo that rivals “Drive Home” as the best one he’s ever played. Even if “Drive Home” has the better guitar solo, the one in “Ancestral” fits the song and album like a second skin. There’s no other sound more appropriate for the final self-destructive descent into madness for H—there’s screams of agony, bitter tears, emotional self-destruction, and reluctant resignation all baked into the note structure of what Guthrie plays. But the skillful backing—especially that of the mellotron and Marco’s bombastic drumming—appears to heighten the scope of every emotion which Guthrie elicits from his guitar. Without question, this moment serves as the album’s climactic moment.
Once the guitar solo winds down (at 5:02), the song returns to the “A bicycle….And after all, the sleet that falls on me” lines—except Ninet’s the one singing it this time. Much like when Steven sang these lines, there’s a fragility to how Ninet sings them. But it’s definitely a sense of fear much more than that of resignation.
Then, the instrumental jam begins (at 5:31) with a clean-toned guitar riff in a 7/4 time signature. Before the rest of the band joins in, there’s another cryptic sequence of numbers spoken—but this one I can’t make sense of what the fuck is being said. Even with isolated audio of the numbers, the overlapping layers are so thickly-dense that no one has decoded which layer says which number. If Steven’s to be believed, then this section of numbers (along with the one in “Regret #9”) hold the secret to cracking the Key of Skeleton. I’m all open for someone doing so….it just won’t be me.
Anyways, the numbers become drowned out once Marco’s drums re-enter (at 5:44) with rhythmic presses of the kick-pedal. Alongside this, Nick’s bass chugs along in lock-step synchronicity. This persists even when the guitar pattern goes through a key-change. All of this set up for the first section of the instrumental jam marks the calm just about to give way before the maelstrom of the second major part of the instrumental section arrives much later.
Once Marco finishes a drum fill, then the band fully-integrates itself (at 6:11) with Steven and Guthrie’s guitar riff. While inklings of celesta are discernible alongside the clean-toned guitar riff, what differs from this part and the last are Marco and Nick. In regards to Marco, it’s the usual on-the-dot precision with an off-kilter series of drum fills that one expects from him. Nick, however, has his bass turned up to overwhelmingly loud levels—he’s as prominent in the mix as Geddy Lee is on a Rush record. But the militaristic vibe from Marco’s drumming says something about H’s state—she’s at a march towards irreversible madness and there’s no stopping it now since H believes that the Visitors are just about to abduct her.
Just when one thought the jam was getting stale, it shifts (at 6:37) into a 4/4 time signature wherein all instruments drop out except for the clean-toned guitar, booming bass sustains, and a string section. In regards to the string section which hovers overhead, that marks the weakened sense of panic which H continuously ignores via numbing her emotions with prescription pills (see Entry 24), but the panic can return full-force now that (as of Entry 32) her body’s built up a tolerance to them. As for the clean-toned guitar riff, the detail that it’s now played in a different key indicates the heightened delusions of grandeur which fuel H’s march into insanity.
Once electric guitar crashes in (at 6:54), one notices that it plays a variant of the clean-toned guitar riff (from 6:11) while the mellotron continues to hover over the other instruments. Meanwhile, Nick’s occasional scale runs in this section allow him to stand out even further in the mix than before. All the while, Marco’s drumming—with a greater propensity for technically-demanding fills than anywhere in the song thus far—carries more bombast and weight to the hits. Every element of this permits us to infer that H’s efforts to barricade the storm from enacting her decline has utterly failed—everything’s unravelling around her at a rapid pace. Since she thinks it’s the Visitors coming to abduct her, she’s loving every minute of it.
As things wind down (at 7:46) from the sheer bombast, Nick and Marco revert to the earlier stripped-down rhythm (from 5:31). However, guitar completely drops out in favor of celesta playing the notes which comprised the clean-toned guitar riff. This section’s placement suggests that it’s one last push from H to attempt to calm herself for when the Visitors take her. Unfortunately, that’s not helped by the tension which the momentary silence (at 8:11) creates.
Upon the return of the instruments (at 8:13), the patterns played by them are striking in terms of meter and tempo. In terms of time signature, what’s played is an unusual mix of compound time. Technically, this section’s in 21/4, but it’s played in a way which suggests one measure of 7/4, a measure of 6/4, and a measure of 8/4. Such an uncommon cluster of time signatures (where the time signature changes every measure) conveys a jagged rhythm in H’s brain as it spirals into a final, decisive state of panic. This state of panic gains further credence from a subtle detail regarding tempo: that it gradually increases in tempo from 135 BPM to 160 BPM (much like an increasing heart-rate during stressful periods). In regards to the instrumentation, Nick’s higher-register bass and Marco’s high-energy drums appear first before Steven’s/Guthrie’s guitar emerges after a couple of revolutions, playing in lock-step with Nick’s bass. Marco’s drumming in this section appears to eschew a traditional rhythm—opting for improvisational soloing using the compound meter as a rubric to stay in-sync with the rest of the band. Towards the end of the section, a spine-chilling synth pad is ascertainable—indicating a suppressed sense of dread in H’s march towards insanity.
When the previous rhythm reaches its last revolution, the jam locks (at 9:22) into 8/4 for a few measures (but the last measure is in 10/4). During these measures, the synth pad from the previous section remains sustained until it becomes a droning pulse that threatens to devour the other instruments. As for Marco, his aggressive drumming rhythm in this section’s one commonly found in metal, but there’s a primal sense of fear found in how it’s devoid of his usual propensity for fills. In regards to Steven, Guthrie, and Nick, all three of them harmonize their instruments whilst playing the most metal-influenced riff on the entire album. It’s an angular beast of a riff which cuts all-the-more sharply for its elongated time signature of 8/4. This riff mars H’s last tenuous connection to her sanity and it’s one which undergoes a number of sonic permutations throughout the remainder of the song. Every one of these variations indicate something about H’s state-of-mind at that given moment.
Just as one thinks the song couldn’t get any more densely-packed, the transition (at 9:46) back into the earlier compound-meter rhythm (from 8:13) piles a wall-of-sound. Now a listener knows why Nick’s bass came in so loud earlier in the jam—so it could keep up with the layers-upon-layers of instrumentation that slowly get added upon the rhythms from here. For instance, Marco’s drums are now the most technically-demanding they’ve been on the entire record—matching the finesse he exhibited while playing parts from “Luminol,” “The Holy Drinker,” and “The Watchmaker” from The Raven That Refused to Sing (and Other Stories). And then there’s Guthrie’s additional layer of lead guitar—while in-sync with Steven’s rhythm guitar, dances up-and-down the scales, creating further musical tension.
That tension seems to cease (at 10:01) when the guitars cut off and the song reverts to a variant of the 8/4 rhythm found earlier (from 9:22). Further illustrating this effect is that Nick’s bass maintains a high-pitched pulse that corresponds with the rhythmic placement of the ascending notes of the guitar/bass riff found in the earlier section of 8/4. However, since that section was loud and this one’s quiet, it calls into question the nature of what makes H tense or afraid. Since while this section’s quiet, it’s still tense. That much remains clear from Marco’s rapid flurry of rhythmically-timed hi-hats and the chromatic-scale dread of Adam’s synth string setting. But Nick’s bass riff marks that even though this section marks a momentary reprieve, the mechanisms fueling H’s panic-induced march towards madness still persists and will finish the job sooner rather than later.
But soon enough (at 10:14), Marco’s drumming transitions into a rhythm that’s a cross between a standard beat and a marching beat—driving home the point that the continuous march isn’t stopping and that H’s permanent insanity’s right around the corner. Afterwards, one can hear a keyboard play with what sounds like a tape-delay effect, followed by intermittent poundings from Adam’s Fender Rhodes keyboard. All throughout this entire section, Nick’s bass maintains a driving pattern rooted in repetition, which marks how H’s orderly mannerisms (she did see a bit of herself in Madeline) end up undoing her. Also in this section, there’s a high-pitched droning of a string section which whines in the distance like the buzzing white-noise constantly in the back of H’s mind. Only now, it’s so much at the forefront that it’s unable to be ignored. Once Theo Travis’s flute re-emerges and plays a brief solo, one can notice an echo effect placed on it. Given one instance of the flute in a later section, Theo’s flute tends to stand for (in the jam) the voice of reason in H’s mind screaming out. Since this is the last quiet section of the song where Theo’s flute appears, it’s also the last time where the voice of reason has any chance to get through to H. However, the run of notes that Theo plays are as chaotic as this song’s structure seems to a first-time listener, so the voice of reason registers as just as panicked as H since it’s a part of H.
Soon enough (at 10:37), there’s the re-appearance of Steven’s clean-toned guitar riff (from 5:31)—albeit at a much-faster tempo. This demonstrates that a focus on the past was what fueled the obsession which led to H’s decline. Another musical element at play in this section comes from the detail that everyone—Marco, Adam, Nick, Steven, Guthrie, and Theo—begin a slow crescendo that mirrors the onset of the attack which results in H’s final break from reality.
That crescendo leads into a 7/4 variant (at 11:00) of an earlier pattern (from 9:46) of guitar/bass riffs. However, Marco’s drum parts differ from those found in the earlier section insofar as they utilize snare for more-abrasive drum fills which sound like an uncaged feral beast—appropriate since this section marks the victory of H’s desires over her sanity. That sanity has lost remains ascertainable from the barely-discernible flute soloing from Theo, whose words as voice of reason mean nothing to H anymore. Instead, the maelstrom molded by Steven, Guthrie, Nick, Marco, and Adam remains front-and-center since it’s rising and creating more-and-more layers.
Aside from the frightening ascent of a string section, the next portion of the song (at 11:41) offers the same 8/4 rhythm as an earlier section (from 9:22). However, that ascension in pitch from the strings section provides a subtle detail which ramps up the musical tension enough that one expects something to snap—it’s clear that it’s only a fickle amount of time until H finally snaps. That the heavy riff (from 9:46) re-emerges (at 12:04 constitutes one last hurrah before the final break arrives—perhaps a sigh of relief from H that the Visitors are finally abducting her.
Although the section which follows (at 12:19) seems like a repeat of an earlier rhythm (from 9:22), a closer look reveals subtle differences. Immediately discernible are Adam’s chords on his Fender Rhodes keyboard reverberating like a siren—perhaps the final warning H will ever receive, but one that falls on deaf ears. Another noticeable facet are the swelling mellotron strings which enter partway through the section—as if racing towards the final outcome in H’s break from reality. The entire time, the guitar/bass riff from Steven and Nick functions as a heart-racing signal of panic. Such a signal implies that H is weighing the options between the Visitors and Earth and doesn’t know which is worse—regardless of whether or not she’s remotely aware of her burgeoning insanity. Ultimately, H chooses the Visitors (and therefore madness), something detectable from the recurrence (at 12:42) of Guthrie’s earlier (from 9:46) jagged scale pattern.
Everything culminates (at 12:59) with a brief, unbridled display of musical violence where Steven’s guitar and Nick’s bass drop all restraint and play a constantly-ascending pattern of eighth-note scales which climax in a frightening crescendo that’s in-sync with the synth/mellotron/keyboard. This section also contains Marco’s most-furious barrage of snare, double-kick-pedal, crash-cymbal, and pulverizing tom fills. All of which constitutes the willful violence inherent to H’s severance from reality—it’s a deliberate call to hold her selfish desire (the Visitors and J) above all provable evidence to the contrary, regardless of personal cost to oneself. As a result, embracing the fantasy of J and the Visitors requires a total break from reality to which there’s no returning from—but H never wanted to return. Therefore, it’s not a stretch to suggest that the final crash cymbal syncs up to the exact moment where H’s sanity has a mortal wound inflicted upon it. I can’t say that the sanity is dead yet because there is one song left.
Following the final clang of Marco’s crash cymbal, there’s (at 13:05) a 4/4 ritardando (decrease in tempo) with only a clean-toned guitar. Curiously, the guitar plays what sounds like a predominantly major scale, but there are some notes that would also imply a minor scale—rendering things (in-context) a sensible paradox. In the case of the minor notes, there’s the implication that H does indeed go insane and perhaps she knows it in the back of her mind. However, the predominance of major notes suggest that H doesn’t see herself as insane. Instead, she believes that she’s just been abducted by the Visitors. Unfortunately, the Visitors don’t exist, J was never real, and no amount of wishing could have willed them into existence.
“Happy Returns/Ascendant Here On…” (7:54) [featuring Chad Wackerman [Frank Zappa, Allan Holdsworth] on drums, Dave Gregory on additional guitars, the Schola Cantorum of the Cardinal Vaughan Memorial School on choir, and the London Session Orchestra on strings]
Although “Ancestral” should serve as the album’s final track, “Happy Returns/Ascendant Here On…” occupies that role insofar as it’s the denouement to the narrative. Considering that H mentions a letter to her brother in the blog (Entry 36, dated December 21st, 2014) at an earlier date than the entries relevant to “Ancestral,” one can imply that “Happy Returns” isn't even directly from the perspective of H. Rather, it's indirect insofar as it's from the viewpoint of either the authorities or family members discovering and reading the letter after H's disappearance. However, there's a snag in that theory in the form of “Ascendant Here On...,” the album's outro which—by containing the “Perfect Life” motif—suggests that the song pertains to H writing the letter seen below.
Regardless, the more sober and less-challenging approach to the lyrics themselves convey that H's mental state isn't the same as it was in “Ancestral,” implying that this song occurs at an earlier time.
As for Entry 36, the way which it ends with “I realised there’s no point now” suggests that H never sent the letter out of a sense of hopelessness. Therefore, “Happy Returns” sits at the crossroads of what could've been a happy moment, but H's obsessions and neuroses won out and rendered everything into the anguish exhibited during “Ancestral.”
Even with the narrative of Hand. Cannot. Erase. in mind, the lyrics to “Happy Returns” contain a number of lines which pack an emotionally-potent punch towards anyone familiar with the Joyce Carol Vincent case. In that sense, the narrative and the inspiration for said narrative are blurring into one another—but the differences between H and JCV remain distinct enough that their identities don't converge.
“Happy Returns” begins (at 0:00) with the sounds of a thunderstorm, which serve to situate the scene of the night of H’s abduction. One curious detail emerges since the pulsing programmed synths found at the start of “First Regret/3 Years Older” fade-in slowly, giving the impression that they were part of the rain—a sign that the rain triggers H’s associative memory since it probably was also a rainy day whenever H wrote the letter. In that sense, the entire song registers as a stream-of-consciousness remembrance.
But it should be noted from the reprise of the “First Regret” motif on piano (at 0:26) that this remembrance is far from a happy one. Before Steven even says a word, the listener knows that they’re in for a sad time since the once-optimistic motif now sounds despairing despite using the same notes as before. That shift in mood partly stems from the thunderstorm and partly from the listener having known what’s occurred throughout the rest of the songs. And once the acoustic strum of a guitar arrives, the song becomes imbued with a sense of quiet finality—it won’t have the cinematic bombast of “Ancestral.” But since it marks the dashing of H’s final chance of recovery, there’s a sense that “Happy Returns/Ascendant Here On…” had to be the album’s final track—it provides the words and actions that guaranteed the decline that unfolded in “Ancestral.”
Steven’s distant “Na’s” (at 0:41) are more important than one initially realizes in situating the scene. From these “Na’s,” one can presume that the whole song occurs in a manner akin to that of Ambrose Bierce’s “An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge,” but instead of it involving the last seconds of a man being hung, it’s the final fractions of a second before H is rendered catatonically insane. Unlike Joyce Carol Vincent, H doesn’t die at this moment. However, since she’s in a state where she can’t take care of herself, it’s likely that she’ll die on her own of starvation of dehydration with no one to help her. These “Na’s” prepare that jump into memory (of which the verses are comprised) by prompting H with a final regret: that she never finished the letter from which the lyrics are derived. Furthermore, the opening chord progression of guitar (a rising sequence followed by a last falling chord) even reflects H’s hopes being dashed, something that’s bolstered by the moodiness of the piano chords.
The first set of lyrics which Steven sings in the opening verse (at 1:07) set the stage for exactly what’s going on:
Hey brother, happy returns.
It’s been a while now.
I bet you thought that I was dead.
But I’m still here, nothing’s changed.
H's wording of the first line (“Hey brother, happy returns”) offers the most casual display of language she's exhibited in the entire narrative. With the combination of close familial relations, apathy, and losing touch with both others and reality, there's those four ingredients which result in the breakdown of language. As a consequence, the informal “Hey” instead of “Hello” or “Dear” indicate an early stage of H's mental decline within the language itself. That the letter is directed towards her “brother” can be used to justify the informal tone, but the estrangement between the two undoes that. With that consideration, the letter constitutes H reaching out towards someone as a plea for help since she thinks that family of the same generation can do so. On one hand, this marks a tacit acknowledgement that J can't do that since she's not real. By attempting to connect with her estranged brother, H makes a last-ditch effort to connect with the world that sadly doesn't pan out. All of that makes the good-luck greeting of “happy returns” into tragic irony insofar as if the brother ever sees the letter, it'll be after H's disappearance. Therefore, the return will be anything but “happy.” Especially after the brother reads the notifications of the letter, where H (even without disclosing anything regarding the Visitors or J) spills her guts on her feelings—a discovery which would give the brother survivor's guilt over not helping his sister.
With this in mind, one would think that the contents of the letter show signs of the cracks in H's personality—and starting with “It's been a while now,” that's a correct guess. One such hole stems from “been a while,” an understatement which ends up escalating H's sense of detachment from every person on Earth. This also renders it more tragic that this letter's never sent. Further messing things up is the word “now,” ostensibly an attempt to resituate matters in the present moment. But also H trying to convince herself that the letter's goal (for a plea for help to be answered) can succeed. However, the fact that this letter's left unsent owes a debt to the severe self-hatred and lack of motivation inherent to H mental state—which only makes things devastating since she was right on the cusp of recovery.
Further nuggets of information regarding H's precarious mental state teases itself out via the line “I bet you thought that I was dead.” For instance, there's the accusatory statement of “bet you thought” that shows that—instead of the mores associated between family members—H's isolation has rendered her to treat everyone as if they're a stranger. In doing so, H appears to grossly underestimate how a caring family will react towards one of their own going missing. An example of the panicked state of concern which results from such a situation appears in the response from the brother of Sian Preston (in the Missing Persons articles). Part of such an underestimation stems from the selfishness implied by “I,” a quality that's darkly ironic since “Ancestral” demonstrates H's self as fractured beyond repair. Due to that fracturing, “dead” proves an apt word since—even though H survives until the end of the narrative—the divided state H's identity can amount to a death of the self. Even without that, the comparisons to H's existence and purgatory connote that even if she's not dead, she's not living life.
All of that should register as cause for concern, something which—judging from the lines “But I'm still here, nothing's changed./Nothing's changed”—H remains all-too-aware of since with the word “But,” she attempts to shift the conversation away from anything which elicits worry. This train-of-thought segues into “I'm still here,” a phrase that—on one level—marks a half-baked effort to claim that everything's hunky-dory. On an entirely different level, that same phrase invites implications of H's character stagnating by insinuating that she's the same as before. Unfortunately, this is a front to save face from her mental decline—which amounts to diminishment instead of stagnation. While on the topic of stagnation, another form of it involves H's obsession with the past via the memories involving J—a detail which can make “nothing's changed” a valid conclusion in one respect. However, that same obsession resulted in the mechanisms—such as the Visitors conspiracy theory—that plummeted her into mental freefall. Even with Steven's confident tone of voice when he sings the first “nothing's changed,” there's a concealed twinge of regret which H hides in order to leave a good impression on her brother. As for the second “Nothing's changed,” the expression in Steven's voice imbues it with a different feeling than the first—and therefore, this utterance holds a different meaning. While the first “nothing's changed” amounted to a mask that H utilized to give a good impression, the second “Nothing's changed” has a defeated tone of voice that conveys total regret. In this respect, the mask slips away from H just as she realizes the pointlessness of her endeavors. But she also realizes that's she's given enough rope to hang herself with—and that there's no one there to cut the rope if she screws up.
While the first verse still continues, the second half of that verse (at 1:32) contains a distant synth layer which drones at a high-pitch—marking that H’s time of reckoning approaches fast, regardless of if she’s finding refuge in her memories or not. This second half also has Steven skillfully use a metaphor which should be familiar to fans:
Hey brother, I’d love to tell you I’ve been busy,
But that would be a lie.
Cause the truth is
The years just pass like trains.
I wave, but they don’t slow down.
That knowing sense of failure pervades “Happy Returns” and ends the album on a sad note—but one with a poignant set of images presented in the lines which comprise the second half of the first verse: “Hey brother, I'd love to tell you I've been busy,/But that would be a lie./Cause the truth is/The years just pass like trains./I wave but they don't slow down./Don't slow down.” Kicking things off is the line “Hey brother, I'd love to tell you I've been busy,” where H's state of failure stares the listener directly in the face. For starters, “I'd love to tell you” offers a wording of what H wishes she could say that also suggests that she's aware of her failures, with the implication being that she knows the worthlessness of her obsessions and her actions. Such an unsettling idea renders “I've been busy” into a contradiction. Because—in a weird way—H has been busy with matters regarding the Visitors and the artwork of the Surrealist Sketches (found in the Deluxe Edition materials). However, the self-obsessed, outsider, and impractical nature of H's endeavors renders that “busy” state into a useless one. That worthlessness of inaction carries over into the self-lacerating tone of “But that would be a lie,” where H prohibits herself from any modicum of confidence—as if she's taken a long hard look in the mirror and realized that the obsession with the Visitors wasn't worth it.
Once H has addressed lies, it only seems a logical argument to progress into what comprises the truth. However, the way H utters “Cause the truth” insists that there's such a thing as objective truth. Just about the only ‘objective’ truth in existence is the simple fact that time passes. Everything else qualifies as subjective truth since it's a matter of perception, opinion, and the distortion of language altering how one interprets the world as a 'truth.' Therefore, to claim objective truth reeks of arrogance and/or narcissism, something which H has exhibited in the narrative. In this sense, H's attempts at reform remain punctuated by her old character flaws cropping up again.
As touched upon in “Transience,” trains are a frequent symbol in Steven's lyrics that stand in for the unceasing passage of time and for childhood nostalgia. And that's informed by his boyhood home being near a train station. But with the statement “The years just pass like trains,” there's a dark undercurrent linked to the fleeting notion of time and with H's own life. At this juncture, consider that H has essentially wasted her life and any promise she had on an obsession over an entity that most likely doesn't exist. That wasted time isn't coming back and now, she has diminished energy to focus on what matters. It goes even further with “I wave but they don't slow down,” where H's attempts to make things right are dashed due to the wasting of time. One can even construe that H's action of writing to her brother after so long is comparable to waving at a moving train and expecting it to “slow down.” Naturally-occurring forces have undermined H's effort to reconnect to reality, so her only recourse was the total dehumanization exhibited in “Ancestral.” Furthermore, there's the second use of “Don't slow down,” wherein Steven's tone of voice registers utter defeat with how quietly the words emit from his mouth. Just as though H has realized her greatest mistake far too late to do anything about it except succumb to the harvest she has already sown.
For the chorus (at 1:59), “Happy Returns” has a pleasant melody of “do’s” delivered in a McCartney-esque singing style while hopeful-sounding guitar chords ring out. The contrast between that and the despair of the verses offers something of note. That is that the wordless chorus—while pleasing to the ears—marks H's attempts to comfort herself and get herself through the day. In that sense, it indicates what a utopian setting the Visitors tempt H with. However, there's zero relevant substance to this comfort, which renders the choice to have a wordless chorus appropriate—all of H's attempts to make herself feel better fail because they involve separating herself from reality.
Steven’s second verse (at 2:27) marks the arrival of Chad Wackerman’s workmanlike drums—playing exactly what’s needed with as much (or as little) flash as the song requires. Additionally, the walking pattern of Nick’s bass follows the chord progression set in-place by the guitar. Like the first verse, this one’s also split into two segments. But the added instrumentation imbues this part of the song with a driving sense of urgency absent from earlier sections. Such an urgency’s also reflected in the greater prominence of a string section/mellotron playing the earlier synth drone (from 1:32), entailing that H’s undoing is fast-approaching and that she knows it’s coming, but views it as being abducted by the Visitors. As such, this verse denotes the moment where the cracks show themselves with such clarity that there’s no use trying to hide them:
Hey brother, I see the freaks and
Dispossessed on day release
Avoiding the police.
I feel I’m falling once again,
But now there’s no one left to catch me.
Once the presence of Chad Wackerman's drums arrive, the band launches immediately into the second verse, which begins “Hey brother, I see the freaks and/Dispossessed on day release/Avoiding the police.” These three lines evoke comparisons to the Joyce Carol Vincent case that are peppered throughout the rest of the lyrics, but it's not a 1:1 comparison between H and JCV. Beginning these references are “the freaks and/Dispossessed,” who are comparable to the drug addicts that frequented JCV's flat in Wood Green where she died. As for “on day release” and “Avoiding the police,” that's an accurate portrait of what these drug addicts are doing in and around the flat. However, the description of “freaks and/Dispossessed” can also apply to how H views herself—especially with the self-loathing qualities found in the earlier verses. That and the feeling of borrowed time from “on day release” might render “Happy Returns” into Steven's equivalent of Nine Inch Nails' “Hurt” (from The Downward Spiral), both in terms of placement on their respective albums and in the sheer despair peppered throughout both songs.
That despair escalates even further by means of the lines “I feel I'm falling once again,/But now there's no one left to catch me.” Judging from “feel,” there's the familiar thematic motif of the exterior body not matching the state of the interior mind—perception's a deceptive bastard at times. However, “falling once again” marks the one time in the narrative where H's instincts prove correct. Moreover, aside from a realization that she's in a hopeless situation, “once again” entails that she knows this feeling from experience. Although someone may have saved H in that earlier time, the amount of sabotage H has leveled towards any human contact ensures that “there's no one left to catch me.” In essence, all of H's inactions render her a victim of herself. Still, the fact that she attempted to reach out to her brother conveys that she doesn't want to fall any further and is desperate to get the help she thinks she needs.
But the song’s most devastating lyrics are those which Steven saves until (at 2:51) the harmonizations in the final half of the last verse:
Hey brother, I feel I’m living in parenthesis
And I’ve got trouble with the bills.
Do the kids remember me?
Well, I’ve got gifts for them
And for you much sorrow.
But I’m feeling kind of drowsy now,
So I’ll finish this tomorrow.
Within the first line, the hopelessness of the previous stanza boils towards a fever pitch via three words: “living in parenthesis.” To analyze just what H means by “living in parenthesis,” one must consider the grammatical function of a parenthesis—to add information that's not part of the subject. Therefore, to live “in parenthesis” conveys that H considers herself expendable from the lives of everyone who's ever known her. Furthermore, this state of “living” inside the parenthesis registers as ironic given that the bracket-esque design of a parenthesis implies a confinement—H is symbolically trapped by her own irrelevance. Such an irrelevance that stems from a sentiment which indicates that removing herself from everyone's lives—whether via isolation, suicide, or other causes)—makes zero difference to the world at large.
Such a state of irrelevance and self-loathing extends towards the line “And I got trouble with the bills.” Money management is usually perceived as a sign of success and/or functionality—to have “trouble with the bills” illustrates that a lack of functionality constitutes one source of the self-loathing and insecurities raised by “living in parenthesis.” Additionally, this phrase forms parallels to Joyce Carol Vincent who—after quitting her job in 2001—was having half her bills paid off, only racking up a bill after her death.
Further illustrating the feelings of irrelevance which H harbors comes the line “Do the kids remember me?” To ask that question at all denotes the extent of H's isolation from her family and that time doesn't wait until a person's ready. These “kids” in question (H's nieces and nephews) were ones which (in Entry 36) H mentions that she hadn't seen in four years, but they were too young to know who H was at that time. So the answer to this question of whether “the kids remember me?” is a resounding ‘no.’
Following up this question is a last-ditch attempt at kindness of “Well, I got gifts for them.” Although the informal “Well” can convey a warning sign of H's mental collapse, the more pertinent bit of information stems from the “gifts.” This one's another parallel to Joyce Carol Vincent's life, but it refers to her death. Namely that when JCV's badly-decomposed remains were discovered, they were surrounded by partially-wrapped Christmas presents that never got sent out.
Although rotting around a set of partly-wrapped presents isn't the final fate of H, the line “And for you much sorrow” holds some unpleasant connotations. Particularly insofar as “sorrow” (when used to continue off the thread of possession entailed by “got”) implies that H is fully-aware that she won't see anyone in her family again. Perhaps she's even aware that the self-doubt within her brain will win out, leaving this letter unsent.
If that weren't enough, the final words of the album (“But I'm feeling kind of drowsy now/So I'll finish this tomorrow”) offer zero guarantee as to what transpires. In many ways, it's not necessary to know all the details given the degree of inferences which are ascertainable from the breadcrumbs left from the lyrics, the Deluxe Edition materials, and the blog. However, the ‘ending in mid-air’ characteristic will bother some since there's no closure to this story. Instead, we're rendered just as much of an observer of the ensuing events as H's own family. Via a ‘what could have been’ moment of a letter that's destined to remain unfinished, everything we know about H becomes crystal-clear and that her own personality was destined to end in ruin—the modern-day trappings only acted as a conduit to that maladaptive personality.
In lieu of a second chorus, this second verse segues (at 3:18) into an instrumental bridge which denotes the passage of time and launches the listener (and H) to the moment just after the final chord of “Ancestral,” where the final chorus picks up. As for the music in the bridge itself, the rhythm section of Chad and Nick constitute a steady pulse that gives this rhythm section a connection to the second verse—all these events and times are part of H’s mind and are associated in similarities. As for the mellotron, its tones cast a veil over this section as it gradually ascends in pitch, imbuing the section (and H’s character arc) with the air of a Greek tragedy. Fitting since all of H’s misfortunes are indebted to a flaw in her character—if it wasn’t a combination of big cities, isolation, and the Internet that destroyed H, something else would have. Meanwhile, Steven’s/Guthrie’s mournful layers of guitar appear circular, suggesting that H has always been trapped in the same holding patterns even in moments when they undo her (such as giving up the letter). As a result, she’s been silently stewing over and cursing herself (over the course of the entire song) that she didn’t the letter—perhaps if she did, the back of her mind feels as if she could’ve been saved had she reached out for help. However, the final harmonization between guitar and the string section denote a bitter, resigned acceptance of her current situation—almost as if were fate ascribed to her character flaws.
Following the bridge, the song gives way to a second chorus (at 4:10). Only this time, it’s a harmonized section of the familiar “do’s” which stack on top of each other until they build up towards a violent storm. Here, the time has jumped until just after the events of “Ancestral” and once the harmonies kick in, there’s the sense that H imagines the Visitor’s spacecraft directly over her—seconds away from abducting her. Of course, we know H is really going insane, but that’s not what H thinks. That H thinks she’s about to be abducted is supported by the presence of a stray “Yay” from Steven (although you do need good headphones to hear it) just before the guitar solos (one by Steven and one by Guthrie). One may think that the “Yay” was an accident or a mistake, but given the layers of deliberate, carefully-crafted detail which Steven likes to put into his music, I highly doubt that he’d leave a flub in there on purpose. Instead, the “Yay” marks H’s final break from reality—at the exact moment that she believes she can see the Visitors about to abduct her.
Instants after the “Yay,” Steven begins (at 4:52) a slow, melodic guitar solo which entails H’s unconscious mind exercising its last resistance at H’s final fate. To contrast, Guthrie’s guitar solo (at 5:18) abandons any sense of restraint and sounds as ecstatic as it does melancholic—and both of those qualities are deliberate. For ecstasy, H’s joy that the Visitors are moments from taking her is conveyed. Through aspects of melancholy, there’s an unconscious awareness that insanity is also moments away. The latter suggests that remaining latched onto the self-devised fiction of the Visitors was a way for H to render her burgeoning insanity manageable. With this in mind, there’s a reason provided as to why H never sent the letter: she suspected that no one could help her. In this regard, the regret of not sending the letter’s due to wondering if her suspicion was mistaken. With the final note of Guthrie’s guitar solo (a descending-pitch sustain), it’s distinguished that H (in her imagination) is being picked up by the tractor beam of the Visitors. Furthermore, the presence of choral harmonies and bombastic strings throughout Guthrie’s guitar solo denote that H accepts her fate and finds some peace at the thought—her comfortability with the Visitors and/or insanity marks the final repudiations of both the world and reality.
As Guthrie’s guitar solo ends, the “Ascendant Here On….” section (an outro track) begins (at 5:49). Although it’s—in some respects—a sound collage moreso than an actual song, it ends the album on an ambiguous note with sounds that warrant a closer look. This track contains three sonic elements which bear an extensive analysis: rain, the sounds of children playing, a variant of the “Perfect Life” motif played by piano (and sung by a boy’s choir),
Beginning with the rain, there’s not symbolic resonance to this rain in a literary sense. In fact, the fact that it’s actually raining alone is relevant since it creates a sense of synchronicity with the thunderstorm in the intro. With the ending of the album denoting H’s collapse into insanity, rain becomes the last sound on the album and the only thing the listener hears after H’s ‘abduction.’ Considering that in mind, the rain connotes that even if H is alive, the H we knew before she lost her mind isn’t alive anymore—she’s in the insanity-induced land of the Visitors now. Since listeners are tethered to the real world, we can’t follow H any further.
A second set of sounds—that of indistinct chatter and the playing of children—proves multi-layered in meaning. At face value, this is a nostalgic memory of H and J playing as children. On another level, one considers that H’s memories of J stem from when she was a child. With this consideration, it’s conveyed that H’s brand of insanity amounts to a form of infantilization—a dark suggestion which entails that H has become completely helpless. Furthermore, these voices can (in H’s mind) belong to the people (see Surrealist Artwork 11) she believes were abducted by the Visitors—implying that they underwent the same process of insanity and infantilization. Which proves a dark path that H—by virtue of being too far gone—can no longer discern.
In fact, H is so far gone that the sounds of the “Perfect Life” motif (on piano and choral voices) takes on a macabre significance. At this juncture, H believes that—in her madness—she’s reunited with J, a person that only ever existed in her imagination. Which reinforces the notion that H finds peace in insanity. When or if the letter’s found by police or her family, a catatonically-insane or dead H will be next to it.
Final Thoughts:
From the opening notes of “First Regret/3 Years Older” to the final drops of rain in “Happy Returns/Ascendant Here On…,” Hand. Cannot. Erase. is essential Steven Wilson. Although it’s his most thematically-complex album, its sonic brilliance integrates influences a number of genres—ambient, electronic, rock, metal, progressive rock, pop, folk, industrial, and jazz—into one that’s also emotionally-resonant for a first-time listen. Despite the amount of outside materials, Hand. Cannot. Erase. functions as one of Steven’s most accessible collection of songs up to this point of his career—there are enough materials in the core of the album to find enjoyment of. That all the outside materials craft a new understanding of the album that’s equally-valid to that of a casual listener speaks volumes to Steven’s brilliance: he knew that people would interpret his music and lyrics into several different ways, so he designed the album’s concept with that state of ambiguity in-mind. That many of the album’s questions remain unanswerable ensures that Hand. Cannot. Erase. will remain an important, groundbreaking, and relevant album for years—if not decades—to come. It wouldn’t be a surprise if this ends up serving as the benchmark to which any future Steven Wilson album is judged: warranting claims of ‘his best since Hand. Cannot. Erase.’ from some reviewers in the future. Frankly, I expect this to appear on future lists of ‘500 greatest albums ever’ from publications. And I don’t say that because Steven’s white…I say that because the themes which Steven latches onto and articulates were relevant when the album dropped in 2015, remain relevant now, and will likely remain relevant in the future
Musically, Hand. Cannot. Erase. finds Steven (with the same line-up as The Raven That Refused to Sing (and Other Stories)) exploring new sonic territory. Tracks like “Hand Cannot Erase,” “Perfect Life,” and “Routine” are his most 80’s pop-influenced (namely Kate Bush, Phil Collins, Tears for Fears, and Peter Gabriel) songs up to this point—a direction he’d delve into further on To The Bone. Meanwhile, “Ancestral,” “Home Invasion/Regret #9,” and “First Regret/3 Years Older” all stretch past the ten-minute mark and contain some of Steven’s most complex and distinctive arrangements to date. All of this is coated in a feeling (imbued by the production) that’s as modern as The Raven That Refused to Sing (and Other Stories) was rustic—perfectly in-keeping with the contemporary issues that Steven raises in the lyrics.
Speaking of lyrics, Hand. Cannot. Erase. usually ends up being one of the first places I send people to whenever I’m asked for great lyrics that Steven has written. And that’s because I feel this is (along with The Raven That Refused to Sing (and Other Stories)) one of Steven’s strongest albums in terms of well-written lyrics. From lines such as “With a hundred futures cascading out” creating an abstract-yet-vivid image, one of Steven’s strengths is to make the abstract tangible. And any lyricist that works in a word like “sinecure” without coming across as forcing the word in (I legit heard it the line as “silly cure you’ve gone and played” the first time hearing the album). Besides that, there are moments in “Routine,” “Ancestral,” and “Happy Returns/Ascendant Here On…” which hit me as hard as they did when I first heard the album—and I’ve heard Hand. Cannot. Erase. more times than I can count.
Conceptually, the basis on Joyce Carol Vincent struck a chord with me the first time hearing the album. As a socially-awkward mildly-autistic twenty-year-old (when the album first came out), the entire story frightened me and led me to believe that I could end up just like Joyce if I didn’t push myself further—socially, academically, and personally. That may sound like I’m forsaking aspects of my mild-autism, but I feel it’s more good than bad.
Upon learning the elaborate story behind H, there were moments where I broke down crying because I felt that I had more in-common with H more than is healthy. That’s not to say that H exhibits signs of autism in the narrative, but that the narrative itself is one that a mild-autistic can find an extreme sense of empathy with. Steven himself (at a concert at the Royal Albert Hall in March 2018) stated before the two encores something of note:
“We have two more songs for you. The first is miserable, but with a sing-along chorus. The second is just miserable, but hopefully rather uplifting in a sick kind of way.”
Despite the latter song being “The Raven That Refused to Sing” (the first was “The Sound of Muzak”), I feel as though that comment is applicable towards the entirety of Hand. Cannot. Erase. Yes, the album’s narrative is depressing no matter how one interprets the ending. But that narrative also functions as a cautionary moral—made all-the-more effective by Steven not beating the moral over one’s head with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
I love this album like very few others in Steven’s entire oeuvere. Whenever I reviewed In Absentia, I stated that there was one album which matched it in front-to-back greatness. To give you a sense of how Hand. Cannot. Erase. has grown on me since that earlier review (back in July), Hand. Cannot. Erase. now ranks among my Top Three favorite albums of all-time—and the people who made the other two are both dead. Granted, I don’t know how it will stack against albums such as Storm Corrosion’s self-titled or the last three No-Man albums—but Hand. Cannot. Erase. stands as Steven Wilson’s magnum opus. And it will likely only be succeeded by something Steven churns out in the future.
Endnotes:
[1] Butterfly Effect: the idea that small causes may have large effects in general; In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state; the term, coined by Edward Lorenz, is derived from the metaphorical example of the details of a tornado (the exact time of formation, the exact path taken) being influenced by minor perturbations such as the flapping of the wings of a distant butterfly several weeks earlier. Lorenz discovered the effect when he observed that runs of his weather model with initial condition data that was rounded in a seemingly inconsequential manner would fail to reproduce the results of runs with the unrounded initial condition data.
[2] Nine Inch Nails' “This Isn't the Place”: track 3 from 2017's Add Violence, the middle part of NIN's EP trilogy (from 2016-2018) that marks some of Trent Reznor's greatest music in a decade. This track in particular was one which Trent stated (before playing it at a concert) was (lyrically) a reaction to the death of his friend, David Bowie.
[3] Benjy Compson: the mentally-disabled fourth Compson child whose stream-of-consciousness narrative (which takes up the first quarter of the novel) abruptly jumps around in time whenever italics are involved; William Faulkner: American author (1897-1962) noted for The Sound and the Fury, As I Lay Dying, Absalom, Absalom!, Light In August, and several other novels set in the fictional American South county of Yoknapatawpha; The Sound and the Fury: 1929 novel concerning the fall of a once-prosperous Southern family…often deemed Faulkner’s masterpiece, but a challenging read….in 1998, Modern Library ranked it #6 on a list of the 100 greatest English-language novels of the 20th century.
[4] Porcupine Tree's “Trains”: track two on their seventh album, 2002's In Absentia.
[5] Shakespeare, Hamlet (IV, v, line 20 s.d): “Enter Ophelia [distracted]”
[6] Grand Inquisitor argument: Taken from Book V, Chapter 5 of Fyodor Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov (published 1880), a Grand Inquisitor argument posits that because Jesus was the Son of God, he was technically a demigod. Therefore, to hold all human beings to the same bar as Christ isn't fair since few—if any—can live up to what seems like a rigged contest.
Note on future reviews:
I'm going to have to take a break from Steven Wilson for a little while. This review took so much out of me that it's clear that I've pushed the analysis on Steven as far as it will go--throughout November, I wrote enough words on Hand. Cannot. Erase. across all three blog entries to qualify for the word count of NaNiWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, for those unfamiliar). The word document for the Hand. Cannot. Erase. analysis/review totals over 100 pages.
I do plan on eventually returning to Steven Wilson, but with how long this review took and how wordy it gets (Part 1 is so large that my browser crashes whenever I try to edit it on Wix), I need to focus on other artists. The two in-question being David Bowie (starting in early January) and Tom Petty. I've put the NIN discography on hold for a good-reason: so that Bowie's 90's output and NIN's 90's output can be done in tandem--those two artists did frequently collaborate with each other. As for Bowie and Petty, those two discographies will be an effort on me to streamline my review process so that it doesn't take as long to write yet has material which I'm proud of. I'm going to need that since the start of 2019 will have some of my effort focused on working--either with actual writing or part-time work.