16 May 2006

5 A.M.

I harshly and suddenly woke from a dream at 5 AM by a thunderclap signaling the oncoming apocalypse. This wasn’t simply God bowling his strikes, rather the Almighty had decided to completely demolish the entire bowling alley with pins, balls and vending machines complete with unwinable trinkets that truly have no place in Paradise still inside. This happened directly above my house.

By the time my breathing got under control and the coolness of my skin warmed with the beaded perspiration, the awareness that the end of the world was not upon us just yet slowly rolled to the surface of my consciousness like a wobbly gutter ball moves with lackadaisical determination towards its final destination. It was still 5 AM. Plus eight minutes. I would be pounding the clock/radio silent in another 90 minutes. It would ignore my pleads, beckoning me to arise and prepare for an 8 AM conference call to Toronto. But seeing as how I am presently awake, and the rain showering on my roof is certainly not contributing to the pleasant return to sleep, I move forward.

My legs swing off the mattress and I smile inwardly with the smallest sense of satisfaction that I have beaten the radio, at least for this morning. Its commands will go unheeded today; the impotence of its digital display no longer necessary.

The remainder of the early morning passes without much significance. Shower. Coffee. A weary treading of footfalls. Sometime in-between, the rain stops and the sun does its best to try to break through the cloud cover. What rays that do penetrate accentuate the greenness that abounds in the aftermath of a spring storm. The azure leaves on the hickory tree stand out vividly against the slowly-breaking grey sky.

But I have no time for beauty. I cannot allow my mind to drift before the caffeine releases the racehorses of my synapses from their starting gate. The wetness in the atmosphere hangs equally heavy with the thoughts of the day before me. Toronto this morning, California at lunch where the day’s sun is still new, New York this afternoon. My company’s phone bill lights up like a North American passport. Most use the stillness of the morning to begin their day with calm reflection. I use this break to debate calling in sick, ignoring all responsibilities that have become accustomed to this adult life.

The sky is quiet now. God’s obviously taking a coffee break reading the Washington Post with a Boston crème because He obviously doesn’t need to watch the calories. And with the end-of-the-world obviously on hold, I boot up my iMac and get to work because, after all, there’s much to do.


As Always,
theJOE

01 May 2006

Marillion

The latest version of iChat allows the user to broadcast their current iTunes track, a nifty little app that allows other iChat (or higher end IM users) participants to get a little insight as to what you are doing or what you are listening to. Plus, this is simply a great way to proudly show off your snobbish tastes in music to those who are deemed less-enlightened.

My best friend, Scott, doesn’t have iChat, nor is he allowed to use an IM program in his workplace. Instead, he emails a network of people a list of whatever tune he is bopping around to in hopes that this happy vibe is picked up on and continued.

A number of these recent emails have been directed around the Scottish prog-rock band, Marillion. Marillion never hit it big in the States (only 1985’s Misplaced Childhood had two singles chart in the US, “Kayleigh” and “Lavender”), but had a fair-sized and committed fan base here whose fanatical ways could almost be considered cultish. For a while in college, I was such a member. But not any longer.

Scott was responsible for the initial Marillion introduction, but I didn’t immediately jump on-board like I was doing with other such new found discoveries; after just sampling Dream Theater, as an example, I bought their current discography as quickly as possible. At the time, Marillion’s original lead singer, Fish, got fed up with the group and their label and struck off on a solo career only to be replaced by Steve Hogarth, whose somewhat effeminate ways that were oh-so stylish at first became more and more annoying as the Century concluded. I thought Fish sounded like a Peter Gabriel knock-off (and he did, but unlike Hogarth, as the Century ended I gained a deeper respect Fish) and Hogarth’s Marillion tended to be a little quieter, kind of in a similar manner as how Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe is quieter to the balls-out rock Yes presented during the early Trevor Rabin years. But after a while, much like drinking bad diner coffee, the saturation set in.

The end of Fish’s career and Hogarth’s first two releases were the prime recording years of the band, in my mind as a fan anyway (1984’s Fugazi, 1985’s Misplaced Childhood, 1987’s Clutching At Straws, 1989’s Season’s End, 1991’s Holidays In Eden ). They maintained a hip progressive status by allowing those four or five releases to maintain a loose theme, mixed up the ballads with the rockers, varied the length of songs from 11-minute epics to two-and-a-half radio cuts and came across as artsy, haunting, raw and silly with their lyrics.

What especially made it fun to be a fan in the early 90s were their occasional US tours. The band solidly understood that without these passionate fans their US sales would be a lot worse, so they eagerly did meet-and-greets sometimes before, but mostly after, their shows. They listened, shook hands, signed autographs and eagerly accepted alcohol. Often times their shows would feature little surprises in the set list. My knowledge of their library was growing but still limited when compared to Marillion long-timers, known as “Freaks” taken from one of their lyrics, “All the best freaks are here” - or at least I called them freaks. I also call my motorcycle-riding, volunteer firefighter neighbors freaks as well, so that title might not be considered canon. Still, it was that unexpected element, that possibility of that one gem heard live, that certainly keep the crowd interested.

Their future releases, unfortunately, became significantly uninteresting.

After two efforts, it was as if Steve Hogarth played artistic traffic cop and purposefully directed Marillion’s efforts away from anything remotely related to a Fish-y progression. After all, such an endeavor worked for Van Halen. Right?! Hmmm, next question please.

Alright then, how about this one: why did Marillion move away from foot-tappin’, moody, memorable Prog Rock and embrace a much-more obtuse and significantly more moody style of Prog-Rock?

Two easy answers. The first, obviously, being that all music is subjective to the listener. Not being much of a blues fan, I can honestly say that I never got personal enjoyment from Stevie Ray Vaughn’s music. I would have been kicked out the local record exchange if the guys there ever knew that. But then MP3s kinda kicked out the local record exchanges, so my secret is safe.

Answer number 2. Maybe Marillion understood that Prog Rock was dying quicker than the memory of gas prices falling under a buck. Maybe they wanted to truly embrace that indie spirit and make music that could not fully be classified into one genre.

Another answer exists that is just as easy. Maybe my own tastes changed. Maybe as I got more into classical, jazz, electronica and instrumental scores I cared less and less for this new alternative, this new direction, a band was taking.

1994 saw the release of Brave, a morose concept album that just didn’t have sustaining power. Brave, however, did have one treasure – the love ballad “Made Again”. This was one of those truly beautiful songs that you would sing to your wife on your wedding date, even though I did not.

After Brave, the band put out their last great work, 1995’s Afraid Of Sunlight. Truly progressive and filled with atmospheric works that harkened back to Fish’s time without being derivative. Unfortunately, this trend would not last.

By the time This Strange Engine and Radiation were released (1997, 1998) I was out. Gone. Vanished like a puff of smoke ala Keyser Soze. I listened to tracks that Scott threw at me. I eventually threw them back. Scott, like the loyal friend he is, remained loyal to the band much longer than my scant 6 years. However, he too, rode off into the wind sometime after the Century mark.

Scott stills likes from time-to-time to, as the Boss commands, capture a little of the glory of. For this rocker though, well time slips away and leaves you with nothing mister but boring stories.

Here’s hoping this wasn’t one of them. And no, I'm not signing off with a Marillion lyric either.


As Always,
theJOE