CD Review: Marillion - Sounds That Can’t Be Made
Eagle Rock Entertainment/earMusic (Edel)
All Access Review: A-
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| Marillion - Sounds That Can't Be Made 2012 |
Trapped in a war-torn land with little reason to expect a
lasting peace anytime soon, the people of Gaza have endured unimaginable
tragedy and hardship, and a song – no matter how idealistic – isn’t likely to
change their horrible circumstances. Having seen up close what they’ve been
through in visits to refugee camps in the region and talking to those hardest
hit by the violence on both sides, Steve Hogarth has responded by writing a
provocative and moving testimonial of their plight in “Gaza,” the widescreen,
richly textured opener to Marillion’s lushly melodic and deeply soulful 17th
album, Sounds That Can’t Be Made. He
figures to get an earful from Israeli sympathizers, no matter how noble his
intentions.
Attempting to head off a vitriolic sand storm of criticism
that’s sure to come his way, Hogarth writes a disclaimer in the liner notes to
the LP, stating, “It was not my/our intention to smear the Jewish faith or
people,” and adding “ … nothing here is intended to show sympathy for acts of
violence, whatever the motivation.” Motivated purely by a desire for a
resolution that will halt the senseless cycles of destruction and devastation
in the region, Hogarth doesn’t assign blame in “Gaza,” even if militaristic
elements may find the “Gaza” lyric “ … peace won’t come from standing on our
necks” a direct attack on their policies of aggression. Ultimately, though,
“Gaza” is really a distress call, ending with the jarring plea, “someday
someone must surely help us …” Nobody is sending the cavalry just yet.
Overshadowing all that comes after it, the 17:30 “Gaza”
perfectly captures – in exquisitely descriptive language – the mystery, the desperate
mood and the bruised spirit of a place Westerners know so little about. In an attempt
to demystify this part of the world and its conflicts, “Gaza” speaks in relatable
and personal terms of lost innocence and quiet resignation, while also talking of
death and destruction on both a massive and intimate level. Reminiscent of
Genesis, though more global in its thinking, “Gaza” is art rock spread across a
massive canvas and painted in sumptuous colors. This labyrinthine citadel of
angry dissonance and menacing danger, of exotic Middle Eastern sounds and luxurious
production, and undying optimism is not only ambitious in scope, but it’s also
purposeful and full of humanity, its myriad perspectives and tense scenes expressed
in movements as different from one another as the fighting factions themselves.
Where outbursts of noisy, scratching guitar shatter any sense of calm, passages
of breathtaking beauty are sure to follow, as marching, indignant declarations
of crimes against humanity are transformed by sweeping strings and piano as
lonely as a lost Bedouin tribe, as beautiful supplications are carried on
hopeful synthesizers and flights of Steve Rothary’s finessed guitar soar into the cool
desert night amid somber reflections. And it’s all interconnected in a puzzle-like
arrangement that defies logic. Maybe it won’t affect policy, but “Gaza” does
give voice – and an eloquent one at that – to the fearful and the scarred, who
often suffer in silence as bombs drown out their pleas for an end to war. At
the very least, Hogarth is sincerely affected by the situation and doing his
part to rectify it.
If the stylish Sounds
That Can’t Be Made, one of the warmest and most inviting records of their career, ended then and there, Marillion could walk away satisfied, but the band that
spearheaded the neo-progressive movement in the U.K. in the early 1980s is only
just beginning its journey. Next stop, the realm of British dream pop,
inhabited by the likes of Elbow and Doves, who have clearly influenced the
direction of the incandescent, life-affirming title track, the touching closer “The
Sky Above the Rain” and the majestic “Power.” Intoxicatingly soulful and jazzy,
“Pour My Love” is a sophisticated snifter of sonic brandy that should be
savored, while the travelogue “Montreal,” a meditation on distance, and all its
clever little melodic twists is 13:58 of nostalgic longing, exhaustion and
ennui. All of it, however, pales in comparison to the truly affecting and
uplifting “Invisible Ink,” with its radiant flash pot of a chorus and its twinkling melody – it’s
as lovely a song as Marillion have ever constructed, even if it does fly a bit too closely to the sun of Doves' "Pounding."
So, as Fish does his thing, his former band slips ever so
gently into a phase of life diagnosed as “adult contemporary,” and Sounds That Can’t Be Made is a remarkably quiet,
subdued affair, with the exception of “Gaza” and its brief eruptions of King
Crimson heaviness and harsh thrashing. Don’t make the mistake, though, of
thinking that Marillion has lost the ability to keep things interesting. With their
hearts in the right place and their collective intellect as curious and
impassioned as ever, Marillion will keep hunting for those sounds that
allegedly cannot be made, and someday they may just find them.
