Porcupine Tree – Signify

30 September 1996

Waiting, May 1996
2-CD edition, July 2003
Remastered 2-LP edition, May 2004
Delerium Years remaster, 2017

“You’ve just had a heavy session of electroshock therapy, and you’re more relaxed than you’ve been in weeks! All those childhood traumas magically wiped away, along with most of your personality!”

“The brainwashed do not know they are brainwashed.”

You’re Not As Messed Up As You Think You Are

I was brought up evangelical. Like most people who were brought up evangelical, after a certain point you realize that no God worth worshipping would mandate the brainwashing/oppression/extermination of queer people. Like most people who were brought up evangelical, after a certain point you realize that the institutional edifice[s] propping up middle-class American Protestant Christianity are fundamentally, systematically rotten from top to bottom. Middle-class American Christianity is not a belief system that survives any sustained contact with the beauty and diversity of the outside world that we were told God loathes (and somehow loves) so much.

And, like most people who were brought up evangelical, I ran facefirst into the outside world right around my eighteenth birthday, and you can probably guess how things would eventually shake loose afterward.

I should probably be very specific about what it is that so fundamentally bothers me about religion. Of course, when I talk about “religion,” I am going to primarily reference the one I was raised in, but I’m pretty sure a lot of these same issues are universal. For starters, one person or group of people quite simply has no business holding formal authority over people’s spirituality…especially when aforesaid person/group of people are primarily white men who’re middle-aged or older. In fact, an individual or a church’s collective spirituality is just too important to be trusted to anything that has any sort of implicit or explicit hierarchical structure.

Because with that power, naturally, comes abuse. The mountain of sex abuse scandals emanating from within Christianity speaks for itself and is a more damning indictment of the faith and of religious authority than Christ himself ever came up with. But it’s not just that, it’s also spiritual abuse. It’s rooting out anyone who dares question the stranglehold you have over your audience. It’s about projecting your own prejudices onto a messy collection of books written thousands of years ago in a time and place that, unless you’re Palestinian, is not yours, and which already have their own prejudices baked in. It’s hell, a concept that suddenly becomes horrifying if even a modicum of thought is applied to it. It’s teaching women that they’re lesser than men. It’s teaching people they shouldn’t have sex until marriage or they should remain in abusive relationships, and all the emotional damage that follows. It’s teaching queer people that they should be “converted” to a compulsory cisgenderness or heterosexuality. It’s a sick, twisted white supremacist nationalism—God, guns, and Trump—that in America has a robust history dating all the way back to when these very same preachers were defending (and, in at least once case, advocating for the imposition of) slavery. Say the right vaguely churchy words in the right order once in a while and the suckers just come rolling in.

Scaling up from the individual church level, it’s terrorist attacks on Planned Parenthood clinics. It’s missionaries tromping around the Third World reenacting the quest of their imperialist ancestors from two centuries previous to Bring Civilization To The Savage Peoples. It’s the Crusades, and the associated deep-rooted anti-Semitism and Islamophobia that leeched onto and sprung from them. It’s the teachings of an insignificant nomadic prophet, corralled into the service of innumerable bloodthirsty empires since at least the conversion of Constantine. It’s, fundamentally, the belief that anyone who’s not Christian ought to be brainwashed, intellectually lobotomized, or killed. Kant had a rare moment of lucidity if he did indeed say something like “Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest,” because Christianity is fundamentally Satanic.

Moving on to the freakish assemblage of texts that spawned this faith, the Bible. Nothing in the Bible really happened except possibly a few of the Pauline epistles. Much of the Old Testament exists specifically to advance particular political agendas. That we got the four Gospels we have today can be chalked up to historical accident, and none of them are factually accurate accounts of the life of Jesus…a figure about whom we know nothing beyond that he was almost certainly a real person.

And even beyond historical inaccuracy, there’s a ton of stuff in the Bible that is legitimately horrifying. People center around those long lists of things that deserve the death penalty in Leviticus and Deuteronomy for good reason, but check out how God himself behaves in the Bible if you really want to send a chill down your spine. And in the New Testament, Paul himself is a real piece of work, to the point where one suspects that his conversion experience didn’t change a whole lot besides his religious affiliation.

But here’s the fun part: a lot of what I just said about the Bible is what people learn in their first few weeks at seminary. This is literally Christianity 101. So the appropriate Christian reaction to a New Atheist type bloviating about how the Bible is false is “well…duh.”

And, of course, let’s not forget that despite Christianity’s long and storied relationship with white supremacy, it’s not like atheism’s much better. For every atheist whose rejection of a supreme being also serves as a rejection of divinely supported oppressive power structures, you’ve got an atheist whose rejection of a supreme being serves as an excuse to justify keeping their blessedly secular Europe free of muddle-headed Muslims. And really, that’s frustrating. Atheism is awful, and has been awful for a very long time, because in the West it too, like Christianity, has been co-opted to serve the whims of empire, and has been since the days of the Enlightenment. The only reasons atheism can’t be considered As Bad as Christianity is (a) the predominant tradition has only been around for about four or five hundred years, and (b) there’s still a strand of atheism that’s legitimately liberatory.

You can thank the anarchists for that. You know the slogan: no gods, no masters. But it is an anarchistic atheism, an atheism that includes within it critiques of not just religion but also racist/sexist/homophobic/transphobic power structures and of capitalism, authoritarianism, and authority in general. Give me an atheism whose denial of God is based on rejecting the divine right of kings any day over a monosyllabic atheism that sits in its own drool saying “invisible sky fairy” over and over. And this is just as important as rejecting God, because an atheism that rejects the worst impulses of Christianity only replicates them when it fails to interrogate anything else. Just ask Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, or their intellectual forebear H. L. Mencken.

But, really, this is a level of intellectual complexity that’s beyond Western atheism, whose avatar is the cisgender heterosexual white guy who’s never quite gotten past that zeal of the deconverted phase where he constantly gets himself off over how he’s outgrown such silly superstitions. And, really, if there’s one thing Western atheists need to not do, it’s be impressed with themselves for learning there’s no God or afterlife and we’re only a cosmic dust mite winking briefly in and out of existence and life has no inherent meaning beyond what we invest in it from our own experiences and desires. Like, it may seem like it is in whatever one-horse cult you’ve managed to escape from, but this is not esoteric, revealed knowledge. So you think you’re special? Coming down from the mountain with the new Ten Commandments from The God Delusion etched in stone tablets? Well, good job in learning what the rest of us did a long time ago.

Thus, to Signify, the album that more or less describes that moment when you’ve joined the rest of the human race and wondering what to do now. It’s also the only Porcupine Tree record I don’t like.

She’s Not As Pretty As She Thinks She Is

I mentioned in the Up the Downstair review that Porcupine Tree records generally come in pairs, where the first album changes the band’s sound and the second refines it. This schema comes the closest to breaking entirely with The Sky Moves Sideways and Signify, because both albums represent a pretty substantial sonic shift, and in completely different directions: The Sky Moves Sideways expands the music’s psychedelic elements to territories not seen since Voyage 34, whereas Signify is the point at which we start putting the Space Era to bed.

The Space Era’s far from over, mind. Most of the tracks on this album retain the sensibilities that Porcupine Tree is known for, most notably The Sleep of No Dreaming, Sever, Every Home is Wired, Intermediate Jesus, and Dark Matter. Moving into the Alternative Era will ultimately be a three-year process involving the Insignificance demos and a final orgasmic explosion of pure psychedelia in Metanoia, but it’s pretty clear from what we have here that we’ve reached the limit of what we can do with our currently-established sound and we have to try something different. That and we’re gelling more and more as a studio band, so we’re creating more band-oriented tracks, and those will be a bit shorter and less spaced-out than what we’re known for. Also our frontman’s still listening to loads of krautrock and that’s gonna bleed over, too. (Check out that spectacular motorik in the title track.)

The problem is Signify hit at basically the worst possible time in the bands evolution: the point where it’s pretty clear that the current sound is netting them diminishing returns, but the new sound is still very much under construction. The title track is nice enough, but it grew out of a cover of Hallogallo and it shows. Probably the only song that reaches the heights we’re used to from Porcupine Tree is Dark Matter. All the other spacey songs are pretty clearly the band returning to the same wells they’ve plumbed before, only this time with samples of some unhinged preacher types thrown in for thematic flavour.

Speaking of lyrics and sonic elements that’re still under construction, this is the first time Wilson’s actually consistently had lyrics that were something besides mouth noises or random words pulled from a hat Kid A-style. (Usually. Sever still has some of that old bad-trip magic.) And, well…

He’s Not As Clever As He Likes To Think

Okay, I’m going to be polite here, and then I won’t. I’m generally neutral-to-positive on Wilson’s lyrics. He’s pretty good at putting words in a particular order (“as the world in my TV leaked on to my shoes” is a killer line, for instance), but in my book his style has consistently been better than his substance. What’s more, there are very few subjects less fruitful for Babby’s First Stab At Comprehensibility than the first time it fully sinks in that you’re gonna die.

I don’t know how much of this is me writing from my temporal vantage point. I don’t know how picked-over this topic actually was in 1996. But really…there just are not very many places to go with this particular subject. So, life is finite. You will one day cease to exist. All signs point to this life being all there is. Now what.

You might, if we use a godawful New Atheist line, stick your head in the sand and say there really is something after death. Only way to survive is on your knees, after all. You might instead turn to the hedonism of drugs or sex, or this weird new thing called the Internet wiring every home. Or you might try and create something that you hope and pray (“pray”) will outlast you, and if the drudgery of schlepping from no-name English town to no-name English town on a bus while playing to fifty people in miserable, dank, sweaty bar basements is what we need to do to get the job done, then so bloody be it.

Here’s where the anxiety over leaving a legacy comes from. You might say that religious people who long for a heaven are denying the finitude of existence, but if you’re concerned that a chunk of you will somehow remain after you’re gone…you’re worrying about the same thing, mate. It may not be a literal afterlife you seek, but it’s an afterlife nonetheless.

If you’re a creative person, and you define your legacy as something you make that lives on after you die, the pitfalls are everywhere. If the path to an afterlife is popularity, there’s more pressure to appeal to what’s popular (which rarely if ever works). If the path to an afterlife is making something that sticks out, then it’s a crapshoot because it might not reach enough people. Ultimately, the people who become immortal are the people who get lucky. Either they have connections through family or friends, someone powerful noticed them at exactly the right time and liked what they heard, or what they were doing resonated with the contemporary musical zeitgeist. And even if you manage to Get Big, records and CDs scratch. Tapes warp. Storage media decay. Some works have somehow managed to last hundreds of years but ultimately no catalog is permanent. The product is sold, the memory fades. There’s no escape hatch forthcoming here.

I’m Not As Awesome As This Song Makes Out

At least not yet. There’s another English bloke wot’s good at the wordsmithing who twelve years later short-circuited this entire conversation without even realizing it. In 2008, ex-Million Dead boy Frank Turner released folk-punk masterpiece Love, Ire & Song, whose second track, Reasons Not To Be An Idiot, is a cheery dope-slap for everyone caught Wilsonly within their own thoughts.

In the song, Turner surveys a series of people (including himself and the listener) who’ve become neurotically obsessed over themselves, their appearance, their intellect, whatever, and shakes them around a bit to remind them that they (and, by extension, we) are not freighted with any uniquely insurmountable woes and that “deep down, you’re just like everybody else.” The last person he addresses is someone called Amy, who’s gotten sucked into all sorts of superficial faux-spiritual gobbledygook because “she’s scared that life won’t leave any traces.” Sound familiar?

His prescription is simple. Right after describing Amy’s situation he cuts the entire Gordian knot both she and Signify got themselves stuck in with five little words: “That’s not the point anyway.” All you really need in life is right there in the album’s title–love, ire, and song–and notice that immortality and leaving a legacy are conspicuously not mentioned among them. It’s nice out. Enjoy some fresh air. Go for a pint. See some friends. For once in your life, get your head out of your ass and relax.

(It’s probably also worth pointing out that Wilson and Turner are both cisgender white men from solidly middle-class English backgrounds—Wilson’s father was an electronic engineer at Philips, Turner’s father was an investment banker—which itself speaks volumes about who has the wherewithal to tie themselves into knots like this, thinking about whether they’ll leave behind anything that will last.)

Which brings us back around to, what do you do upon discovering that life is finite and has no inherent meaning? If you’re western, and don’t have an actual degree in philosophy, there are two ways this conversation can go: a simplistic nihilism, or a corny be-excellent-to-each-other pop platitudinism. Both these routes invite nothing in the way of nuance or complexity, and are just flat boring. This is not a conversation in which anyone comes away enlightened. Instead, realize that worrying about this crap is bourgeois faux-intellectual masturbation, and get up, get down, and get outside.

  1. The Sky Moves Sideways
  2. Up the Downstair
  3. On the Sunday of Life
  4. Signify
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No-Man – Wild Opera

September 1996

Housewives Hooked on Heroin, May 1996
2-CD edition, May 2010

Take One

The process is as follows:

Listen to the subject of the post—in this case, the Housewives Hooked on Heroin EP—several times, in an attempt to generate an interesting angle on the music or the lyrics.

Best you can come up with is something to the effect of “the title track is pretty terrible but the EP itself is redeemed somewhat thanks to Urban Disco and Where I’m Calling From. Also the Scanners remix of the title track is actually some pretty good chilled-out DnB, kind of prefigures early Pendulum in a sense. I know Wilson hates it but then Wilson hates a lot of things. What you gonna do.” After that, something something prelude to Wild Opera. This is not enough for a single post, especially when Wild Opera itself comes right after.

At that moment, realize the EP works best as a prelude to Wild Opera and surmise that the supplementary EP, Dry Cleaning Ray, will be similar. Get an idea.

Listen to Wild Opera.

Take Two

Three at once, this week. We’re obviously focusing on Wild Opera, but we’ve also got the two supplementary releases orbiting around it like moons, Housewives Hooked on Heroin and Dry Cleaning Ray. These three are quite closely linked, and for that reason it’s worth examining them as a single unit representing where No-Man’s collective head was at entering the decade’s back half.

First up is Housewives Hooked on Heroin, released four months prior to Wild Opera and thus serving as an introduction to what they’d be doing on the main release. One can imagine the No-Man fandom faithful stumbling upon this joint and its radical change in sound—especially the glitchy, staccato Hit the Ceiling—and reacting roughly as charitably as certain portions of Wilson’s solo fandom did upon hearing Permanating for the first time. It’s, well, it’s decent enough on its own. The title track really doesn’t live up to that incredible name. Urban Disco is pretty good, though.

If we arrange these three releases chronologically and establish a narrative through-line between them, then Wild Opera represents a refinement of the musical concepts first explored in Housewives Hooked on Heroin. This is No-Man’s “dark” album, and while it is their heaviest and most abrasive release, let’s not forget what their default mode is. Nothing on here is sufficiently dark for a patented Jess Cope nightmare-inducing tour visual, for instance. In addition, most of the time the primary influence is not straight trip-hop, hence why whenever those influences showed through up to this point it always sounded generic and watered down. This actually dovetails nicely with something I wrote in the Flowermouth entry:

“However, in listening to this album it becomes quite clear that the trip hop sound didn’t come from their heart as much as their attempt to mold themselves in One Little Indian’s image in the hopes they’d sell more records.”

Compare with what Bowness said on his blog about Wild Opera:

“If Flowermouth was gleefully oblivious to fashion, on a purely instinctive level, Wild Opera was the sound of No-Man heeding the musical signs of the times.”

So, basically, they’re no longer trying to satisfy One Little Indian, but emulate the musical zeitgeist of 1996….and yet it miraculously doesn’t sound like they’ve sold out. This is because the trip-hop here is of a more jazzy and orchestral bent, where the lonely streetlamps are in front of the embassy of an Eastern European nation instead of in, say, Brixton. In other words, they wanted to sound like Portishead.

This is key. Because it approaches the genre at an odd angle and through John Le Carre-tinted glasses, the Portishead flavor of trip hop actively resists being watered down, and thus retains more of its…authenticity, for lack of a better word. So even when No-Man tries to sound like Portishead, they land not at Portishead full stop but Portishead filtered through No-Man’s fractured history. Not a bad place to be, all told, although that does mean I start to wish they’d have had the guts to get real dark and dive into the abyss headfirst, to the point where something like My Revenge on Seattle would have been better served on a castoff EP released several months later.

Several times over the course of this retrospective we’ve come back to the idea of a record representing a window into a potential evolution in a project’s sound that never quite came to be…but that analogy doesn’t quite work here. Although this is a serious effort to do something a bit more beat-driven, it’s also clear that trip hop itself was a dead end in the band’s progress, as future albums would owe more to Flowermouth than this one. However, that doesn’t mean this experiment was a complete failure. Bowness and Wilson both knew the darker atmosphere present in Wild Opera still had potential. If Flowermouth and Wild Opera represent the band’s sound from Lovecries splitting in two, then every album from Returning Jesus onward represent those two halves coming together again, but differently.

Speaking of things disassembled and reassembled backward, Dry Cleaning Ray.

Take Three

Crap.

Realize (a) that Dry Cleaning Ray is mostly outtakes from the Wild Opera sessions instead of remixes, and (b) that maybe only one song off the album could legitimately be described as “disassembled and reassembled backward.” Discover that chunks of Dry Cleaning Ray pull from releases you haven’t covered yet. This angle ain’t gonna work.

Try to dig up contemporary press—reviews and interviews, that sort of thing—to back up the claim that Wild Opera is widely regarded as the dark album. Come up empty. The only even remotely interesting piece of criticism comes from the sole comment on the album’s AllMusic review, which calls “trip hop” a dirty word. Wonder how that guy feels about iPods.

Feel yourself pulled in ten thousand fruitless directions. At the same time, imagine yourself as Barton Fink, and all that implies, staring at a blank typewriter.

Attempt to continue the essay, this time focusing almost entirely on Wild Opera. Shoehorn something in about how you wouldn’t be surprised if Jerry Martin were listening to this album and Endtroducing… on repeat while composing the SimCity 4 soundtrack, based off that magnificent sax in Radiant City. Observe that Ben Coleman’s absence really is not deeply felt here, and nothing against the man, but anything he could have contributed to the album would have been superfluous.

Try and fail to excise the Housewives / Opera / Dry Cleaning Ray angle from what you’ve already written. Realize you still have quite a lot of things to say about the interplay between dark and light that can’t be squeezed into the essay you have as written, and how it basically doesn’t work. Try to find yet another creative way to say that Bowness’ voice is not very well suited to dark music, and that as good as the trip-hop is they’re still fundamentally uncomfortable with it, and stuff like Flowermouth is better largely because it really does feel like their natural habitat, and including songs like My Revenge on Seattle means they probably know it. Realize with some horror that what you really want out of No-Man is Together We’re Stranger rerecorded and rereleased endlessly, and that demand fundamentally goes against what constitutes good musical artistry and what you value in music that has any business calling itself “progressive.” Recall that based on stuff he said about “progressive” music when you saw him perform in New York back in April, Wilson probably agrees with you.

Bang head against keyboard.

Take Four

Throw hands up. Go trawling for buzz one last time, come up fruitless. Discover the following completely unrelated extract from that 2000 Innerview you quoted the last time you covered a No-Man studio album:

“I think No-Man go through phases of distinctively reflecting the current musical climate such as Lovesighs, Loveblows and Lovecries, Wild Opera and Dry Cleaning Ray, and phases of retreating into ourselves and trying to produce something we consider timeless and meaningful such as Carolina Skeletons and Flowermouth. The new album definitely fits into the latter category. Next time, it’s disco!”

Well, it took seventeen years, and it was only one half of the band, but by God we finally got our bloody disco.

  1. Flowermouth
  2. Wild Opera
  3. Loveblows and Lovecries: A Confession

I.E.M. – I.E.M.

1996

“Jetzt schalten wir ja das Radio an / Aus dem Lautsprecher klingt es dann…” —Kraftwerk, Autobahn

The Incredible Expanding Mindfuck has a backstory that is not a backstory, and a backstory that is also not a backstory. The first non-backstory comes from how the name of the project comes from another fake band, this one Malcolm Stocks’, complete with its own fake history that was just as deliriously loony as Porcupine Tree’s. I personally am bummed that this fake history—and really, the fake history of both bands—has since been lost, because then I could have spliced it in and wrapped it around the post as it currently exists, so that the two halves would mirror and comment on each other.

The other one, well, let us imagine the universe as a hyperboloid, with the various disparate strands of history coalescing to and exploding outward from one inflection point, endings and beginnings knotting together into a single moment dense with an infinite weight. This particular inflection point varies depending on what slice of history you’re looking at. It might be a self-evidently momentous occasion, like when Alan Moore completed the collected edition of Watchmen. Or, it might be in and of itself something modest and innocuous, its real implications not fully revealing themselves until later, like the Sex Pistols’ show at the Manchester Free Trade Hall.

Ours has two poles that occurred at roughly the same time. The first is the initial Big Bang, the Internationale Essener Songtage, held in West Germany in September 1968 amid the ruins of a stillborn revolution. Here was the wider world’s first experience with a particular combination of psychedelic rock, art rock, electronic music, and jazz, with a distinct minimalistic sensibility and rhythm, that would become known as krautrock. The second was the formation of our new world’s elementary particles at the Zodiak Free Arts Lab, a West Berlin live music venue and krautrock incubator that boomed in and out of existence for a few precious months in late 1968 and early 1969. The most immediate ripples of these two events were the formation and solidification of two bands: Kraftwerk in Düsseldorf, not far from where the IEST was held, and Tangerine Dream in West Berlin, the closest thing Zodiak had to a house band. Tangerine Dream’s most direct impact on our particular tale would come through the release of Zeit in 1972, an unsettling ambient record Wilson often cites as a favorite, but through the 70s and 80s would go on to influence the development of his musical personality in less immediate ways as well.

Kraftwerk, meanwhile, have a more tangential role here. They first formed in 1969 as Organisation and released one album under that name, a quietly experimental affair called Tone Float. Between their formation and the mid-70s the band would experience numerous lineup changes as their sound shifted from the krautrock indicative of the scene they sprung from to the electronic music they would pioneer. One gentleman who would drift in and out during this time was Klaus Dinger, who’s responsible for the percussion on some of their first album. Dinger would leave Kraftwerk in 1971, a year after he joined, allegedly because of personality differences with Florian Schneider (I would be remiss here if I didn’t mention that in the future Dinger would look vaguely like Alan Moore and Schneider would look vaguely like Grant Morrison, mostly in the follicular department, but that’s a footnote), and would take guitarist Michael Rother with him.

These two would form Neu!, a seminal krautrock band who have probably the most direct role in spawning the I.E.M. Their primary innovation was solidifying the motorik, a steady, repetitive beat pattern which, as the name implies, mimics the experience of driving down a highway. It is—and there’s a reason you’ve heard this before—the skeleton that propels the song forward and provides a framework for guitar and synth improvisations.

I.E.M. has four tracks (five, if you’re listening to the 1998 CD version), two of which owe a direct influence to Neu! and the motorik: Deafman and The Gospel According to the I.E.M. They’re both fantastic. Driving music par excellence. It wouldn’t be unreasonable, upon giving the former a listen, to think hang on a minute, Steven’s gone and made his own Hallogallo…and then later that year he one-upped himself on Signify and actually did. That leaves The Last Will and Testament of Emma Peel, Fie Kesh, and Headphone Dust. That last one is a simple acoustic number and is unremarkable for our purposes. Emma Peel, meanwhile, is a decidedly ambient joint in the vein of Tangerine Dream. Thus, the second half of our inflection point.

Now here’s where things get interesting. Some of Tangerine Dream’s work in the mid-70s and 80s would go on to influence the development of trance music (which, as a subgenre of electronic music, also owes a lot to Kraftwerk for being able to exist at all), and thus a substantial chunk of what Porcupine Tree would release in Voyage 34, Up the Downstair, and The Sky Moves Sideways. And, as it happens, Fie Kesh sounds very much like an expansion of some ideas explored in the Moonloop improvisation. This, then, makes I.E.M. the album (and thus the project) sound like a missive from a path not taken, where instead of moving in a more accessible, alternative-influenced direction they remained as experimental as ever, a peek into a world where the Space Era never quite ended, albeit at the expense of Porcupine Tree dissolving about ten years earlier.

But the point is this: everything Porcupine Tree has made in some form up to this point owes at least a little to what those German guys were doing back in the 70s, and the self-titled I.E.M. album is not just some damn good krautrock but a distillation of those influences. Strip Porcupine Tree’s music down to its skeleton and you’d have something like what we’re listening to here. And the influence continues beyond 1996. Even as we move into the Alternative and Metal Eras, notice what characterizes Porcupine Tree’s more overtly progressive elements: an emphasis on motion, rhythm, and repetition over technical wizardry. (And, of course, Wilson’s ephemera is often released on Tonefloat Records.) If we’re talking about placing Porcupine Tree in a musical tradition originating in the late 60s and emphasizing experimentation and boundary-pushing, then what we have here, ultimately, is not a prog band for the 90s. No, Porcupine Tree is actually a krautrock band for the 90s.

  1. I.E.M.