A famous occurrence found its way into Woody Allen’s film Manhattan. The director has just explained all the artistic allusion and metaphor in his latest work, pouring over details and really attempting to make an artistic statement. Then comes time for the audience Q&A session. First question: when are you going to be funny again? I had this thought while listening to Porcupine Tree’s latest, The Incident
.
Before you misconstrue where I’m headed, let me say I enjoyed The Incident quite a bit. It is, as the prog rock geeks prefer, an epic with that first and title track actually being a suite of songs and interludes (14 in all), ranging from the opening piece of aggressive guitar, “Occam’s Razor” to the affecting pop-hard rock of “Time Flies,” the centerpiece of the suite, to the melancholic and affecting closer, “I Drive The Hearse.” Four additional songs are found on a second disc, unrelated to the suite but no less tonally similar, and here lies my hesitance about The Incident
.
The band’s output has been steady and prolific, from chief Steven Wilson’s initial psychedelic leanings, to full-on prog, to a pop-rock feel for often forgotten gems like Stupid Dream and Lightbulb Sun
. The band started to get broader attention with their In Absentia CD, but for the past few albums, that has been the dominant descriptor of Porcupine Tree music. Indeed, when people describe the band, they call on In Absentia
, Deadwing
, Fear of a Blank Planet
and will surely add The Incident
to that list, while there is a greater breadth of stylistic adventure just behind those recordings. It would be a broad stroke to claim the band has solely locked into a string of metal assaults punctuated by gorgeous, sad balladry, but each new album brings us closer to that conclusion. I’ve been waiting for that shift that used to occur every two or so albums. (more…)

Introducing an occasional series wherein we take a look at some of the most massive-sounding songs in pop history. A funny thing happened around 1971, or maybe 1972 — it depends on who you talk to. Progressive rock had been a part of the 1960s music scene, but was most commonly lumped in with psychedelic music and drug rock and was seldom considered an entity unto itself. Then, at the dawn of the Watergate decade, prog escaped into the wide open fields of seven-minute solos, half-hour compositions and mountains coming out of the sky and standing there. The aim was clear — to make a popular form of rock that was as ambitious, orchestral and big as classical music.
Let us begin with the Brothers, Righteous and Walker. The similarities are immediate, starting with the fact that none of the five among the bands were actually brothers. The Righteous Brothers were, famously, Bill Medley and Bobby Hatfield, and their sound was built on a foundation of boomy, wall-of-reverb ambiance, slowly building orchestration from just simple strings to full, rich sections and backup singers that oooh-ed and aaaah-ed like a choir. It would not be strange to call the Righteous Brothers a blue-eyed gospel group under these conditions, especially in Medley and Hatfield’s emphatically roaring delivery. Key examples come in the ripping bridge of “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling,” where their singing is closer to testifyin’ than harmonizing, and on “Unchained Melody,” where Hatfield moves from understated arrangement to nothing less than heaven appearing from the parting clouds. 