Some bands jump on the music scene and ravage it with youthful fury, producing brilliant results that nonetheless show a group of musicians that haven't quite yet found themselves or the elements of controlled emotion that guarantee continued pillage, while others seem to know exactly how to go about their business (let us, for brevity's sake, avoid those that just don't have a clue about anything). At the time of Script For a Jester's Tear, Marillion seemed to hover midway between both, showcasing incredibly ambitious songs of considerable length that saw their strength augmented by an ironically elaborate rawness. Perhaps not what comes to mind when one listens to singer Fish's exquisite journeys into social critique, heartbroken self-loathing, and drug abuse, but it works.

Although "Script For a Jester's Tear" starts the album off with a dynamic parade of melancholy and sudden volume shifts that evoke the most disconsolately intense emotions, as well as putting the songwriting abilities of the band on obvious display, it's "He Knows You Know" that really begins to set Marillion aside. With a schizophrenic temperament that could very well be described as the equivalent of a bad acid trip gone suicidal, the track soars with an unforgettable synthesizer line from Mark Kelly and Fish's deranged screams and shivers. The album then proceeds into "The Web," an epic view into the confines of our beloved singer's painstaking desperation that resounds with the enormous sound of triggered drums and lyrics that are roughly based on Homer's The Odyssey, as well as a subtly intricate interplay between the diverse elements that compose Marillion and send the song through equally absorbing segments of grandeur, despondency, and merriness. And that's just the album's first half…

"Garden Party" continues the proceedings in a jovially lilting, yet lyrically incisive, mood that hops its way merrily across a derisive social critique before the tremendously impacting sadness of "Chelsea Monday" grinds the listener's heart into a sentiment of heartfelt sympathy that oozes through Trewava's forlorn bass lines and Rothery's gliding guitar melodies. And the album's closing track, "Forgotten Sons," is a surprisingly bold foray into musical and vocal multi-personalities that effectively condemn the devastating effects of the belligerent situation in Northern Ireland through chiding comedy, decisive sentencing, and introspective desperation. Yet somehow words can't suffice to describe the blood-chilling effect of an album crafted to visceral perfection; an effort that overflows with such organic confidence that it pushes all the right buttons, all at the right time.

-by Marcelo Silveyra

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