Since its release, I have seen listeners describe it as a masterpiece, while others are still wrestling with it. Some are unsure about the narration; some perhaps expected a different kind of Steven Wilson album. And that is absolutely fine. Music is personal, and the connection between a piece of music and the listener is never something you can force.
For me, though, this album connected from the very first listen. After living with it and playing it repeatedly, I am ready to say something I did not expect to say quite so quickly: I think Requiem for a Village is Steven Wilson’s finest album.
Until now, Hand. Cannot. Erase. has held that position for me. I love Steven’s solo work, Porcupine Tree and the many other projects and collaborations he has been involved in. What keeps drawing me back is the feeling that I never quite know where he is going to take me next.
That, for me, is what being progressive means. It means moving forward, exploring and refusing to make the same record simply because it is what somebody might expect.
Arriving with an empty cup
If I buy an AC/DC album, I have a pretty good idea of what I want it to sound like. That is part of the pleasure. With Steven Wilson, I approach a new record differently. I try to arrive with what I think of as an empty cup: ready to hear what is there, rather than filling it beforehand with everything I expect it to be.
That does not mean every listener has to like every direction an artist chooses. You may prefer The Raven That Refused to Sing, Hand. Cannot. Erase. or another album entirely. But if Requiem for a Village has not connected with you yet, perhaps try setting those expectations aside and approaching it as a story told through music, sound and words.
And perhaps put the headphones on, turn the lights down and allow yourself to step inside the village.
Why this village feels familiar
There is a personal reason this record speaks to me so strongly. I live in a small village in Cornwall, not far from standing stones and stone circles, in a landscape where the old ways still feel close. Here, different traditions, beliefs and sounds can sit alongside one another quite naturally.
At our village fête, you might find a heavy metal band followed by reggae, then poetry and a Zumba display, and nobody bats an eyelid. I love that sense of different worlds existing together. There is something of it in this album, too.
I am also drawn to folk horror, to programmes such as Children of the Stones, and to the strange, unsettling atmosphere of films that leave your imagination to fill in the gaps. I love storytelling and the idea of theatre for the ears. So, yes, Steven had already laid a few tempting paths for me to follow before I heard a note!
But that connection goes beyond the subject matter. It is in the way the music seems to breathe with the world around it: the birds, the dogs, the church bells, the sound of an aircraft overhead. These details help make the village feel lived in.
David Tennant, Andy Partridge and the sound of a story
The passages written by Andy Partridge and narrated by David Tennant are central to the experience. I have seen comments from people who find the spoken word distracting, and I understand that narration in music will not work for everyone. For me, though, Tennant’s voice is part of the music’s atmosphere and rhythm.
Think of the opening of John Carpenter’s The Fog, where a voice draws you into a story before the film has properly begun. Take that voice away and the scene would feel very different. Here, Tennant’s measured delivery gives the village another dimension. The words help paint a picture, but there is still plenty of room for your own imagination.
I called it “prog poetry” in my video review, and I am sticking with that!
Twelve parts of the journey
Swirl in a Lark’s Eye
Church bells, drums and children’s voices draw us into the album’s world. There is something haunting and otherworldly here, with a touch of The Wicker Man and Midsommar in the atmosphere.
The strings feel slightly menacing as they descend, while the acoustic guitar sounds just a little off centre. Somehow, that makes it feel right. This opening colours the landscape in your imagination before the story has fully unfolded.
Requiem for a Village
The title track begins with Steven’s falsetto and an almost church-like atmosphere. There is a Celtic flavour that brings Loreena McKennitt to mind, before a hypnotic bass riff emerges and the piece begins to transform.
What a bass riff it is. The drumming locks into it, and then the guitars arrive with a modern metal edge that is sharp enough to cut. There are passages of drum and bass, moments that feel almost like jazz fusion, and vocals that take on a rhythmic, almost rap-like delivery.
You can try to put all these elements into separate musical boxes, but the boxes soon start falling apart. Everything feeds into the same piece of music. It is intense, exciting and one of my favourite tracks on the album.
The Same River Twice
After that intensity, we step into a more reflective and unsettling space. The piano has that slightly imperfect quality again, while rain, a passing aircraft and the river become part of the picture.
The music reminds me of a faded 1970s Kodak photograph: familiar enough to stir a memory, but distant and indistinct at the same time. There is also something in its atmosphere that takes me towards Colin Towns’ music for Full Circle, also known as The Haunting of Julia.
Tennant’s voice moves through the piece at exactly the pace the story needs, while the layers of synthesiser gently build around it.
Now Departing
At nearly ten minutes, this is one of the album’s major journeys. An old radio, piano and voice gradually give way to guitars, dramatic chords and a vocal that becomes more sinister as the track develops.
There are explosive heavy passages, but also a wonderful sense of movement between the instruments. At one point I can even hear a kind of Slade-like stomp beneath the weight of the music. The guitar solos, bass and drums all have space to make their presence felt, yet the intensity remains even when the arrangement pulls back.
The sound of the drums and the production throughout this album are superb, and this is a particularly good place to appreciate both.
Hiraeth
A gentler piece, with soft vocals, layers of harmonies and a guitar figure that seems to shimmer in the background. The piano and choir-like voices draw you in, while field recordings allow the sounds of everyday life to become part of the music.
I often listen to music outdoors with the volume low enough to hear the world around me. Partly that is practical when there may be a tractor coming up behind you, but I also love the way music and the sounds of life can merge. This track captures something of that feeling.
There is a touch of David Gilmour in the slide guitar for me, although the piece becomes more unsettling as it moves towards its close.
On Chapel Slope
This is pure folk horror. The video is wonderfully atmospheric, and the song’s bluesy guitar figure is one of those deceptively simple ideas that stays with you.
Listen to what is happening behind the vocal: the distant synthesiser, the sounds that seem to drift in and out of focus, and the chanting that gradually comes closer. Then the drums and discordant guitars arrive and the atmosphere begins to turn.
When I interviewed Steven, we discussed his decision to embrace sounds that might normally be tidied up or corrected. He described how a guitarist might have to adapt to an instrument that was slightly out of tune. Steven also picked up instruments he does not claim to play with the fluency of a specialist, including the violin.
What I love about this is the sense of wonder. It is the feeling of picking something up and asking, “What happens if I try this?” The studio becomes an adventure playground again, and you can hear that curiosity throughout the record.
Murmuration
Another favourite. A low, throbbing synthesiser gradually makes room for acoustic guitar, narration and voice. The instrumentation grows, but there is space in the arrangement, allowing each sound to make its entrance.
The music swells into a soundscape that I find thrilling, before falling back towards near silence. There are fragments of voices and a beautiful melody, and the atmosphere briefly reminds me of Goblin’s soundtrack to Suspiria—whether intentional or not, it is a connection I enjoy hearing.
Katherine Priddy’s lovely voice near the end is perfectly judged. If you are unfamiliar with her music, she is well worth exploring too.
Cursus Fingerprint
Birds, dogs and other sounds of the landscape return, alongside narration and a distant, almost Celtic quality to the voice. I can also hear a hint of Genesis here—perhaps something of the atmosphere of “Entangled” from A Trick of the Tail.
But just as you settle into that familiarity, the bass, drums and distorted guitar bring a sense of unease back across the horizon. It is another reminder that this village is not quite as comfortable as it might first appear.
A Basket of Bees
What a brilliant title! This is an accessible and engaging piece of progressive rock, with acoustic guitar, expressive vocals and a great sense of melody.
The bass and drums work beautifully together, while the guitars move between clean electric and acoustic textures. There are twists and turns, but the melody gives you something to hold on to. That is one of the reasons this album connected with me so quickly: however complex the arrangements become, there is so often a musical thread that draws you in.
Great Green Map
The narration and lone piano bring us back into a world of folk horror. There is a sense of walking into a place where you are not quite sure whether you belong.
It brought to mind the pub scene in An American Werewolf in London: that uncomfortable moment when the room seems to fall quiet. Those of us who live in the countryside may recognise a version of that feeling—although, of course, it never happens to the locals!
Soft vocals and distant brass-like sounds add to the atmosphere as the story continues.
Wheel
“Wheel” begins with more storytelling, sparse piano and the sounds of the outside world. The space around the voice and instruments allows the music to breathe, while that underlying sense of unease remains.
A chugging riff develops, the drums build and another excellent bass line emerges. There is a wonderfully discordant guitar solo that brings Frank Zappa to mind, followed by waves of keyboards and increasingly intense drumming. It is a fantastic piece of music, building towards a powerful climax.
The Old God Is Buried
If the album were a film, this would feel like the closing credits—but perhaps the kind where you are not entirely sure it is safe to leave your seat.
Keyboards, church bells and ambient sounds return, along with Tennant’s narration. The atmosphere grows more chaotic and sinister before we are left with the sounds of the village once again. It is a fitting end to a journey that has taken us through so many different musical landscapes.
The beauty of imperfection
One of the things that makes Requiem for a Village so special to me is that it feels human. The slightly untuned instruments, the unexpected sounds and the willingness to leave some rough edges in place all serve the atmosphere of the music.
This is an album full of detail, but it never feels as though it has been polished until the life has disappeared. Its heavy guitars and complex rhythms can sit beside a fragile voice, a field recording or a moment of near silence. Each contributes to the story.
I have the CD edition, which came with a signed print. Having spent so much time with the album, I would love to experience it in a larger physical edition too. The booklet and lyrics give you another way into the world Steven and his collaborators have created.
An invitation to listen again
I realise that this album was always likely to appeal to me: the countryside, the folk-horror atmosphere, the narration and the love of storytelling all speak to things I already enjoy. But it is the music—the melodies, the bass lines, the heaviness, the atmosphere and the willingness to explore—that keeps me coming back.
For me, Requiem for a Village is a masterpiece and Steven Wilson’s finest album. It has taken the place previously held by Hand. Cannot. Erase., and I do not say that lightly.
If it has not connected with you yet, perhaps give it another listen in a quiet room, with the lights low and your expectations set aside. Listen to the voices and the field recordings as part of the landscape. Let the heavier passages arrive when they are ready, and allow the story to unfold at its own pace.
It still may not be for you, and that is perfectly all right. But you might discover something you missed on your first walk through the village.
What do you think? Has Requiem for a Village connected with you, or are you still finding your way into it? Where does it sit among Steven Wilson’s albums? Let me know in the comments.
Phil Aston | Now Spinning Magazine
