Porcupine Tree
– Lightbulb Sun
This is the album where Porcupine Tree stepped out of their space-rock bathrobe and tried on something closer to an old-school band shirt. The sleeves are still a little cosmic, sure, but Lightbulb Sun is less about infinite galaxies and more about quiet rooms, sleepless hours, and the aches we call “growing up.” Steven Wilson doesn’t drop the Floydian vibes entirely—he just folds them into something warmer, sharper, and more terrestrial. It’s prog with its feet on the floor.
Best of…
Sonically, it’s a cleaner cut than the sprawling Stupid Dream. Shorter songs. Tighter hooks. There’s a pop sensibility hiding in the bones, like Wilson dared himself to see how much sugar he could pour into his melancholy before it curdled. The strings don’t scream grandeur—they sigh. The guitars are less lava lamp, more Polaroid. But underneath the sheen, there’s still that low burn of disconnection, fear, and fractured memories. A suburban psychodrama set to shimmering chords.
Where earlier albums drifted into oblivion and back, this one lingers in your neighborhood. There’s less indulgence, more intention. Even when Wilson does let a song stretch its legs—like on “Russia on Ice”—it feels like it earns the miles. It’s the kind of record that seems modest at first, then claws at you a little more with each listen. A small, strange triumph disguised as a mellow afternoon.
Choice Tracks
Lightbulb Sun
The opener is gentle poison. Acoustic strums, layered harmonies, a melody that goes down smooth and leaves a weird aftertaste. It’s about childhood, nostalgia, and the rot that comes with it. Wilson sings like he’s remembering something he wishes he could forget.
Shesmovedon
Breakup songs don’t always have to sob. Sometimes they smirk, and that’s what this one does. Wilson sounds detached and bitter, but the chorus soars like he’s finally letting go. The guitars crunch just enough to keep it from drifting into pretty-boy territory. One of their best hooks.
Feel So Low
No tricks here—just sadness on a slow drip. A piano, a voice, and strings that swell like they’re trying not to cry. It’s sparse, but not empty. Wilson captures that post-midnight emotional freefall without turning it into a pity party. A closer that doesn’t beg for attention—it just breaks your heart quietly.
The Rest Will Flow
The closest Porcupine Tree ever got to a lullaby. It’s deceptively pretty, almost too sweet for this band—until you realize it’s about the futility of holding onto anything. The melody sparkles while the lyrics throw their hands up. It’s beautiful resignation.
Russia on Ice
Here’s the album’s long-form center. Eleven minutes that don’t waste a second. It starts in a moody haze, all mope and mist, before collapsing into a storm of riffs and shifting moods. It’s the sonic equivalent of looking in the mirror and seeing someone you used to be. Strange, heavy, necessary.
With Lightbulb Sun, Porcupine Tree didn’t reinvent anything. They just fine-tuned their ghosts, gave them voices, and set them loose in daylight. It’s not their loudest or flashiest record—but it might be the most quietly devastating.