On a musical map, he has been all over the place, yet usually left of center, exploring creative new directions in bands that have been anything but conventional. If there is anything typical about his pursuits, it is that his musical journeys often pulsate with a polyrhythmic energy that is positively effusive within contrasting styles that usually push the parameters of progressive.

From the vexing power of the vein-popping Cardiacs to the inventive and ghoulish instrumental goulash of Guapo, Torabi has always found himself drawn to music that tests all stylistic boundaries. As the leader of Knifeworld and the latest edition of Gong, he continues to be a charismatic crusader for all things avant-garde. He admits that he has no explanation for why his tastes are so eccentric, often running contrary to common contemporary music.

It just may be an act of rebellion.

Born in Tehran to an Iranian father and an English mother, he moved to Plymouth, U.K., as a toddler. Even his introduction to the world that would become his life’s work was a bit unusual – it was transcribing TV themes that first tickled his musical fancy.

“My grandmother played piano a bit, but my parents weren’t really into music – neither of them had any real interest,” he recalls. “So my only access to music was TV. This was when I was 4 or 5 years old, long before I realized you could be a musician. I became obsessed with the theme for the TV show CHiPs. That was my favorite piece of music. I remember inventing this kind of notation to remember the music.”

His family eventually bought him a piano, which he used as a compositional tool, writing ditties in his own inimitable style. “Music became an escape,” Torabi said. “Whatever was going on, music was this whole separate world. It existed in this unchangeable place. The more I could be among that, the better.”

At the age of about 10, he discovered the Stray Cats, courtesy of their song, “Runaway Boys.” That changed everything.

“The Stray Cats were like a beam coming out of space,” he said. “I remember them coming on Top of the Pops, all three of them in leather jackets and Brian Setzer with that big, beautiful Gretsch guitar. They didn’t look or sound like anything else at the time. I didn’t see it as a more hip version of ‘50s rock ’n’ roll known as rockabilly. To me, it sounded like totally alien music.”

He was mesmerized by Setzer and his chosen instrument. “That was the moment that I decided this was what I wanted to do when I grew up,” he said, noting that he began to teach himself how to play guitar. “As soon as I could afford one, which actually was a long time, I bought a Gretsch. I always wanted one.”

Torabi was soon investigating more bands and even more musical genres. “You start listening to the same stuff as other people and then you start isolating bits of songs that do something funny to you,” he said. “I remember listening to Iron Maiden when I was like 12 and they went off into this section that was a bit funny. You start listening for songs that did more of that.”

By his late teens, Torabi’s appetite for avant-garde sounds was becoming insatiable. “I had gone beyond genre and started to listening to music that I thought was visionary. This was the late ‘80s and for me, it was Cardiacs and Captain Beefheart and the instrumental side of ‘80s King Crimson, Steve Reich and Sonic Youth. And then there were artists like John Zorn, Fred Frith and Henry Cow and – by extension – Robert Wyatt, Syd Barrett and Nico.

“It was these were people who were making melodies that you don’t hear in normal life. It’s not shopping mall music where, regardless of the arrangement, tunes go a certain way and the melodies land in the place you expect them to and the words are what you expect them to be about. They were making interesting colors in their chords.”

For Torabi, the music was pointing to his future.

“I was discovering this whole other world of music that was on the edge of reality, where things are governed by different laws of physics,” he said. “It was a musical world that I wanted to be in and hopefully one that I’ve subsequently stayed true to, regardless of whether I’ve been doing instrumental rock with Guapo or whatever Knifeworld or Gong is doing. Hopefully it’s all still on that weird edge.”

Knifeworld was originally conceived as a solo project following the breakup of his first band, The Monsoon Bassoon, a psychedelic rock outfit that he had fronted with guitarist pal Dan Chudley. Initial Knifeworld recording sessions featured Torabi playing the bulk of the instruments, but he gradually pulled in a collective of collaborators to help him fully expand the project’s eclectic sonic palette.

“I always think the best music is psychedelic,” he said. “For me, psychedelic music is not a particular genre. It’s a quality that a particular music has. Whether it’s La Mer by Claude Debussy, Octet by Steve Reich, Chiastic Slide by Autechre, Robert Wyatt’s Rock Bottom, or Close to the Edge by Yes, there’s this visionary, otherworldly quality in which you feel that something is being revealed to you, something mysterious and unspeakable.

“There is a great deal of prog that sounds like shopping mall music to me with clever drumming. It’s like soft rock with busy arrangements or shredding guitars. But psychedelic rock is different. You know it when you hear it. For people who are prog fans, Close to the Edge is one of the ultimate psychedelic records. The minute those sounds come in, the curtain is opened and you’re in their world right until the fade out of Siberian Khatru. Another universe with its own laws of gravity and physics has been revealed to you.”

Torabi recruited various musical acquaintances in order to establish a credible lineup for Knifeworld’s live performances. “When the album came out, I needed a band to gig the record,” he said. “Cardiacs had been taking up all my time, but when that group came to a very unfortunate end (band leader Tim Smith suffered a series of strokes after a heart attack), Knifeworld became my main thing. So when we did a couple of shows, I just thought that I wanted to do this as my band.”

Finding kindred spirits was not difficult. He had known Melanie Woods, formerly of Sidi Bou Said, for years and asked her to contribute vocals. Various lineup changes eventually led him to land keyboardist Emmett Elvin and bassoonist/saxophonist Chloe Herington, both of whom he knew from Chrome Hoof, an experimental chamber rock orchestra in which he was briefly a member. Other Knifeworld members were drawn from other sundry London art rock ensembles.

“These are people who get what I’m all about,” Torabi said. “They’re incredibly sensitive players to what we do. They play so well together that I write these parts for them and between them they figure it out. They work on my arrangements. I don’t really score – I hear the arrangements in my head and then I just sing the parts into my phone or play them on the guitar. They really own it and turn the music into their own. It takes on a completely different life.”

Bottled Out of Eden, Knifeworld’s third album which was released by Inside Out Music in 2016, was mostly workshopped on the road while touring with ex-Oceansize guitarist Mike Vennart. “We did it the old-fashioned way, the way that bands used to do it,” Torabi said. “We played most of the stuff 10-15 times live and then we went down to the south of France and recorded it. As a result, the album sounds much looser and I think the arrangements breathe a lot more. To me, the dynamics are much more exciting.”

Torabi was planning to make Knifeworld his singular focus until fate intervened after Daevid Allen of Gong appeared as a guest on a British radio show that he hosted with Steve Davis. Allen would subsequently invite Torabi to join Gong without even hearing him play.

“I’d been a Gong fan since I was 16,” Torabi said. “The first record I heard was Flying Teapot, but the first record I bought was Camembert Electrique. I loved it, was mad for it. Gong was such a big part of what I was into at the time. By age 18-19, all roads for me led away from traditional rock and into this otherworldly stuff. Gong was very much a part of that.

“When Daevid was going to be a part of our radio show, we were really excited. He was wonderful and we really connected. We swapped numbers and began texting each other. When Gong came to London to play, I went to see them and hung out with him again. He was doing an improvised gig with Marshall Allen of the Sun Ra Arkestra very near to where I lived. That night he asked me if I wanted to play guitar with Gong.”

Needless to say, the offer came as a complete surprise.

“He gave me a lot of reasons which were extremely flattering,” Torabi said. “He told me that he felt the band needed fire and that I would bring that. I said, ‘But you’ve never heard me play.’ And he said, ‘I don’t need to. I’ve done this before with Mike Howlett and I know you’re going to be right for this band.’ And I said, ‘You know I can’t play guitar like Steve Hillage.’ He said, ‘I’m not interested in what you can’t do. I’m interested in what you can do.’ Two weeks later, we booked a rehearsal to play together and it was terrific.”

Gong toured Brazil and everything seemed great. Then Allen was diagnosed with cancer. The band had booked an extended 46-date tour to promote their album, I See You, which had been produced by Allen’s son Orlando and was released in November 2014. Rather than throw in the towel, Allen turned to Torabi to take up the baton.

“Daevid said, ‘Well man, I can’t do this forever and I don’t want the band to end with me bowing out.’ He seemed so healthy, so I was like, ‘Yeah, yeah, sure Daevid.’ I wanted to be the guitar player. That’s all. I was completely reluctant to sing, but we felt like we needed to tour to promote the album, so I was very, very nervous. As a Gong fan, I felt like I wouldn’t buy into this. This was a guy who had only just joined the band and now he’s fronting this thing? I was really, really reluctant.”

Gong pared the tour down to less than a dozen dates.

“I told the band that I would do these gigs and then that’s it. I don’t want to be in the bogus Gong,” he said. “Then we brought in drummer Cheb Nettles into the rehearsals and that changed everything. I’d played with him before and I felt like he could hold a candle up to Pierre Moerlen. He’s an extraordinary drummer. As a musician, it’s a dream to play with him.

“The gigs went down really well. Daevid saw some videos on YouTube and we sent him some recordings and he said, ‘Guys, this is the band. This is what Gong is now.’”

Indeed, when the new incarnation began playing without Allen, there was a weird magic at work, which wasn’t all that surprising to those concerned. As Torabi likes to point out, Gong is the only band – other than Magma – with its own planet.

“For Daevid, Gong always had to be upwards-moving, always traveling upwards with a positive energy, embracing all ideas and cultures. It was this ascending thing,” Torabi said. “For me, there are elements in Gong now that we don’t have. For instance, fans will ask why don’t we do space whispers? As far as I’m concerned, Gilli (Smyth) owned that. It would seem really bogus and really contrived if we brought in someone to do the Gilli thing. By the same token, people will ask why we don’t have synths, like Tim Blake. If we did that, we’d be like a tribute band. This kinda works like this, you know?

“There’s also the kind of silliness that Daevid brought to things. I can’t do that, but I hope I can bring a sense of joy and fun while tapping into the spiritual side of it. Effectively, I’m trying to fulfill the role of a shaman, acting as a conduit from one world to the other. To me, music is a shamanic act. There’s this whole world of music that you try to funnel and present. I can do this but I can’t do the pothead pixies and octave doctors and that whole Gong mythology because that was Daevid’s trip. He had already put that to bed anyway. It’s about taking what inspired us about Gong in the first place and then channeling that.”

By the time Allen passed away in March 2015, the die had already been cast. Torabi was ready to help the band carry on the legacy of its founder in any way that he could. He had been collecting Gong-like riffs for most of his musical career anyway – “Gong always had the best riffs,” he says – and now he had an outlet for them.

“I went from being very skeptical about my place in the band to having to embrace it, which for me meant making a new record,” he said. “We did some more touring, but for me it was all about making a good record. If we couldn’t make a record worthy of being called Gong – it still sounds like us without aping the past – there would be no point. In the end, I am really proud of what we were able to do. I felt like Rejoice I’m Dead was a really good album.”

Torabi said the success of the new Gong rests on the talents of the musicians who now comprise the band.

Brazilian guitarist Fabio Golfetti has a long history with Allen, having formed The Invisible Opera Company nearly three decades ago. It was Allen’s dream to have a collective of musicians on each continent and Golfetti headed the South American contingent. Bassist Dave Sturt, who recorded three albums with Jade Warrior, has been playing with Gong for the better part of a decade. Woodwinds player Ian East is a Royal Academy of Music graduate and a noted session musician.

“Quite honestly, the chemistry has been extraordinary,” Torabi said. “I’ve been playing in bands since I was a kid and it’s so rare to find a band that captures the actual magic. Everybody is in the right place. It just totally works.”

All of the members of Gong are songwriters, so the development of new Gong music is a relatively organic process. New ideas abound. “Whenever anybody submits an idea, we all work on it,” Torabi said. “In Gong, the philosophy is, ‘Don’t submit an idea unless you’re happy to have it completely ripped apart and changed.’ If you’re really married to something, save it for your own band. You understand that different people bring different ideas.”

For Torabi, music is expressing the unexpressable and the music of Gong, by definition, defies categorization. And yet there is clearly a sound – or at least a musical spirit – that is embodied by those who fly in the band’s orbit.

“You hope we are honoring Daevid’s legacy respectfully, but we also have to own it and make it our band, too. There are things that are inherently Gong and I can’t put my finger on all of them, but when we are writing, there are things that sound really good, but they’re just not Gong. There was a track we recorded for the last album and it sounded too much like one of my things. We ended up putting it out as a bonus and a lot of people really like it, but I thought it stuck out.”

Although he is an integral part of the two bands, Torabi views Knifeworld and Gong as separate entities.

“To me, it’s important that each band lives in its own universe,” he said. “I’m good at compartmentalizing. When I’m doing Gong, I’m only doing Gong. Some people can be in one band by day and then be mixing their other band at night, but I can’t. When I’m in Gong World, I’m only there. When I’m writing for Knifeworld, I’m only thinking about that band – that drummer, that keyboard player, that singer and those horn players. I’m writing songs to be arranged and played by Knifeworld.

“No matter which bands you play in, it’s all part of your body of work. It’s all part of the journey. Obviously what you’ve been doing influences the next thing. It often makes you change your approach. If I had not joined Gong, it is very possible that Knifeworld might have become much heavier. Gong is really powerful, so full-on and very riffy. It made me pull that side out of Knifeworld. Because Gong was scratching that itch, I suddenly wanted to make Knifeworld softer and more gentle. It’s a very different band now. Knifeworld used to rock a lot more.”

While Torabi looks at both bands differently from a musical perspective, his performance style is very similar. On stage, he evokes a contemporary cross between Marc Bolan and Kevin Ayers, his full head of hair bouncing to the beat while sporting a paisley jacket or large polka dot shirt.

“I love playing dress up,” he said. “For me, a great part of being in a band is dressing up. I never get these guys who turn up in band T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans and white trainers. I know there’s a perfectly good argument to say it’s all about the music, that it shouldn’t matter what you wear. I get that, but music is a magical experience and going to a gig should be a transformative experience. It goes back to the shamanic thing.

“You’ve got to present yourself as something more. You’ve got to turn it into this magical experience. When you see a good show, you come out changed. That’s alchemy. It’s the changing of base metals into gold. When we play, we hopefully turn the venue into a psychedelic temple. When you dress up – and I found this in Cardiacs as well – it’s not just camouflage. When you put on crazy, colorful clothes, you’re not just going to look at your feet. You become the character.”

In both Gong and Knifeworld, Torabi continues to seek new sounds. “I can’t articulate what is,” he said. “There’s a place I’m trying to reach and I keep thinking I’m getting closer. It may be one of those things that is an illusion, like trying to reach the end of the rainbow. You think you’re nearly there and you never quite get there. It’s like a mirage, but the journey to get there is great.

“When you’re writing, there’s something you’re trying to say. Often it’s different with each tune. There’s something you’re trying to get to the heart of and you never quite get there, but while you’re making music, you’re always thinking, ‘Maybe this time.’ Sometimes I feel like I’ve gotten closer to it than others. You never stop searching, never stop trying to get the center of the bullseye.

“I used to be far more anxious about things. Throughout my 20s, there was always that element of being desperate to ‘make it.’ It’s always driving you and it can get in the way of making sensible decisions. When you’re ambitious, you can get the feeling that time is running out.

“To still be able to make music at age 46 leaves me extremely excited. Look where it’s gotten me. I can’t believe that because I didn’t pay attention in school and I liked some weird-ass music and stuck with it, that I ended up here. It’s extraordinary.”

Energetic and effusive in his musical pursuits, Torabi has found true contentment in the dual purpose of Knifeworld and Gong. He is working on a solo record that he hopes will allow him to play occasional solo gigs, but his heart remains with both bands. He talks of taking Knifeworld in a new direction, possibly exploring extended pieces played in a Steve Reich-meets-Swans style. Gong will always be Gong, no matter who is in the band.

“It’s a weird thing,” he said. “By the time 1975 came along, Daevid was out of Gong and the band had gone in a different direction with jazz fusion, but it was still Gong. Now we’re in a new phase. We’re the guys currently steering the craft and pointing the nose towards the sun. We’re the ones riding this ship now and at some point we’ll get off and someone else is going to get onto it and then steer it somewhere else.”

Pokey Reddick is mild-mannered, quiet and unassuming. He looks more meek than menacing, more demure than defiant. He certainly is not an imposing figure. In fact, you could say he’s diminutive, except that’s too big a word for a guy so small by professional athletic standards.

But appearances can be deceiving. Like Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, and countless others, Pokey Reddick transforms himself into something remarkable every time he puts on his uniform.

He becomes the fearless defender, the tireless guardian of the goal for the Grand Rapids Griffins. His fans are legion and his powers seemingly extend to every frozen arena across the universe.

Standing bravely in front of his crease, he fends off men more powerful than a locomotive. With reflexes faster than a speeding puck, he is able to leap from his net in a single bound. Snatching bullet-like shots out of mid-air, he becomes the Man of Steal.

There is a mystique to men who wear a mask, and Pokey is no exception. He is, by his own admission, a private person. Some might call him a loner, but that tag is too harsh for a man whose dedication to his game is matched only by his devotion to his family.

He zealously guards his secrets, his superstitions – his pregame routine, if you will – as though he fears they will become kryptonite in the hands of his opponents and bring ruin to his ritualistic concentration.

His concerns are not without basis. The mind is a goalie’s most powerful, but most precarious, artillery. Break his confidence, and it matters little if he has a good glove hand or if he wields a stick with authority. Make a goalie think he’s beaten, and you’ve practically put the puck into the net without shooting.

Anyone can want to play goalie. Having the necessary iron-clad constitution – the mindset for handling the pressures of the position – is another thing. When it comes to playing pro hockey, it’s the difference between life and death.

Numerous goalies have succumbed not to their inability to stop the puck from going into the net, but to their inability to stop thinking about letting the puck go into net.

It’s the kind of negative thinking that finds its message in the maxim, “If you think you can, you’re right. If you think you can’t, you’re right.”

Whereas hockey is not generally regarded as a thinking man’s sport, the play of the goaltender is uncharacteristically cerebral. The puck is his enemy, and stopping it requires all his mental faculties. In that sense, what goes on between the ears often determines what goes in between the posts.

“Playing the game is 90 percent mental,” Reddick said. “You’ve got to be mentally prepared to go out there and put in a good performance every night. I try to stay focused so I can give the team a chance to win.”

A chance. Just a chance. That’s all any goaltender can want. Forget about the screened shot. Don’t think about the puck that bounces off a teammate’s skate into the net. Just stop enough shots to keep your team in the game.

“There’s really no place to hide out there,” Reddick said. “When you’re the goalie, you have to be able to take the heat. There’s not much else you can do but stick it out. That’s just the way it is.”

For Pokey, getting ready for a game is almost as important as the game itself. Mess up your mental preparation and you’re halfway to getting yanked in the second period. And so he plays little mind games to put himself at ease.

“When it’s the day of a game, “I just want to be by myself,” he said. “I don’t want to see anyone, don’t want to talk to anybody. I just want to get out there and get it going out on the ice.”

Reddick, like most hockey players, is an ardent follower of pregame rituals. He closely adheres to a number of routines, rehearsing them religiously without fail, like Superman reciting “Up, up, and away” every time he flies.

“I don’t really think about them as superstitions,” Reddick said. “ Every professional athlete has their own little thing. I just like to keep mine to myself.”

His routines are personal, except when they make headlines, as happened earlier this season when Reddick suffered cramps and dehydration after posting a 1-0 shutout against Indianapolis in the Griffins first-ever game. The team bus was forced to make an unscheduled stop because Reddick took ill as a result of a “routine” that kept him from drinking any water during the contest.

Goalies aren’t alone in their superstitions. Even the most casual observer of hockey has probably noticed the procession of players who poke the goalie with their sticks immediately before each period of play.

Reddick remembers a season when he had to skate out toward the blue line so a certain player could skate a complete circle around him, then tap him on the shoulders and knees before play could begin.

Talk to him about these superstitions and frankly he doesn’t seem to care. “I have mine, they have theirs, and I don’t want to be the guy wrecking theirs,” Reddick said.

And so a certain piece of equipment becomes a security blanket, a five o’clock shadow becomes a five-day-old beard – all for the sake of keeping a hot hand or a winning streak going.

Need to change your luck? Change your routine. “Those things come and go, believe me,” Reddick said. “If you’re chewing a piece of gum and they don’t score, that gum stays in. If things aren’t going right, you change fast.”

Luck, despite talk about proper technique and equipment, is still a prominent player in determining one’s success in goal. “There’s no one ingredient that makes a person a good goaltender other than luck,” Reddick said. “It takes a little of this, a little of that, but a whole lot of luck.”

So a goalie learns to take the bad with the good, knowing that his fate may very well change the next game. It was an important lesson imparted on the young Pokey by his first – and most important – teacher: his father, Stan.

“He told me that I’d get zinged some nights and that I shouldn’t worry about it. My dad talked to me a lot. He’d ask me, ‘Are you having fun out there? That’s all that really matters, that you’re having fun.’”

And so Dad spent a lot of time with his son, making sure he enjoyed himself on the ice. “My dad taught me everything,” said Reddick, who grew up in the Toronto area. “When you’re a goalie, it means spending a lot more time with you.”

Hours upon hours were devoted to teaching the youngster the tricks of the trade. The father fired bullet after bullet at the Slapshot Superboy, the little masked marvel who had a knack for stopping almost everything his father sent in his direction.

“If you’re a forward, you can practice more on your own. You can deke out a can or shoot pucks all day,” Reddick said. “A goalie has to have someone shooting at him. He can’t practice alone. My dad spent a lot of time with me.”

No matter how prepared a kid may think he is, though, junior hockey in Canada is a rude awakening for many teenagers. Reddick gave up seven goals in his first game with the Billings Bighorns in 1981-82, and his Western Hockey League stats during the three years that followed hardly suggested that he was destined to one day see his name on the Stanley Cup.

In 66 games with the Nanaimo Islanders during the 1982-83 season, he had a goals-against average of 6.48. The following season, that number dropped to 4.40 in 50 games for the New Westminster Bruins, but the average was back up to 5.64 during the 1984-85 season when he played 47 games for the Brandon Wheat Kings.

Numbers, however, can be deceiving.

“I wanted to play for a team where I could face a lot of shots and work on my game,” said Reddick, who passed up a chance to play for a better team like the Peterborough Petes, a hockey club that has had the likes of Wayne Gretzky and Steve Yzerman over the years.

“As a kid, you don’t really want to be on the best team if you’re a goalie,” Reddick said. “If you’re only seeing seven or eight shots a period, how much can you learn? You’re better off facing 60 to 70 shots a game.”

If Pokey was going to learn how to stop shots, he was going to do it the hard way. “In juniors, my defense was always heading up ice. I learned a lot about facing breakaways,” he said.

Bad stats matter little when you’re standing on your head. Reddick’s acrobatic abilities quickly earned the eyes of the prospectors who are paid to unearth new talent. “The scouts know what they’re looking for,” he said.

He signed with the Fort Wayne Komets in the International Hockey League during the late stages of the 1984-85 season and the following year led the IHL with three shutouts and a goals-against average of 3.05. His play earned him an NHL ticket to snowy Winnipeg where he played the next three seasons.

“It didn’t matter where I played. It could have been China. As long as it was the NHL, I didn’t care,” he said.

Reddick was an instant hit with Winnipeg fans. Sharing the net with Daniel Berthiaume, Reddick helped the 1986-87 Jets make the playoffs by registering a record of 21-21-4 with a 3.24 goals-against average. “The fans were really good to me there,” he said. :I was one of the more popular guys on the team.”

Of course, Reddick heard his share of boos – “If you don’t get booed by fans in the course of 80 games, something’s not right,” he says – and by his third season in Winnipeg, he was ready to move on. On Sept. 28, 1989, he was traded by the Jets to Edmonton for future considerations.

It was a storybook opportunity.

Although he played sparingly behind Bill Ranford, Reddick would get the chance to accomplish something that most hockey players can only dream about – winning the Stanley Cup.

“Getting a Stanley Cup ring is the ultimate goal of every player,” he said. “One of the reasons you play hockey is to get your name on the Cup. I know guys who played the game 18 years and didn’t get so much as a handshake when they left.”

Reddick rarely wears his ring – “I’ve only worn it once or twice,” he says – out of deference to his current teammates. “I’m here in Grand Rapids to try to help this team win the Turner Cup,” he said, referring to the IHL’s ultimate honor.

He accomplished the task in 1993 when he helped the Fort Wayne Komets win the championship by going an amazing 12-0 in the playoffs with a phenomenal 1.49 goals-against average.

It’s been said that while some of the Komets players were hoisting the Turner Cup during the celebratory post-game skate, the rest of the team was holding Pokey above their heads.

Reddick’s playoff performance was indeed remarkable – even for a guy who had gone 33-16-4 during the regular season, including a long winning streak to close out the season.

“I can’t explain it, other than to say it’s just a feeling you get,” he said. “The puck doesn’t look any bigger. You just get into a groove. It’s like going to work every day and knowing that everything is going right. You just can’t wait to get back to work.”

And then there are days when he wishes he never climbed out of bed. Getting pulled by the coach after one too many goals is a sick feeling to which no netminder ever becomes accustomed.

“You can’t worry about it. If it happens, it happens,” he said. “You can’t worry about things beyond your control. Sometimes you might not be playing that badly, but the coach will make the change in hopes of firing up the team.”

It’s after playing a particularly poor game that Reddick appreciates his family. If Pokey has a weak spot, it’s in his heart.

His family – wife Melissa, seven-year-old son Bryce, and three-year-old daughter Jenna – clearly rank ahead of winning any Stanley Cup or Turner Cup or any other league championship.

“Life is a little more important,” he said with obvious understatement. “The hockey stuff is something I’ll appreciate when I’m done playing. Nothing can compare to seeing the birth of my kids.”

And kids have a way of bringing superheroes back to earth. “I’ll come home after playing a brutal game and Bryce will come to me and say, “Dad, help me with my homework.’ It could feel like the worst day in my life and the kids will say something that picks me up.”

Bryce is already a talented little athlete – he plays baseball, basketball, and soccer, besides hockey – but Reddick is not crazy about the idea of his son becoming a goalie like his father or his Uncle Stan, Pokey’s younger brother, who plays in Europe.

“I want him to enjoy being a regular little boy,” Reddick said. “It’s not so much the pressure I worry about, it’s that I want him to avoid the comparisons. I don’t want him worrying about being compared to his dad.”

Reddick knows what it is like to live with expectations. For years, he heard he was too small. He is listed at 5-feet-8, but standing next to him, you figure that measurement must have been made when he was standing on his toes.

Fact is, Pokey plays bigger than whatever height he may be listed at. “People have always said that I’m too small,” he said. “I’m playing my 12th professional season. I’ve proven those people wrong.

“Size is all in tour heart.”

Before coming to Grand Rapids, Reddick played the last two years in Las Vegas. He makes his home in nearby Henderson, Nevada, where he enjoys gardening, golfing, and fishing. “I spend most of my time with my family,” he said.

His family is the reason he has only passing interest in playing in the NHL again. “I had a couple of opportunities to go up the last couple of years, but you get tired of moving here, moving there.”

Even so, he hasn’t lost his desire to play. “I enjoy the game. I wouldn’t play the game if I didn’t,” he said. “I’m still learning. I’m still having fun.”

And fun is something every kid – no matter what superhero they might have imagined themselves to be – can understand.

Originally published in Griffiti Magazine.

“He’d let me sit on the stool and I’d bang upon the piano, but he never got angry and made me leave,” Charles reminisced. “He was probably the biggest influence on my career, because I don’t know if I’d be doing what I am today if it wasn’t for him.”

Of course, Charles likely could become a ragtime piano player in a Southern barrelhouse. But his interests and ambitions were much greater.

He was destined to become one of the most influential performers in the history of modern music.

Charles, 51, will be appearing in concert Saturday at 8 p.m. in the DeVos Hall of the Grand Center. Joining him on stage will be the Raeletts and his 17-piece Ray Charles Orchestra.

Few musicians have been so efficient in switching musical styles as Charles. He’s been comfortable playing jazz, gospel, blues, soul, country/western and pop, the many interests coming from his formulative years as a piano player.

“When I was a boy, anything that was music excited me,” said Charles, who went blind from glaucoma during his childhood. “I didn’t care what it was. I’d listen to everything. But as I got older, I became more discriminating.”

Still, the multifaceted Charles doesn’t believe in delineating musical styles.

“If somebody’s got a good song, it doesn’t matter what it is.”

It was 1962, in fact, that Charles recorded his landmark album Modern Sounds in Country and Western. The disc shocked many critics, but one of the singles, “I Can’t Stop Lovin’ You,” went on to sell more than 3 million copies.

The record, a significant departure from his jazz and soul stance, proved to be one of his most successful. So it shouldn’t be surprising to find that Charles is preparing another country album, due for release sometime this fall.

“It’ll have a country and western flavor, but it’ll be different from the album I made back in the ‘60s,” he said. “It’s country, but it’s me. The music’s contemporary and has more of a soul feeling than a jazz sound.”

Among the songs Charles might include on the record are compositions by Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, George Jones, and Willie Nelson. Like always, he’s being very selective about what he’ll use.

He canvassed some 300 songs when he recorded his first country LP.

“I’m one of those people who like to play strictly what I feel. If I don’t record a song, it doesn’t mean the song’s no good, it’s just that I wasn’t able to get the right feeling out of it. I do what my heart tells me.”

When he’s looking for a good song, it’s usually the lyrics which first attract Charles’ attention.

“I like the words to say something to me. The lyrics have got to have some substance and meaning. It’s like Ray Stevens’ song, ‘The Streak,’ from a few years ago. To me that song was a very clever, well-done thing.

“But if a song doesn’t have good lyrics, then it has to at least have some exciting, rhythmic pattern, like my song ‘What’d I Say.’ Lyrically it was not what you’d call very well-done, but it had that beat. Man, you could hear it everywhere.”

“What’d I Say” was one of the pivotal songs in Charles’ career. Along with “I Got a Woman,” it drew kudos for its daring mixture of spirited black gospel with sexy pop melodies.

That combination was, for the most part, the genesis of soul music as it was to become known.

The influence Charles has had on other musicians cannot be denied. He’s been credited as the inspiration for such diverse rock artists as Joe Cocker, Eric Burdon and Steve Winwood as well as countless jazz, blues and country performers.

Frank Sinatra once called him “the only genius in the business,” to which Charles replies:

“Art Tatum, he might have been a genius. Or Charlie Parker or somebody like Einstein, but not me. I just do what I do. Everything I do is natural. I’m glad people feel I’m making some kind of contribution.”

Charles has drawn much of his own inspiration from such people as balladeer Charles Brown, blues guitarist T-Bone Walker and especially, the swing of Nat “King” Cole.

“Nat Cole was a tremendous influence. I loved his music. He did what I always wanted to do – he was able to play the piano very tastefully and gracefully behind his singing. When I was young, I tried my best to imitate him.”

Fortunately, Charles became convinced that he was better off trying to be himself. His trend-setting music in following years helped change the face of American pop music.

Among the classic tunes he’s performed are “Hit the Road Jack,” Hoagy Carmichael’s “Georgia on My Mind,” Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Some Enchanted Evening,” and Stevie Wonder’s “Living for the City.”

Charles still works about eight months a year, roughly from late April to mid-December.

“Thank the Lord I’m blessed in that I’m still working. With the economy the way it is these days and so many people out of jobs, I think I’ve been real lucky.”

His concerts are still well-attended, Charles said, even though the average American is beginning to have trouble making the wallet stretch with rising ticket prices.

“I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, but so far we’ve come out good.”

Charles has no intention of slowing down.

“As long as people come to hear me and appreciate listening to my music, God knows I want to play it. I’ll keep performing until the good Lord says enough is enough.”

When he finally retires, what does he want people to remember about Ray Charles?

“I just hope that somebody can say, ‘You know that the music Ray played was always what he felt.’ Because that’s what it is. I want to be remembered for music that was really and truly sincere.”

Originally published May 14, 1982.

“It’s in our heritage,” Bennett said. “It’s the individual who excited the world about our country. It was people like Thomas Edison, Fred Astaire, and others who helped bring attention to America.”

Bennett talked about the importance of being inventive while relaxing in the Lumber Baron Bar of the Amway Grand Plaza Hotel Tuesday afternoon. He was in town for a performance in DeVos Hall for the annual Spartan Stores Convention and Trade Show.

“After the Beatles, you had 30,000 groups trying to sound like them, but where did it get them?” Bennett said. “I know I can’t change the world, but nobody likes robots. Add a little creativity and life becomes more worthwhile.”

Best known as the voice behind “I Left My Heart In San Francisco,” Bennett has spent the past 30 years putting his indelible interpretations of pop and jazz classics to work on the stage.

He displayed his unique, jazz-inspired phrasings Tuesday night during his 1-hour and 15-minute show that covered songs by Richard Rodgers, Michel Legrand, Duke Ellington and Irving Berlin, among others.

Certainly, his longevity can be traced, in part, to his exacting taste for standards of the modern era.

“I guess I’ve always managed to hang around with the best songs,” he said. “I like songs that show craftsmanship, songs that don’t go out of date.”

Songs such as Ellington’s “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” stamp Bennett’s repertoire as one that yearns for yesterday.

“It’s loose, spontaneous, honest-to-God music,” he said. “I’m not singing the same notes night after night or it would become boring. That’s why I’ll add a turn of phrase to fit the atmosphere of the room.”

Bennett, who cherishes the big band era for its contribution to music, says the 1930s and composers such as Jerome Kern, Irving Berlin, Harry Warren, and George Gershwin will always retain a special place in his heart.

But he has his favorites among contemporary artists as well.

“I think there are a few contemporary songwriters – people like Billy Joel, Stevie Wonder and Lionel Richie – who are really saying something to people,” he said.

“They are the guys who are proving that there are still standards being written today. I find that there’s always new songs coming out that I wish I had recorded.”

Bennett has stated that he wishes the rhythmic pulse of today’s “caveman” music would be toned down for the sake of melody.

“You always have to have a beat, but we need to put the accent back on the melodic form,” he said, advocating the development of “a more mature popular music.”

He performed a couple of tunes Tuesday, including the encore “Fly Me To The Moon,” without the benefit of microphone amplification, evoking the intimate image of a surviving singer from a bygone era.

Modern technology, he says, can’t ruin the spirit of music. Hence, he tours with a simple trio comprised of pianist Ralph Sharon, acoustic bassist Jon Burr and drummer Joe LaBarbera.

“Nothing’s going to replace the soul,” Bennett said. “A mechanical instrument can do many things, but it can’t conjure up feeling.”

Bennett approaches his music as an art form and it’s no wonder as he has been painting and performing ever since he attended the School of Industrial Art in New York City.

Signing his paintings with his given name, Anthony Benedetto, he has had one-man exhibitions in the world’s finest art galleries and has sold his work for as much as $10,000.

“I’ve done all sorts of painting, but lately I’ve been interested in portraits,” he said. “I’ve been studying it for two years with Basil Baylin on 57th Street in New York. He’s really good.”

While his music and painting allow him to stay active mentally, Bennett keeps physically in shape by playing tennis almost daily. As a result, with a youthful smile, he looks much younger than his years.

“A little philosophy goes a long ways in the morning,” he said. “My ambition is to get better as I get older. For me, it means staying healthy and being consistent with my work.”

Bennett, who long ago accepted the road as a way of life, is looking forward to touring Europe this fall. Of course, the classic, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” will be on the bill.

“I owe many of the great moments in my career to the song,” said Bennett, who claims to have sung the song about “the most beautiful city in the world” for presidents, various heads of state, and royalty.

“It’s been like a lucky charm for me,” he added. “In all the seasons and places I’ve performed that song, I’ve never met a person who didn’t like it.”

Originally publishes August 22, 1984.

It’s less than an hour before his band, Porcupine Tree, is scheduled to take the stage, but at the moment Wilson is enthusiastically digging into a bag of Ruffles potato chips. Not the single serving size, but the family size, if you will.

In a peculiar way, it’s a bit of a perplexing image because, you see, Wilson has the physique of Jack Sprat, the guy who could eat no fat in that nursery rhyme you may have learned as a child. The picture of a skinny kid loading up on fat-filled potato chips presents a dichotomy of sorts, but then Wilson thrives on confounding expectations – a musician of boundless energy whose plethora of projects suggests that he may burn CDs even faster than he burns calories.

One can’t imagine Wilson sitting still for too long, so determined is he to march down every musical avenue that catches his peripatetic fancy, anxious to exorcise every demon along the way. He has found his outlets in musical projects as diverse as No-Man, Bass Communion and IEM – not to mention a myriad of miscellaneous productions, from a post-Marillion Fish to fragile Nordic songstress Anja Garbarek to majestic Swedish metal kings Opeth.

At present, however, his focus is squarely on Porcupine Tree. The band recently released its first major label-sponsored outing, In Absentia, on Lava Records, a mercurial label that has scored big over the past decade with acts like Kid Rock, Matchbox Twenty, and Sugar Ray.

Needless to say, Wilson is excited about what the deal means for his creation. “Hopefully, it means that we are finally on a level playing field. That is, in the sense that I’ve always felt Porcupine Tree is a band that had the potential to sell millions of records,” he said.

That may sound like an audacious statement flying in the face of all the nu-metal boy bands clogging up the Billboard charts. But Wilson is nothing but an articulate champion for his music. Porcupine Tree, of course, has been his vision since he first created an entirely fictional history of a legendary ‘70s group, complete with non-existent band members and imaginary discography.

“Although our records are quite ambitious and they’re quite experimental in their own way, I still think there’s potentially a very good mainstream audience for the music,” he said. “Of course, the problem in the past is we couldn’t get to that audience because the music we play doesn’t really fit into any genre. It’s difficult to market music that is essentially genre-less.

“At the same time, it’s been frustrating to see bands that we felt were potentially less commercially viable getting the big push – getting the big marketing dollars, the expensive videos, the promotion – in other words, all the financial clout you get from a major record label.”

“We’ve really had to work on word-of-mouth and the Internet aspect of developing our following, which we’ve done and will continue to do, but it takes a long time. With the support of Lava, it’s like a level-playing field now. If the record doesn’t do well this time, then perhaps it’s just not meant to be.”

Lest one concludes that Wilson might throw in the towel should In Absentia tanks, be assured that he is not pinning all hopes on this one record. Nor are the people at Lava. The band’s deal with the label is for a minimum of two albums.

“I think they realize we’re not the kind of band that’s going to necessarily be an overnight success – if at all,” he said. “They’re a great label and they’re absolutely committed to us.”

Wilson, it seems, is tired of working in relative anonymity – even if it means he may no longer stroll into the local Reckless Records store and comb through the vinyl bins unnoticed as he did before the band’s recent Chicago gig. And yet, as much as he hungers for mainstream success, Wilson is not interested in compromising his vision for the band.

“We wouldn’t have signed any record deal if we couldn’t retain complete creative and artistic control,” he said. “And that just doesn’t apply to the music. It’s the packaging, the choice of paper the cover’s printed on, all those things which are very important to the Porcupine Tree aesthetic.”

Wilson is particularly excited about what it means for Porcupine Tree from a visual standpoint. Having the financial weight of a major label behind the band means he can delve deeper into the music’s cinematic qualities.

“The visual side of the band is something that we’ve always wanted to explore – it’s always been a big part of my ideology for the band,” he said. “The problem, of course, is it’s very hard to do anything good with video without having a lot of money.”

The CD release of In Absentia includes the “Strip the Soul” video. It’s a twisted treatment of a dark track filled with devilishly demented images that are disturbing in a ways that one might associate with the band Tool. The video was directed by John Blackford, who designed the sleeve for the Signify album as well as the new record.

“It’s very, very dark – all shot in sepia tone – and a very disturbing piece,” Wilson said. “It’s not meant to be the single. It’s purely a breakout-type video, designed to get people interested in the Porcupine Tree name.”

A bigger push will be reserved for the release of the first single, “Blackest Eyes,” with a video to be directed by Mike Bennion, who helmed the band’s “Piano Lessons” video on a limited budget. “I think he’s a genius with a great vision,” Wilson said. “He’s made a lot of adverts and short films and I’ve done a lot of music for his work.”

Exploring the cinematic characteristics of Porcupine Tree presents a peculiar dilemma for the band, however. The music generally suggests surreal and dark images of the type not exactly designed for VH1.

But Wilson isn’t one to conform his artistic vision to commercial standards. He is enamored of films by the Brothers Quay, the identical twins who employ puppet animation and miniaturized sets to create breathtakingly unforgettable worlds and landscapes of long-repressed childhood nightmares.

The Quays, who have directed videos for His Name Is Alive, Michael Penn, 16 Horsepower, and Peter Gabriel, most recently collaborated with celebrated avant-garde composer Karlheinz Stockhausen. The title of their stunning 20-minute film? In Absentia.

Talking about the influence of film on his songwriting, Wilson also affirms his admiration for the artistry of David Fincher (Seven) and Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Delicatessen, City of Lost Children). But his real affection is reserved for David Lynch, who has been exploring the unconventional since Eraserhead.

“David Lynch has always been a big influence,” Wilson said. “My favorite film of his is The Elephant Man, followed probably by Blue Velvet – those films captured the perfect balance between the surreal and the narrative for me.”

To Wilson, the loony Lynch is a champion of the iconoclastic ideal, the craftsman who bravely pursues his own personal vision without bowing to the commercial forces that homogenize so much art. Like Frank Zappa (another Wilson hero), Lynch tests his audience’s allegiance by defying expectations.

“I don’t think you cater to an audience. I think you create an audience,” he said. “For me, the word ‘cater’ is an anathema. I think if you cater to an audience, you basically end up in a trap.”

Wilson admires the ability of people like Zappa and Lynch to attain success playing by their own rules, or lack thereof. “Frank Zappa created an audience from zero, from scratch,” Wilson said. “Who else could possibly expect to maintain an audience when one minute he’s making a classical record, a jazz record the next and then a doo-wop record?”

Defy audience’s expectations and they’re more likely to accept your adventurous, artistic excursions, Wilson suggests. “I think Porcupine Tree has created an audience that expects us to change, that expects us to confront their musical tastes and musical preferences with a few exceptions.”

Wilson is surprised whenever fans question the necessity of Porcupine Tree to explore new directions, whether it’s the addition of beautiful four-part vocal harmonies or bone-rattling metal guitar.

“I think there are people who discovered us around the early years and thought we were going to be a space-rock band. Maybe there were others who discovered us around the time of The Sky Moves Sideways who thought we were going to be a generic progressive rock band.

“I’m happy to have upset those people, because they’re not really the kind of people who are going to be long-term fans of the band anyway. The fans who are going to stick with us are the people who are interested in new ideas and are prepared to listen to a record and say, ‘I don’t really get this record, but it’s Porcupine Tree, so I’m going to listen to it another time.’

“I don’t know about you, but all the records I love the most are records I didn’t like the first time I heard them. I thought Captain Beefheart’s Trout Mask Replica was unbearable the first time I heard it and now it’s one of my favorite albums of all time.”

Wilson has always thrived on exploring all types of music. While he cites the usual suspects – The Beatles, The Doors, Pink Floyd, King Crimson – he is not too proud to admit that he listens to everything from the Carpenters to XTC, Frank Sinatra to Slayer. He’ll tell you that he loves the production on the first seven Moody Blues records, the introspective songwriting of Nick Drake, and the experimentalism of everybody from Nine Inch Nails to Tool to Radiohead.

The son of an electronic engineer, Wilson grew up experimenting with music, plunging himself into the world of overdubbing, thanks to a multi-track tape machine that his father made for him when he was 12 years old. But his love of music was born even earlier. He remembers one particular Christmas when he was eight or nine years old and his parents bought LPs for each other: Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon for his father and Donna Summer’s Love to Love You Baby for his mother.

Hearing those records in “heavy rotation,” Wilson experienced aural osmosis, soaking up the influence of Pink Floyd’s experimental, album-oriented rock and the groove/trance sound exemplified by Summer’s side-long disco.

His musical upbringing was enhanced by the fact that his formative years were spent in the creatively bereft 1980s, a blessing in disguise. Disillusioned by the plastic, formulaic sounds of the time, the London-born Wilson found inspiration by looking backward – unearthing not only the British progressive bands of the ‘70s, but seeking out German bands like Can and Tangerine Dream.

Of course, this led to a massive record collection, not to mention an album aesthetic to which he still subscribes – a philosophy that records should be considered complete artistic statements, that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Being musically adventurous, Wilson naturally found himself gravitating toward progressive music. Jethro Tull, Electric Light Orchestra, Caravan, PFM, even Gryphon – he’s listened to it all. But upon reflection, it was in the spirit of moving forward, not looking behind.

It’s no surprise that some Porcupine Tree fans were aghast when it was announced the band would open for Yes on selected dates during Yes’ fall 2002 tour of the U.S. But Wilson has never eschewed idea of progressive rock per se. What irks him is to have his band pigeon-holed in any genre.

In fact, he found it laughably ironic that some fans have criticized the band’s recent forays into heavier sounds. “Every time we change, some people say, ‘Oh, I’m disappointed. I don’t like the new direction. Why can’t you stay the same? We always get that – always, always, always. I can’t believe these people don’t get it.

“If they want a band to make the same record over and over again, they should listen to AC/DC or Ozric Tentacles – bands that don’t really change and keep making the same record over and over, bless them, for better or worse. That’s never been what this band is about.

“The Porcupine Tree ideology has always been about progressing in the true sense of the word. You can’t stand still – it gets boring. At the same time, I do sympathize with those people who are disappointed with a record. I can understand that. What I can’t accept is any criticism along the lines of ‘They shouldn’t have done this.’

In order for us to keep progressing, to keep the band moving and evolving, we’ve got to keep changing. It’s the people who complain that we’ve sold out by doing certain things that annoy me because they clearly never understood what the band was about in the first place.”

Over the last few years, Wilson has become increasingly enamored of the extreme metal scene, from Opeth to Slayer to Meshuggah. Naturally, some of those sounds have crept into the music of Porcupine Tree. In fact, advance buzz about In Absentia suggested the album would be the band’s heaviest sounding record to date.

“I don’t think it’s as heavy as people might have been led to believe,” Wilson said. “People jumped to the conclusion that it was going to be like Opeth, you know, real heavy. It’s not. It’s an assimilation of that kind of heaviness – those heavy, grinding riffs with a much more attacking guitar sound and more dynamic drums – into a Porcupine Tree texture.”

Actually, the record might have been heavier if Wilson was truly the benevolent dictator everyone assumes he must be as the group’s de facto leader. But he claims that he was overruled when his bandmates heard the demos.

“I think it’s a good thing to have a band democracy, in the sense that I think some of the things I wrote for the record in the really heavy vein might have gone over the edge into pastiche,” he said. “I think that would have been a mistake.”

While willing to admit the heaviest stuff might not have been right for Porcupine Tree, Wilson believes the material merits release sometime in the future. He talks about starting another band as an outlet for his more metal-oriented moments, or possibly doing a project with Mikael Akerfeldt of Opeth.

For the time being, Wilson is trying to stay focused on Porcupine Tree. It’s not easy for someone who thrives on exploring every nook and cranny of the creative process. “I get offered a lot of stuff, but obviously I’ve got to be committed to the band right now because we’re signed to a major label and they’re paying us a lot of money,” he said. “I really have to be available to do a lot of touring, promoting, and to start writing songs for the next record.

“I can’t see myself being able to get involved in another project the way I have in the past, with a two- or three-month commitment. I’m producing Opeth again, but I’m making an exception for them because I think they’re so good and they’re very good friends of mine.”

Working with Opeth on the band’s Blackwater Park release, it seems, left a particularly strong impression on Wilson. He talks about the experience as being part of his “learning curve,” another step in his musical evolution as an artist.

After recording Porcupine Tree’s Lightbulb Sun, he began writing material for In Absentia. He found himself unable to shake the whole metal obsession.

“Although I loved some of the tracks I’d written, they were very, very heavy and possibly sounded too much like the influences,” said Wilson, who concedes that he wrote In Absentia as a reaction to Lightbulb Sun.

“I wanted this record to be much more edgy, much darker, much more about volume and energy,” he said. “I pretty much made up my mind when I started writing the album that it was going to be more in your face – in some ways the opposite of the last record, which, with a couple of moments excluded, was pretty mellow and fairly laid back.”

And so the new album works through its aggressions on tracks such as “Blackest Eyes,” “Wedding Nails,” “The Creator Has a Mastertape,” and “Strip the Soul.” But Wilson knows the value of having light with dark, that strong album dynamics depend on producing a balance of material.

“The record has a trio of songs – “Lips of Ashes,” “Heart Attack in a Layby,” and “Collapse the Light into Earth” – that are possibly the most beautiful, stripped-down things we’ve ever done,” Wilson said. “I’m very, very pleased with them.”

“Collapse the Light into Earth,” in particular, may surprise people with its heavenly chorus and a stunningly lovely , lilting string arrangement by Dave Gregory of XTC fame.

“It’s actually a very diverse record, as all our records are,” Wilson said. “The extremes may have been pushed slightly further, but I think it all hangs together. Most everyone who’s heard it thinks it’s the strongest we’ve ever done.”

In Absentia features contributions from new drummer Gavin Harrison, who came aboard after the band parted ways with Chris Maitland, and John Wesley, who will contribute vocals and guitars as a touring member of the band. Bassist Colin Edwin and keyboardist Richard Barbieri remain key contributors to the band, from the standpoint of establishing musical direction as well as performance.

“We’re all very different, we come from very different backgrounds and all have very different musical tastes,” Wilson said. “So I figure if the band likes the material, it’s probably got a good chance that it’ll appeal to a lot of people out there.”

Porcupine Tree got a positive reception for its new material when the band played a 12-city, one-month tour this past summer in preparation for its fall 2002 trek through North America, a balance of headline gigs and dates opening for Yes.

“We hadn’t played live in about a year, so it was a good rehearsal for what’s going to come now that the album is actually out,” Wilson said. “It’s good for all of us to get back up to speed.”

Rehearsal benefits aside, the summer tour served another purpose. “It was about psyching the record label up,” Wilson said. He admits that he’s not sure where the new disc will take Porcupine Tree, but there are signs the band may be making serious inroads in America’s heartland.

Following their NEARfest appearance, Porcupine Tree was traveling through the Amish countryside of Pennsylvania – beautiful landscapes but the middle of nowhere nonetheless – when they stopped at a little mom-and-pop gas station. The band got out to stretch their legs when a guy pumping gas stopped them dead in their tracks.

Looking at the skinny band member with the long hair, he asked, “Are you Steven Wilson?”

If In Absentia reaches its intended audience, that’s a question the band hopes a lot more people will be asking in the months to come.

Originally published Spring 2003.