The Sky Above the Rain – From the Album “Sounds That Can’t Be Made”

The Litter Picking Dog Walker Writes

In the delicate interplay of life’s sounds, each song is a thread, vibrant with the hues of human emotion, weaving patterns of connection that transcend time and space. The Sky Above the Rain, is not merely a composition of notes and lyrics, but a mirror reflecting the depths of my soul, a vessel carrying the essence of experience across the ocean of existence. It begins as a whisper, a gentle caress of rain upon the earth, nurturing the seeds of feeling buried deep within the heart’s fertile ground. The voice, a blade of truth, slices through the veils of pretence, revealing the raw, unadorned core of our being.

The melody, like a river, flows through the landscape of memory, eroding the banks of resistance, carrying away the sediment of sorrow, leaving behind the gold of understanding. The guitar, a loyal companion on this journey, speaks in tones both tender and fierce, its strings resonating with the dichotomy of human experience – the pain of separation and the joy of reunion. As the song ascends, breaking through the cumulus of confusion, it bathes in the azure expanse, a healing balm for the wounds inflicted by life’s relentless march.

Yet, the cycle continues, the rain returns, a symbol of the eternal recurrence, the dance of creation and dissolution. The voice and guitar, now agents of catharsis, guide us through the labyrinth of introspection, leading us to the sunlit clearing of acceptance. The scream of the guitar, piercing the silence, is the sound of liberation, the shattering of chains that bind us to the past, the illumination of a path forward, lit by the sun’s unwavering resolve.

And as the final notes linger in the air, a bridge forms, spanning the chasm of years, connecting the person I am with the person I was. The message I long to convey, a truth to the growth that time bestows, is a whisper of forgiveness, a declaration of shared humanity. “It was not all your fault,” the words echo, a mantra of reconciliation, an invitation to journey together, hand in hand, towards the horizon of understanding.

For in this song, as in life, there is a recognition of the shared authorship of our stories, the acknowledgment that every heartache, every joy, is but a verse in the greater poem of existence. And in this recognition, there is freedom – the freedom to forgive, to heal, to love, and to lead one another through the ever-unfolding narrative of our lives.

Song Structure

The joy of music, where the soul’s dialect is the universal language, a song like “The Sky Above the Rain” transcends mere sound waves and becomes a vessel for the human experience. The structure of the song is a structure of emotion, each section a different hue of the heart’s spectrum. The introduction, with its gentle piano and synth, is the first brushstroke on a canvas, setting a tone of anticipation.

As the vocals enter in Verse 1, they bring with them the colours of the dawn, a soft light that grows with the coming day. The chorus then rises like the sun, a crescendo of light and sound that touches the zenith of feeling.

Verse 2 deepens the narrative, adding layers to the story told by the instruments, a complexity that mirrors our own inner layers. The repeated chorus is a reaffirmation, a chorus of the soul that resonates with the intensity of lived truth. The instrumental bridge, with its guitar solo, is a moment of introspection, a solo journey through the corridors of self. And as the final chorus arrives, it is the culmination of this musical odyssey, a symphony of all that has come before.

The outro then is the twilight, a gentle descent back to the quiet introspection from whence it began. The instrumentation is the cast of characters in this play of sound. Steve Hogarth’s vocals are the protagonist, a voice laden with the weight of narrative, carrying the story forward with each note. The piano’s role is foundational, the bedrock upon which the emotional depth of the piece is built. Synthesizers add the ethereal, the touch of the otherworldly that lifts the music into the realm of the sublime.

Steve Rothery’s guitar is the journeyman, its melodies a path through the landscape of the song. Pete Trewavas’ bass is the shadow, subtle yet integral, the undercurrent that moves beneath the surface. Ian Mosley’s drums are the heartbeat, the pulse that drives the lifeblood of the piece. Together, they create a harmony that is more than the sum of its parts, a unity of purpose that speaks to the collective journey of existence.

The harmonic and melodic elements are the language through which this story is told. In C major, the song speaks in a key that is bright and open, a space of possibility and hope. The chords are the vocabulary, rich and varied, they paint a soundscape that is both complex and accessible. The melody is the voice, expressive and lyrical, it carries the essence of the message within its range.

The dynamics of the song are not just variations in volume; they are the heartbeat of the piece, pulsating with the ebb and flow of introspection and exuberance. From the whispering verses that speak to the soul’s innermost thoughts to the choruses that rise like a phoenix, igniting the sky with their intensity, the song captures the essence of life’s contrasting moments.

The texture is akin to a cosmic trek as the myriad instruments, each contributing its unique hue and vibrancy. It is an intricate soundscape where each instrument embarks on its own journey yet contributes to the collective odyssey. The introduction, with its gentle piano and synths, is like the first light of dawn, setting the stage for the day’s infinite possibilities. It is a contemplative space, inviting the listener to look inward and find peace in the solitude of their thoughts.

As the song progresses, the instrumental bridge emerges as raw expression. Here, Rothery’s guitar is not just an instrument but a voice, a narrative force that speaks without words, conveying stories etched in the strings. The solo is a testament to the power of music to convey the inexpressible, to reach into the depths of the human experience and draw out the threads of emotion that bind us all.

The final chorus is the crescendo of this symphonic journey, a moment where all elements converge in a maelstrom of sonic power. It is the emotional zenith, where every note, every beat, every breath of the song aligns to create a moment of cathartic release. This is where the sky above the rain is revealed, a metaphorical space where the storms of life give way to the clarity and beauty that lies beyond.

Marillion, through this track, has not just created music; they have sculpted an experience. “The Sky Above the Rain” stands as a monolith in their discography, a beacon of their musical prowess and emotional depth. It is a song that defies the transient nature of sound, lingering in the consciousness long after the final note has faded. It is a reminder that music, in its purest form, reflects life itself – complex, beautiful, and infinitely profound. In this song, Marillion invites us to gaze upward, beyond the tempest and into the serene expanse where the sky kisses the rain, and in that space, find the essence of our own existence.

And the lyrics, they are the poetry of the piece, the distilled essence of emotion that gives voice to the unspoken. They speak of love, loss, and longing, the universal themes that connect us all. They are introspective, a mirror held up to the soul, and poetic, a dance of words that moves with the music. Together, they create a song that is not just heard, but felt, a piece that resonates with the depth of the human experience, a symphony of the sky above and the rain within.

Sanctuary Within: Cherishing Love

In the quiet theatre of her heart, where emotions play the lead roles and reason sits in the audience, she finds herself at a crossroads of affection and self-preservation. She harbours love for him, a love that once blazed like a wildfire, fierce and uncontrolled. Yet, now, she stands amidst the ashes of that inferno, the flames of passion having dwindled to embers.

She does not desire his presence, not as she once did. The fervour that fuelled her yearning has been replaced by a tranquil acceptance of change. She understands the transformation within her, and she knows he senses it too. Denial becomes her script when confronted, for what solace can be found in admitting a love that has evolved beyond the physical realm?

What words are there to speak when the heart’s language has shifted? Silence becomes her response, a poignant pause in their dialogue. And when he extends his hand, seeking the warmth of a connection that once was, she retreats. Not out of spite, nor out of apathy, but from a newfound sanctuary within herself where she cherishes the love, they shared yet honours the path she must walk alone.

This dance of nearness and distance, of holding on and letting go, reflects the complex fission of human relationships. It is a testament to the enduring nature of love, even as it transforms. For love is not static; it is a living, breathing entity that can take on many forms, from the fiery intensity of romance to the serene glow of personal growth.

In this expanded narrative, we witness not just an end, but also a beginning. A beginning of self-discovery, of independence, and of a love that transcends the confines of expectation. It is a journey into the depths of the soul, where the most profound connections are often the ones, we forge with ourselves.

She loves him But she doesn’t want him She used to burn for him But now that’s changed She knows he knows And she says it isn’t so What else can she say? But when he reaches out She turns away.

Wilde: Ah, the paradox of love, Jack. It is like a flame that can warm or scorch, and sometimes it does both. She loves him, you say, yet she recoils at his touch. It is a dance as ancient as time, isn’t it?

Kerouac: It is, Oscar. It is the push and pull of the heart, the yearning for freedom even from the things we desire most. She is a bird that adores the sky but fears the vulnerability of flight.

Wilde: Indeed, and in her hesitation, there is a profound truth. Love is not merely a feeling but a choice, a series of actions and reactions. She is caught in the web of her own making, torn between the safety of the known and the peril of the unknown.

Kerouac: That is the spirit of the road, the essence of our travels. We seek the new, the uncharted, yet we cling to the familiar. She is on a journey within, where the most significant discoveries are often cloaked in shadows.

Wilde: Precisely, my dear Jack. And in this verse, there reflects the human condition, the eternal struggle of the soul in its quest for meaning. She is a mirror, showing us the complexity of our own emotions.

Unyielding Words of Accusation

In his discourse, she perceives a harshness, prompting his contrition and reflection on the good within his life. What more is within his power? Once, her gaze lingered on him, her toes seeking his presence with a delicate stretch. Her love remains, steadfast.

Yet, she desires not his companionship. In her vision, he diminishes, a stark contrast to the buoyant spirit she once encountered. The jovial youth she cherished is now obscured. He perceives himself marred, a blemish that festers and spreads within, until it defines him. A beast within clamours for attention, gnawing at his essence, as the dominant force prevails.

Amidst his torment and the sting of humiliation, he harbours resentment towards her. She, the one who still has affection for him, becomes the target of his silent ire. The dichotomy of love and rejection intertwines, a dance of complex emotions, where once there was simplicity and joy. Now, the laughter has ceased, replaced by a silence heavy with unspoken grievances and a love that struggles to find its expression in the shadow of loss and change.

The transformation is palpable, as if the light that once shone so brightly has been dimmed by the creeping shadows of doubt and self-reproach. The metamorphosis is not just in perception but in the very air between them, charged with the electricity of unspoken words and the weight of a love that has shifted in its axis. The laughter that once echoed in the halls of their shared memories now sounds distant, a reminder of what has been lost in the chasm that has grown between them.

He stands at the precipice of this emotional landscape, gazing into the abyss that love has become, wondering if there is a bridge that can span the divide, or if the chasm is too wide, too deep, to ever cross again. The beast of doubt and self-loathing continues its relentless assault, and he feels himself slipping, losing ground to the primal forces that threaten to consume him.

In this moment of existential crisis, he searches for a lifeline, a beacon of hope that might guide him back to the shores of his former self. But the path is obscured, the light of guidance dimmed by the fog of his own making. He must navigate this terrain, find his way through the labyrinth of his emotions, and emerge on the other side, not unscathed, but wiser and more attuned to the intricate melodies of the human heart.

For love is not a simple equation, easily solved and put to rest. It is a living, breathing entity, ever-changing and evolving, shaped by the hands of time and the pressures of life. It can be both a source of immense joy and profound sorrow, a dual-edged sword that cuts to the very core of our being. And in this dance of love and loss, we are all participants, moving to the rhythm of a song that is as ancient as time itself.

When he talks about it She says he’s cruel So he apologises Counts his blessings What else can he do? She used to gaze at him reach out with her toes to touch him She still loves him But she doesn’t want him And in her eyes, he’s so much less Than the light heart she met The laughing boy she used to know He feels ugly now, and the ugliness, creeps around inside him Until he really is. The animal paws at him, gnaws at him The silver-back wins over him And in his pain, and bitter shame, he resents her. The one who loves him

Wilde, with a flourish of his hand and a wry smile, “My dear Jack, the verse you speak of is a mirror to the soul, reflecting the beauty and the tragedy of our human condition. It is cruel only in its truth, and its impact is as profound as the love and loss it portrays.”

Kerouac, leaning forward, his eyes alight with the fire of experience, “Oscar, the verse, like the road, is life itself—raw and unfiltered. It speaks of a man’s journey, his battles with the beasts within, and the love that both fuels and devours him.”

Wilde, nodded thoughtfully, “Indeed, the verse captures the essence of a man torn between his desires and his dignity. It is the struggle, the eternal conflict between the heart’s yearnings and society’s expectations, which gives the verse its power.”

Kerouac, with a trace of sadness, “It’s the beat, man, the beat of the heart against the odds. The guy’s ugly because the world makes him so, but the verse—it’s the drum that keeps him going, even when the silver-back of conformity tries to crush him.”

Wilde, with a touch of empathy, “The ugliness he feels is but a shadow cast by the light of his former self. The verse serves as a poignant reminder that we are all, at times, less than what we once were, and yet, it is this very fall from grace that makes us truly human.”

Kerouac, more sombre now, “That is just it, Oscar. The verse does not just talk—it screams of the pain of being alive, of being in love with someone who cannot love you back. It’s the howl of the lone wolf, the cry of the poet.”

Wilde, with a hint of melancholy, concedes, “Ah, but even in its lament, the verse holds a beauty that is undeniable. For is it not love, even unrequited, that inspires the greatest of our art? It is the muse that whispers to us in our darkest hours.”

Kerouac, with a slow nod, agreed, “Yeah, the muse is there, in the grit and the grime. She is in the guy’s pain; in the way he resents the one he loves because he has got nothing else left. It’s a tough gig, but it’s all part of the ride.”

Wilde, with a final note of wisdom, “And so, the verse impacts us by laying bare the human spirit, in all its flawed glory. It is a testament to the enduring power of love and the indomitable will to persevere, despite the ugliness we may harbour within.”

Kerouac, with a quiet intensity, “The verse, Oscar—it’s the truth. And the truth is what we are all after, whether it is on the road or in the heart. It’s the journey, man, and the verse are just one more mile on the map of the soul.”

The Blue Sky Above the Rain

They vowed their lips would part only for truth; wisdom gleaned from past missteps guiding their tongues. They claimed the gift of gab, a bridge over troubled waters, a means to mend, to heal. Yet now, within their hearts, deception brews—a concoction of necessity and choice, of survival and sin.

He yearns with vehemence, not for the masquerade of yesteryears, but for liberation, for the euphoria of unshackled existence. He seeks to gaze upon the azure expanse, to pierce the veil of the weeping heavens, to rediscover the cerulean canvas that stretches beyond the tempest’s tears. He recalls the serene sky, the tranquil guardian of his dreams, now obscured by the deluge’s sorrow. His eyes, weary from the storm, search for the promise of a clearing, for the blue sky above the rain.

In a dimly lit room scented with the musk of old books and the sharp tang of ink, Jack Kerouac, with a restless gleam in his eye, turns to Oscar Wilde, who is lounging with characteristic languor. “You see, Oscar, the verse speaks of a truth that’s been buried under the weight of life’s incessant downpour. It is the blue sky that is always there, yet we forget it exists when the rain clouds our vision,” Jack muses, his voice a low thrum of passion.

They said they’d never lie They’d learned their lessons from the last times They said that they could talk They could always talk Deceit stirs in them now for reasons good as well as bad But he wants so much Not to live another lie To be free and high again Trying to see the blue sky above the rain Trying to see the blue sky above the rain Remembering the blue sky above the pouring rain He’s trying to see the blue sky above the rain

Oscar Wilde, with a twinkle of amusement, replies, “Ah, but Jack, the verse also whispers of the deceit that festers in the hearts of men. It is a delightful paradox, isn’t it? The same rain that obscures the blue sky also cleanses the soul, washing away the lies until all that’s left is the naked truth.”

Kerouac nods, the corners of his mouth turning up in a knowing smile. “Exactly! It is the struggle to see beyond the rain, to remember the blue sky, which defines us. The verse is not just about the weather, it is about life itself. The rain is the pain, the lies, the hardships. And the blue sky? That’s hope, freedom, truth.”

Wilde leans forward, his voice a soft caress against the backdrop of the room’s quietude. “And yet, dear Jack, isn’t it true that some find comfort in the rain? The lies we tell ourselves can be as sweet as any truth. What is a lie, but a story told with conviction?”

The conversation ebbs and flows like the tide, with Kerouac’s fervent belief in the rawness of experience clashing and melding with Wilde’s love for the artifice and beauty of illusion. They speak of the verse’s impact, how it mirrors their own worldviews—Kerouac’s beat generation ethos of freedom and authenticity against Wilde’s aestheticism and the art of living.

As the night deepens, their dialogue weaves a diptych of thought, each thread a testament to their brilliance. They agree and disagree, challenge, and inspire, until the room itself seems to pulse with the energy of their discourse.

In the end, as the first light of dawn creeps through the window, casting a pale glow on the scattered papers and empty glasses, they find a shared reverence for the verse. It has become a bridge between two eras, two philosophies, and two souls who, despite their differences, seek the blue sky above the rain.

Ascending to Serenity Beyond the Storms

He has soared beyond the grasp of gravity, witnessed the wonders from realms above, where the dance of weightlessness weaves its enchanting spectacle. Yet, his ascent awaits her beckoning, his passion kindled only by her incendiary touch. Clad in the heaviness of the world, he yearns for a glimpse of the azure expanse, a memory of clear skies untouched by storms. In contemplation, he recalls the serenity of the sky’s embrace, where the rain is but a distant echo.

In time, their essences will converse, an exchange of souls unbound by flesh, minds intertwined in silent understanding, hearts resonating with the silent symphony of shared beats, gazes locked in an unspoken communion. They will ascend to the cerulean sanctuary above the tempest’s reach, where sorrows dissolve into the ether, and tears are dried upon the winds of liberation. Venturing westward, they will rise, seeking the realm where the sun’s rays are eternal, and the showers of yesterday linger far beneath them.

He’s flown there and he’s seen it, been up there lighter than air, floating in the miracle But he can’t fly until she wants him He can’t burn until she sparks him He’s dressed in lead from toe to head Trying to see the blue sky above the rain Remembering the blue sky above the rain Maybe they’ll talk Soul to soul head to head heart to heart eye to eye Rise up to that blue space above the clouds Where troubles die And tears dry Heading West and climbing In that place the sun never stops shining The rain’s below us.

Wilde: Ah, the eternal struggle between the heart’s desires and the soul’s ascent, Jack. Our protagonist is tethered, not by gravity, but by longing, a yearning for the celestial that is within reach yet remains distant until the beloved decrees it so.

Kerouac: Oscar, my friend, it is the beat of the heart, the rhythm of life that propels us. This man, clad in the heaviness of his own doubts, yearns to break free, to soar above the mundane, to touch the divine azure that whispers of freedom.

Wilde: Indeed, and how poetically tragic that one can only rise when released by another’s wish. It is a dance of power and surrender, a delicate balance where the soul is both sovereign and subject to the whims of love.

Kerouac: But consider the fire, Oscar! It is not just a spark but a conflagration waiting to happen. It is the passion that burns within, the untamed spirit that refuses to be quenched. When she ignites him, it is not just ascension; it is an explosion of being.

Wilde: True, Jack, true. The spark is merely the beginning, the first note in a symphony of light. And once alight, the leaden weight transforms, becomes the fuel for his flight, a phoenix rising from the ashes of his former self.

Kerouac: And in that ascent, there is a communion, a meeting of souls in the stratosphere of understanding. It is not just a conversation but a melding of minds, a fusion of hearts, where the essence of one bleeds into the other.

Wilde: A sublime thought, to converse in such a realm, above the petty squabbles of the world. To speak in the language of the skies, where each word is a star, and every sentence is a constellation of meaning.

Kerouac: That is the journey, isn’t it? To head west, towards the setting sun, where the day’s troubles cannot reach, and the soul can bask in eternal light. It is the ultimate road trip, a pilgrimage to the place where the rain is just a memory.

Wilde: A pilgrimage, yes, but also a transformation. For in that sun-drenched expanse, one is remade, forged anew by the relentless radiance of truth. It is not just a place but a state of being, where the soul is unshackled and the heart unburdened.

Kerouac: And there, in that boundless blue, is the promise of peace, the assurance that tears will find their end, evaporating in the warmth of a love that knows no bounds, a love that transcends the very fabric of the universe.

Wilde: A love that is both the journey and the destination, Jack. For what is the purpose of our verse if not to capture such love, to hold it up to the light and marvel at its multifaceted brilliance?

Kerouac: Exactly, Oscar. Our words are but signposts, pointing towards that ineffable truth, that even in the heaviest downpour, there is always the hope of the blue sky, always the dream of rising above, always the westward path that leads to the sun.

The Dance of Desire and Regret

A Criticism by Oscar Wilde

In the grand theatre of human emotions, where the heart is an audience and the mind a stage, love often finds itself a play with no script, a performance where the actors know their exits and their entrances but improvise the lines. “She loves him,” you say, a statement as simple as it is complex, for love is never a singular emotion but a symphony that plays different tunes at the whim of the conductor’s baton. And she, the maestro of her heart, chooses to mute the strings that once played a fervent melody for him.

Ah, but what is love if not a paradox? To burn with desire and yet to stand in the rain, hoping to be doused. She used to burn for him, a flame kindled by the whispers of the night and the promises of the dawn. But now, the fire wanes, not for lack of fuel, but for want of will. For love, as Wilde might say, is not merely about the presence of affection but the choice to let it consume us.

And he, poor soul, reaches out only to grasp the air where her warmth used to reside. He talks of cruelty, not understanding that indifference is the sharpest blade. He apologizes, counting his blessings as if gratitude could tip the scales of her heart back in his favour. But the scales have been removed, and in their place, a gulf of silence wide and deep.

The boy who laughed, the light heart she met, has been obscured by the shadow of what he has become. Ugliness, a cruel beast, lurks not in the mirror but in the mind, where it grows, fed by doubt, and watered by regret. The silver-back, a symbol of strength turned harbinger of defeat, claims victory over him, and in his defeat, he finds resentment—a bitter fruit that poisons even the sweetest well.

They speak of lies and lessons learned, of the ability to converse, soul to soul, heart to heart. Yet deceit stirs, a reminder that even the purest intentions can be clouded by the fog of human frailty. He yearns for the blue sky above the rain, a metaphor for the clarity and freedom he seeks. But the sky remains obscured, hidden behind the clouds of their making.

He has seen the blue sky, touched the ethereal in moments of weightless wonder, but he cannot soar until she grants him wings, cannot ignite until she strikes the match. Lead weighs heavy on his limbs, a burden of his own forging, as he tries to remember the sun that never stops shining.

They will talk, rise above the clouds where the sunbathes all in endless light, where rain is but a memory below them. But to ascend, they must first unshackle themselves from the chains of their past, from the anchors of their own doubts. For in the end, it is not the rain that binds them, but the refusal to see beyond it, to remember that above the storm, the sky remains forever blue.

A Criticism by Jack Kerouac

In a world wearied by the weight of conformity, there is a poignant ache in the pursuit of love, isn’t there? It is a dance of shadows and light, where the heart yearns for connection, yet recoils at the touch of another’s flame. She, a spirit of the wind, once ablaze with passion, now drifts like smoke through his fingers. The fire that once drew them together has cooled, leaving behind embers of what could have been.

He, a creature of the earth, feels the gravity of her retreat. His essence, once buoyant with joy, now sinks beneath the surface of their shared history. The laughter that once echoed between them has faded, replaced by the silence of growing apart. In the mirror of her gaze, he sees not the reflection of the man he was, but the shadow of what he has become.

Their promises, once etched in the stone of their commitment, now seem as transient as writing in the sand. The truth they sought in each other’s eyes is clouded by the mist of unspoken words and unfulfilled desires. The bridge they built with conversations past now trembles under the weight of what is left unsaid.

Yet, within him stirs the hope of renewal, the longing to rise above the storm clouds of their discord. He dreams of a sky clear and vast, a canvas for the sun’s eternal dance. But his wings are heavy, laden with the lead of regret and the chains of doubt. He cannot soar until she breathes life into his sails, cannot ignite until she strikes the match of forgiveness.

And so, they stand at the crossroads of choice, where the paths of holding on and letting go diverge. Will they walk together towards the horizon where the sun kisses the rain goodbye? Or will they part, each seeking their own sky, their own peace beyond the tempest’s reach?

In the end, it is not just about the love they share, but the love they dare to rediscover. For in the journey towards the blue sky above the rain, they must first navigate the storms within themselves. It is there, in the heart’s quietest chamber, that the seeds of a new beginning await the nurturing light of understanding and the nourishing rain of compassion. Only then can they hope to find the path that leads out of the shadows and into the warmth of the sun’s embrace, where love, like the sky, knows no bounds.

“Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit and never dies.”

Edward Bulwer-Lytton