In 1986, Peter Gabriel catapulted in status from respected musical visionary to megaseller. And few such status changes have been more deserved. I’m not one of those PG fans who looks down on So, the blockbuster album he released that year, because it marks the moment that he “sold out.” I think it’s a brilliant piece of work, quite possibly his best, not because more people bought it or because it contains his finest examples of songcraft (though it’s got some of them), but because it spotlights him so well as a singer. Simply, it’s one of the greatest vocal performances extended over 45 minutes or so that I’ve ever heard. I could easily include all nine of So’s tracks in this list, but I’ll stick with my four favorites.
“Red Rain” (So, 1986)
This is where the album starts, and this is it for me: the absolute pinnacle of Gabriel’s artistic achievement. The character singing this song has suffered through an experience so horrific that he can’t fully explain it. But he doesn’t need to; it’s all in his voice. Every word feels hard-fought. Every word summons a power that seems to rise up out of the song and beyond it, creating its own emotional thunderhead. Every word is delivered with complete conviction, the conviction of the lost. There is just so much exquisite singing here that it’s hard to select examples, but here goes. At the beginning of the bridge (which also features one of my favorite PG chord progressions), a wordless wail to the heavens quickly accumulates thick layers of grit, as if it were being answered by a raging sandstorm, then plummets back to earth with the words “Putting the pressure on much harder now.” This rapid shift from depthless pain to depthless resignation is Gabriel’s greatest moment as a vocalist, and I find it as moving now as I did when I first heard it 37 years ago on Boston’s WBCN-FM, shortly before So came out. (After the song ended, the DJ, Charles Laquidara, went back on mic and confessed that he’d been blown away by it. So had I.)
I’ve never interviewed Peter Gabriel, never even met him, but I’d love to talk to him at length about “Red Rain.” I’d love to go through it with him line by line, word by word. What image did he have in his mind when he sang, “The ground is still warm to touch”? What was he trying to express with that beautiful penultimate “over me” in the coda? Heartbreak? Valediction? Did he labor over his vocal in the studio for days? Weeks? Months? How did he know when he’d gotten the whole thing right? I suspect that such an interview would reveal next to nothing. The ultimate meaning of the song, after all, can’t be separated from it; the meaning is the song. But at least I’d get to spend even more time with it.
“Don’t Give Up” (So, 1986)
Another performance of total conviction, which reaches its peak in the bridge (again). Spurred on by Kate Bush’s country-flavored entreaties, Gabriel goes full gospel, and peerless pianist Richard Tee provides the church. “Keep my eyes down below” is the key line; “eyes” is a piercing falsetto plea, “down below” sounds like he ripped the words directly from his flesh.
“That Voice Again” (So, 1986)
Daniel Lanois’ pealing 12-string guitar and the sizzle of Manu Katché’s drums are what drive “That Voice Again” forward, but Gabriel’s tortured harmony with himself on the choruses gives the song its soul. That and the wordless (again) transition between chorus and verse: The music ascends in key and so does the vocal, like a siren starting up. An alarm call straight out of the gut.
“Mercy Street” (So, 1986)
If you’re looking for the perfect exemplification of the Peter Gabriel mood, you’ll find it on “Mercy Street.” Low-lying clouds disperse through the atmosphere like smoke, and dark rumbles far off hint at the presence of something familiar yet troubling—troubling particularly to the person who lives in the head more than the heart, because it’s something that can only be experienced, never defined. The backdrop is off-putting, but its purpose is to frame the voice, which injects it with warmth. A central word in the lyric is “tenderness,” and this is a tender vocal performance. Gabriel again summons up the kind of empathy he brought to “Wallflower” (see Part 2), only here it’s not directed toward a nameless group of political prisoners but toward a specific someone: the late Anne Sexton, fellow artist, fellow human. This time it’s personal.
“Come Talk to Me” (Us, 1992)
The way that Gabriel’s voice enters this song, with an almost subterranean croak, has such gravitas that it immediately pins back the listener’s ears. He’s come down from the mountain and he’s ready to preach. Attacking key words—“way,” “invents,” “lashes,” “thief”—by sliding into them is a PG standby but has never been so effective as it is here. And on the chorus, his voice melds in sublime harmony with that of the late Sinéad O’Connor, about whom I’ll have more to say in Part 4. It all makes a tremendous opening for Gabriel’s only studio album of the 1990s.
Next up: Part 4—the difficult years.