Peter Gabriel

The first album, Peter Gabriel (Charisma, 1977), is a symphonic work produced in a "wall of sound" style and imbued with a distinctly British black humor, sublimated in the martial rock and roll of Modern Love and the solemn folk ballad of Solsbury Hill, and radicalized in the apocalyptic prophecy of Here Comes The Flood, featuring Robert Fripp's titanic guitar.

Fripp is also the inspiration for the second album, Peter Gabriel (Charisma, 1978), which is decidedly more paranoid and experimental (with hardcore tracks like DYL), marking the definitive abandonment of art-rock conventions. Gabriel adopts the Fairlight, the synth computer responsible for the unique timbre of his electronic arrangements, filters his vocals through a vocoder, and brings on board bassist Tony Levin, drummer Jerry Marotta, and keyboardist Larry Fast.

Maturity, freed from Fripp’s constraints, arrives with the third, Peter Gabriel (Charisma, 1980), a collection of electronic ballads on metropolitan fear sung in a horrified, desperate tone, imbued with apocalyptic pessimism. The two hits—the dark technological prophecy of Games Without Frontier and the terrified scream of I Don’t Remember—represent the peak of his arranging skills, while the moving pathos of Biko (martial drums, African choir, Scottish bagpipes) seals his fresco of millennial anxiety. Stark and futuristic, the sound of Lead A Normal Life and No Self Control is torn by harmonic dissonances and rhythmic harshnesses that foreshadow the abandonment of melody.

Gabriel's fourth album, Peter Gabriel (Charisma, 1982), reissued as Security (Geffen, 1982), his first digital recording (fully digital, but mixed on an analog console), embraces exotic rhythms and musique concrčte, crystallizing the theatrical vision of Genesis’ chamber-rock into a tragic, verbose, and pretentious music-hall for synthesizer and poly-rhythms. The danceable tracks (the driving, estranged funk of Shock The Monkey, the frenzied polyrhythms of Kiss Of Life, the robotic ballet of I Have The Touch) represent only the most superficial aspect of the work. The martial tolls, sinister suspense, and occult tribalism of Rhythm Of The Heat prelude the obsessive, hypnotic, almost gamelan-like percussion of San Jacinto, the cosmic hisses, and the titanic pulses of Lay Your Hands On Me. In that maelstrom of sonic cataclysms, the vocals proclaim loudly, tragically, and solemnly, finally free from electronic artifices, and the epic hymn of freedom Wallflower gives a political meaning to the entire album.

Gabriel began his work for cinema during this period, culminating in the anguished soundtrack for Birdy (Charisma, 1985), his most experimental work up to that point, created with the help of Jon Hassell, Larry Fast, David Rhodes, and Tony Levin.

So (Charisma, 1986), which is at the same time Gabriel's most sinister and most commercial work, (thanks also to producer Daniel Lanois), what stands out are: Red Rain, the apex of his angst-filled futurism and political idealism, the gentle lyricism of In Your Eyes, and the populist elegy of Don't Give Up (a duet with Kate Bush). Despite the African tribalisms and bursts of Fairlight, this album effectively marks a rediscovery of the commercial soul of Motown and Stax, as demonstrated by the sophisticated ballads Sledgehammer (propelled by funk syncopations) and Big Time.

Through the progression of these albums, the singer forged a personal idiom (a kind of cosmic sadness), drawing on ethnic sources that he processes in the studio (ā la Eno) with Western high technology, using it as a counterpoint for a broader ideological program.

Passion (Real World, 1989), the soundtrack for Martin Scorsese's film on Jesus, is Gabriel's masterpiece and one of the great works of synthesis of the 1980s. By manipulating African and Asian folk sources, Gabriel created a sort of sonic murale about Jesus' Passion. The 21 panels re-interpret musical sources from around the world into a form of (what Brian Eno would call) psycho-ambient music: each piece evokes an "ambient" and the psychological qualities of that ambient. At the same time, the original source is lost in a stylistic research that belongs to classical music, rock music and even dance music, but certainly not (anymore) to folk music. The praxis recalls the archaic futurism of Jon Hassell, although here the flavor is more properly rhythmic (rock).
Gabriel's ethno-electronic grooves (which, in the meantime, had become a chic genre) already had roots in modern philosophy, but with the further abstraction that it underwent in the Passion it "became" a philosophy of its own. The tone of the album is melancholy and meditational, a mixture of western existentialism and eastern pantheism. At the same time, the tone of the album is a mixture of Christian piety and exotic detachment.
The funereal flute litanies and the syncopated beat of Of These Hope evoke a prayer in the desert, while gentle winds scour the sand dunes and caravans sail towards the horizon. Desperate voices surface out of the dark, swampy beat of A Different Drum, materialized by the lugubrious organ drones. With This Love features a tender oboe melody, worthy of Schubert, that floats over a double-violin simulating the cello of baroque music. This piece, the album's highlight, exudes the sorrowful fatalism of Ennio Morricone's scores and the dejected majesty of Albinoni's Adagio.
Passion is a cosmic raga that seems to encompass Islamic, Christian and pagan liturgy through the interplay of three voices: Gabriel's muezzin-like lament, Nusrat Fateh's angelic soprano, and Youssou N'Dour's equatorial cry. They are hypnotized by the macabre phrases of Jon Hassell's trumpet, while Brazilian percussions and gloomy electronics create a metaphysical suspense, evoking both genesis and apocalypse.
Gabriel indulges in several formats, as if to explore the same theme through different eyes: from the whirling Persian dervishes of The Feeling Begins to the minimalist concerto of Zaar, from the psychedelic ecstasy of Open (another highlight) to the distant echoes of galactic music that constitute Stygmata. The idea is often so abstract that music flows backwards, towards the maternal womb rather than towards the real world. Occasionally one sees snapshots of Robert Wyatt's most otherworldly visions.
The shorter pieces are no less suggestive and ethereal. Far from merely reenacting impressionism in music, these miniatures continue the theme of the "foetus" music: the new-age psalm of Lazarus, the austere chamber music of Gethsemane, the "breathing" music of In Doubt, the cyclic exorcism of The Promise of Shadows, even the Talking Heads-ian techno-funk of Troubled.
The last three "songs" are more explicitly related to the story, and compose a moving crescendo: in Disturbed the synthesizer plays a droning requiem over chaotic percussions, and the jubilant "wall of sound" of It Is Accomplished leads to the languid hymn of Bread And Wine.
Gabriel's Passion is, first and foremost, a study in "sound". Each piece cultivates its own sound almost in semiotic terms (each piece being a sign, rather than an object). Jung's collective unconscious comes to life in Gabriel's supernatural scores.

From the most universal theme, Gabriel moves to the most personal with Us (Virgin, 1992), another collaboration with Daniel Lanois, which this time explores the techniques of techno music. This is the album of an artist wounded by the failure of his marriage: a collection of songs more than ever steeped in solitude and alienation. The exotic progressive-rock of this record is the arithmetic mean between the futuristic funky-soul of So and the electronic world music of Passion. Gabriel’s depressed mood erupts in the dark violence of Digging In The Dirt, the anguished plea of Come Talk To Me (sung by Sinead O’Connor), the stream of consciousness of Secret World, and the heartfelt dedication of Love To Be Loved (with Brian Eno). He soars into allegorical flights with the piano ballad Washing Of The Water and the ethereal Blood Of Eden (again O’Connor). Levin on bass, Rhodes on guitars, and a host of ethnic musicians support his somber laments.

Gabriel’s music unfolds under the sign of profound existential fear. His singing often takes on a delirious deformation, while the arrangements seek in world music a natural counterpoint to exorcise his technological demons. It is precisely the unprecedented fusion of polyrhythms, electronics, and alienated lyrics that constitutes the most salient legacy of Gabriel’s maturity. With a voice indebted to the soulful lament of Otis Redding, Gabriel intoned terrifying anthems to the future.

Shaking The Tree (Virgin, 1990) is an anthology.

After US, Gabriel delved into the world of multi-media and released the CD-ROMs Xplora 1 (1994) and Eve (1997).

Ovo (Real World, 2000), the music for a millennium show, is a flawed and pretentious concept. The story is a didactic fable about the three ages of humankind (ecology, industry, spirituality). The music, which takes advantage of a number of guest female singers, is a hodgepodge of new and old styles, ranging from rap (The Story of Ovo, with Neenah Cherry) to trip-hop (The Man Who Loved The Earth), pop ballad (Father Son) to dub (White Ashes). The space-age world-music of Low Light (for serene piano and strings, and possibly the stand-out track), The Nest That Sailed The Sky (with Shankar on violin), The Weaver's Reel (for frantic percussions and fiddles) is the natural continuation of the Passion but occupies only a small portion of the concept. The album is saved by the prog-rock complexity of Downside-Up (with Cocteau Twins' Elizabeth Fraser on vocals), by the radio-friendly funk with orchestral overtones of The Tower that Ate People and by the celebratory 10-minute finale of Make Tomorrow. The lyrics are a major drawback, but even without the lyrics this is not the most inspired Gabriel. This is Gabriel lending his talent to a mission that he only half-heartedly endorsed.

Long Walk Home (Real World, 2002) is a soundtrack that harks back to the ambient/expressionist sound of Birdy.

Up (Real World, 2002) is a somewhat confused and unfocused work. Gabriel's albums since the Passion have been formally self-contained and uniform; and derived their super-human strength from that fundamental union of the art form. Up, on the other hand, feels like only a sampling of Gabriel's career. The Barry Williams Show and No Way Out hark back to his first three solo albums. Darkness reaches even further back in time, to the old-fashioned progressive-rock of Genesis. Signal to Noise and More Than This are the kind of trivial humanistic anthems that Phil Collins could concoct. The cheesy gospel choir of Sky Blue is embarrassing (despite Peter Green on guitar). One is left to appreciate the ghostly finale of The Drop, the Robert Wyatt-ian suspension of My Head Sounds Like That, and little else.
What is particularly missing is a sustained vision that could breath some life into this skeletal images of the artist as an old man. Up is the first disappointing work in a long time from one of rock's true geniuses. It is not a coincidence that it comes as the busiest time of his career.

Gabriel contributed Down to Earth to the soundtrack of the film WALL-E (2008).

Scratch My Back (2010) is a collection of covers. Each song is dressed up in orchestral arrangements (no rock instruments and no electronics), like a parody of Gabriel's own career, but it also sounds like an act of humility: a collection of subdued, pensive, obsessive and orchestral meditations.

New Blood (2011) contains arrangements of some of his old songs for a 46-piece orchestra.

i/o (2023) was his first album of original material in 20 years.