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Marillion: Script for a Jester's Tear

 A l b u m   D e t a i l s

Artist: Marillion
Title: Script for a Jester's Tear
Released: 1983
Label: EMI Records
Time: 46:47
Producer(s): Nick Tauber
Appears with: Fish
Category: Pop/Rock
Rating: ********.. (8/10)
Media type: CD
Purchase date:  1999.04.11
Price in €: 6,99
Web address: www.marillion.com

 S o n g s ,   T r a c k s


[1] Script For A Jester's Tears (Marillion/Fish) - 8:39
[2] He Knows You Know (Marillion/Fish) - 5:22
[3] The Web (Marillion/Fish) - 8:48
[4] Garden Party (Marillion/Fish) - 7:15
[5] Chelsea Monday (Marillion/Fish) - 8:16
[6] Forgotten Sons (Marillion/Fish) - 8:21

 A r t i s t s ,   P e r s o n n e l


Fish (Derek William Dick) - Vocals
Mick Pointer - Percussion, Drums
Pete Trewavas - Bass
Steve Rothery - Guitar, Photography
Mark Kelly - Keyboards, Digital Remastering

Danny Dawson - Engineer
Mark Freegard - Engineer
Simon Hanhart - Engineer, Mixing
Peter Mew - Digital Remastering
Nigel Reeve - Project Coordinator
Mark Andy - Assistant Engineer
Mike Martin - Assistant Engineer
Pete James - Sound Effects
John Arnisson - Management
Jo Mirowski - Art Direction & Design
Mark Wilkinson - Illustration

 C o m m e n t s ,   N o t e s


Auch wenn "Script for a jester's tear" für mich nicht an "Misplaced childhood" heranreichen kann, ist es doch eine recht gute, typische Marillion Scheibe, und vor allem noch aus der "Fish" Zeit der Band. Die Stimmung ist etwa die gleiche, die Texte wie gewohnt etwas düster melancholisch, anfangs sicher etwas gewöhnungsbedürftig und nicht sofort verständlich. Die Musik ist eher klanghaft tragend denn melodisch, aber durchwegs eingängig und voll Energie. Jedem, dem "Misplaced childhood" gefällt, kann ich dieses Album getrost ans Herz legen, auch wenn richtige Höhepunkte eher fehlen. Als Anspiel- Tip würde ich "Chelsea Monday" oder "Script for a jester's tear" empfehlen!



Their strong debut shows the influence of Peter Hammill, Pink Floyd, Rick Wakeman, Jethro Tull, and the much-ballyhooed resemblance to Genesis.

Michael P. Dawson, All-Music Guide



Die Vorbilder von Marillion sind unüberhörbar: Genesis zu Zeiten von Peter Gabriel. Aber auch Anklänge an Pink Floyd, Yes und vielleicht sogar Jethro Tull sind auf Script For A Jester’s Tear zu hören. Mit ihrem 1983er Debütalbum verhalfen Marillion dem dahinsiechenden Progressive- oder Art-Rock zu neuem Glanz. Genauso wie damals Peter Gabriel setzen auch Marillion auf große Gefühle und theatralische Posen. Der ständige Wechsel von intimer Erzählung und gigantischer Soundstruktur, von Minnesang und Predigt fasziniert. Die epischen Stücke von Marillion sind mal tragisch ("Script For A Jester’s Tear"), mal romantisch ("Chelsea Monday"), mal politisch ("Forgotten Sons"), mal süffisant ("Garden Party"), dabei aber immer phantastisch und phantasievoll. Die exzentrischen und exzellenten Texte aus der Feder des kreativen Kopfes Fish und die farbenfrohen, mal bombastischen, mal minimalistischen Musikbilder von Steve Rothery, Mick Pointer, Mark Kelly und Pete Trewavas machen Script For A Jester’s Tear zu einem Klassiker des Genres, der in seiner Komplexität nur noch vom Nachfolge-Album Fugazi erreicht wird. Bespräche ich hier ein Buch und keine Platte, könnte ich schreiben: Marillion sind episch, dramatisch und lyrisch. Marillion sind zu Musik geronnene Literatur.

Dirk Ruschepaul, Amazon.de



Marillion's debut album Script for a Jester's Tear, has made quite a loud sound on the European charts. Often compared to Pink Floyd, Marillion shows its strength both lyrically and musically. Script is a complex release with wonderful imagery. Fish, the band's lead singer and songwriter, has a wonderful talent for words and their hidden meanings. "He Knows You Know" and "Chelsea Monday" are outstanding. The six songs are performed well by the band and especially Fish. Script is an impressive debut album.

Tina Mrazik, All-Music Guide
 

 L y r i c s


Script For A Jester's Tear

So here I am once more in the playground of the broken hearts,
  one more experience, one more entry in a diary, self penned
Yet another emotional suicide overdosed on sentiment and pride
  Too late to say I love you, Too late to restage the play
Abandoning the relics in my playground of yesterday.

I'm losing on the swings, I'm losing on the roundabouts
Too much, Too soon, too far, to go,
  too late to play, the game is over.

Yet another emotional suicide overdosed on sentiment and pride
  I'm losing on the swings, I'm lossing
on the roundabouts, the game is over

Too late to say I love you, Too late to restage the play
The game is over.

I act the role in classic style of
  a martyr carved with a twisted smile
To bleed the lyric for this song
  to write the rites to right my wrongs
an epitaph to a broken dream to
  exorcise this silent scream
A scream that's borne from sorrow.

I never did write that love song the words just never seemed to flow
  No sad in reflection Did I gaze through perfection
and examine the shadows on the other side of mourning
  and examine the shadows on the other side of mourning
Promised wedding now a wake

The fool escaped from paradise will look over his shoulder and cry
  Sit and chew on daffodils and struggle to answer why?
As you grow up and leave the playground where you kissed your prince
  and found your frog, Remember the Jester that showed
you tears, the script for tears.

So I'll hold my peace forever when you wear your bridal gown
  In the silence of my shame the mute that sang the siren's
song has gone solo in the game I've gone solo in the game
  But the game is over

Can you still say you love me Can you still say you love me
Can you still say that you love me.


He Knows You Know

Light switch, yellow fever, crawling up your bathroom wall
  Singing psychedelic praises to the  depths of the china bowl
You've got venom in your stomach, You've got poison in your head
  You should have listen to the priest at the
confession when he offered you the sacred bread.

He knows, you know, he knows, you know,
  he knows, you know, but he's got problems.

Fast feed, crystal fever, swarming through a fractured mind
  Chilling needles freeze emotion, the blind shall lead the blind
You've got venom in your stomach, You've got poison in your head
  When your conscience whispered, the vein lines
stiffened, you were walking with the dead.

He knows, you know, he knows, you know,  he knows, you know
  He's got experience, he's got experience, he knows you know
but he's got problems, problems, problems.

He knows... Slash wrists, scarlet fever,
  crawl under your bedroom door
Pumping arteries ooze their problems,
  through the gap that the razor tore
You've got venom in your stomach,
  You've got poison in your head
You should have listened to your analyst's
  questions when you lay on his leather bed.

He knows, you know, he knows, you know,
  he knows, you know, but he's got problems.

Blank eyes, purple fever streaming through the frosted panes.
  You learned your lesson far too late  from the links in a chemist chain.
You've got venom in your stomach, You've got poison in your head
You should have stayed at home and talked
  with father listen to the lies he fed.

He knows, you know, he knows, you know,
  he knows, you know, but he's got problems.

He knows, you know, he knows, you know,
  he knows, you know he's got experience,
  he's got experience, he knows you know
  he knows you know.


The Web

The rain auditions at my window, it's symphony echoes in my womb
  My gaze scans the walls of this apartment
  to rectify the confines of my tomb

I'm the cyclops in the tenement, I'm the soul without the cause
  Crying midst my rubber plants, ignoring beckoning doors,
Clippings from ancient newspapers he scattered cross the floor
  Stained by the wine from a shattered glass,
meaningless words, yellowed by time,
  Faded photos exposing pain, celluloid leeches bleeding my mind
You've finished playing hangman, you've cast the fateful dice
  Advise, advise, advise me, this shroud will not suffice.

Attempting to discard these clinging memories,
  I only serve to wallow in our past
I fabricate the weave with my excuses,
  its strands I hope and pray shall last
Oh please do last.

The flytrap needs the insect, ivy caresses the wall
  Needles make love to the Junkies, sirens seduce with their call
Confidence has deserted me, with you it has forsaken me
  Confused and rejected, despised and alone,
I kiss isolation on it's fevered brow
  Security clutching me, obscurity threatening me
Your reasons were so obvious as my friends have qualified
  I only laughed away your tears,  but even jesters cry

I realise I hold the key to freedom,
  I cannot let my life be ruled by threads
The time has come to make decisions,
  the changes have to be made
I realise I hold the key to freedom,
  I cannot let my life be ruled by threads
The time has come to make decisions,
  the changes have to be made.

Now I leave you, the past has had its say
  You're all but forgotten  a mote in my heart
Decisions have been made.

Decisions have been made  I've conquered my fears
the flaming shroud.


Garden Party

Garden Party held today, invites call the debs to play,
  social climbers polish ladders, wayward sons again have fathers,
edgy eggs and queing cumbers, rudely wakened from their slumber,
  time has come again for slaughter on the lawns by still
Cam
 waters.

Champagne corks are firing at the sun again
  Swooping swallows chased by violins again
Straafed by Strauss they sulk in crumbling eaves again.

Apertifs consumed en masse display their owners on the grass
  Couples loiter in the cloisters, social leeches quoting Chaucer.

Doctor's son a parson's daughter where why not and should they oughta
  Please don't lie on the grass, unless accompanied by a fellow,
may I be so bold as to suggest Othello.

Punting on the Cam is jolly fun they say
  Beagling on the downs Oh please come they say
Rugger is the tops a game for men they say.

Angie chalks another blue, mother smiles she did it too
  Chitters chat and gossips lash, posers pose pressmen flash.

Smiles polluted with false charm, locking onto Royal arms,
  Society columns now ensured, return to mingle with the crowds
Oh what a crowd.


Chelsea Monday

Catalogue princess, apprentice seductress
  living in her cellophane world in glitter town
Awaiting the prince in his white Capri
  Dynamic young tarzan courts the bedsit queen.

She's playing the actress in this bedroom scene
  She's learning her lines from glossy magazines
Stringing all her pearls from her childhood dreams
  Auditioning for the leading role on the silver screen.

Patience my tinsel angel, patience my perfumed child
  One day they'll really love you, you'll charm them with that smile
But for now it`s just another Chelsea Monday.

Drifting with her incense in the labyrinth of London,
  Playing games with faces in the neon wonderland
Perform to scattered shadows on the shattered cobbled aisles
  Would she dare recite soliliquies at the risk of startk applause.

She'll pray for endless Sundays as she enters saffron sunsets,
  Conjure phantom lovers from the tattered shreds of dawn,
Fulfilled and yet forgotten the St. Tropez mirage
  Fragrance aphrodisiac, the withered tuberose.

Patience my tinsel angel, patience my perfumed child
  One day they'll really love you, you'll charm them with that smile
But for now it`s just another Chelsea Monday.

Catalogue princess, apprentice seductress
  buried in her cellophane world in glitter town.


Forgotten Sons

Armalite, street lights, nightsights
  Searching the roofs for a sniper, viper fighter
Death in the shadows he'll maim you, wound you, kill you
  for a long forgotten cause, on not so foreign shores,
boys baptised in wars.

Morphine, chill stream, bad dream
  Serving as numbers on dogtags, flakrags, sandbags
Your friend has married your best friend, loves end, poison pen
  Your flesh will always creep, tossing turning sloop
The wounds that burn so deep.

Your mother sits on the edge of the world
  when the cameras start to roll
Panoramic viewpoints ressurect the killing fold
  Your father drains another beer he's one of the few that cares
Crawling behind a saracen's hull
  from the safety of his living room chair -
Forgotten Sons, Forgotten Sons, Forgotten Sons.

And so I patrol the valley of the shadow of the Tricolor
  I must fear evil for I am but mortal and mortals can only die
asking questions, pleading answers from the nameless
  faceless watchers that stalk the carpeted corridors of Whitehall
Who order desecration, mutilation, verbal masturbation
  in their guarded bureaucratic wombs

Minister, Minister care for your children, order them not
  into damnation to eliminate those who would trespass
against you, for whose is the kingdom and the power and the
  glory, forever and ever Amen - Halt who goes there, death,
approach friend

You're just another coffin on its way down the emerald aisle
  Where the children's stoney glances mourn your death
in a terrorist's smile.
  The bomber's arm places fiery gifts on the supermarket shelves,
Alleys sing with shrapnel dance in a temporary hell

Forgotten Sons

From the dolequeue to the regiment a profession in a flash,
  but remember Monday's signings when from door to door you dash,
On the news a nation mourns your unknown soldier count the cost,
  For a second you'll be famous but labelled posthumous

Forgotten Sons    Forgotten Sons

Peace on earth and mercy mild, Mother Brown has lost her child

Just another Forgotten Son

 M P 3   S a m p l e s


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