CD Review: John Petrucci - Suspended Animation

Against a backdrop of matte black, interspersed with coruscating glimmers of distant stars, rode a gold-decorated chariot, pulled across the sky by two large calluses harnessed by a set of size 9 Ernie Ball nickel-wound lashes. Inhabited by thin men with spade-shaped heads, the chariot rainbowed through the misty essence floating north of the moon’s halo. Then, without warning, a second chariot raced into view, this time transporting a cargo of William F. Buckley incisors, their dirty little faces etched with disdain for the hypodermic hussy’s that used to hang around the neighbouring molars. 

Then the night’s ceiling of invisible cloud diffused in a circle of expanding radius, as if swept away by a massive wallop of headstock. There were juddering spikes of ionic discharge as the chariots now multiplied, joined by others in this crowded skyline, even a few Volvos were said to have been seen accelerating up the shadow of Orion, as if it were an armadillo-laden freeway. Then from the hollowed blackness above, drifted down a fretboard adorned with the kernels of fervency, the zest of zeal, and all was stopped. Frozen in mid-yell, trapped in a time impasse with no turnoff, stuck on the flypaper of temporarily, the chariots stationed without a whisper in their elevation. Their prior animation wretched from kinesis by a monolith, one that makes that Kubrick domino a jealous shade of pale in comparison, and now sits upon the firmament like a worthy deity. 

What has caused this overblown hoopla is none other than John Petrucci’s solo album, the Dream Theater guitarist’s first. Long slaved over, stained with sweat and various other juices of creativity, the album, incidentally going by the moniker of Suspended Animation, was released in March 2005, and is a fully instrumental opus of music. Its audio engravings are unsurprisingly guitar-orientated, and all composed by Petrucci himself. His guitar is seated right at the forefront of the mix, enjoying a prestigious clarity and power, while at the same time he is backed by bass players and drummers who undoubtedly have seen a session or eight in their time. (Although let it be known, they do a brilliant job.) 

The omniscient presence on the album goes to the prodigious playing of Petrucci, his inventive riffs and streaming solos clearly propelling the music. And more than that, it sounds huge, especially for a solo guitar record. On my first listen I was blown away by its cavernous sound; it’s a mighty behemoth of depth. Petrucci’s done a fantastic job of producing this, and the mixing is superb. 

Article Author: Aaron Fleming

Aaron Fleming is a waster and an idler - prone to pomposity - forever enchanted by the filmic and the sonic, words and the aesthetic - given to the most ludicrous appraisal of Culture's finest icons and compositions. He resides in London.

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