Ian Neal is a British composer, multi‑instrumentalist and master of classic analog synthesizers, currently creating in his own studio in Kalamata, Greece. Holding a doctorate in visual theory and culture, Neal uniquely blends academic knowledge of art history with audiophile, symphonic progressive rock. Listeners have quite deservedly christened him the “Doctor of Reverie.” For years, Ian has been crafting music that does not merely reference the past, but continues it—as if a parallel timeline existed in which classic symphonic rock was never interrupted by changing eras, but kept evolving, maturing, crystallizing. This Gemlike Flame is precisely such an album: a monumental, meticulously crafted work woven from analog synthesizers, mellotron choirs, Hammond textures and guitar filigree that does not imitate the 1970s, but rather extends them creatively. Neal recorded more than sixty instrumental tracks here, shaping music that feels like a symphonic fresco. Only two guests appear: Kyle P. Nish, whose live drums on the second track give the album pulse and dynamism, and Evgenia Papamikrouli, floating above several compositions like an ethereal choir from another dimension.
Although This Gemlike Flame takes us half a century back, it is not a collection of covers or cheap nostalgia. Neal poses a fundamental question: what other artistic possibilities lay hidden in that era? By merging past and present, he occupies a space that the giants of the genre abandoned decades ago.
Ian Neal is not alone in his fascination with the golden age of prog rock. Much like Robert Reed—who writes new compositions “standing on the shoulders of a giant,” Mike Oldfield—Neal explores the rich universe of Genesis from 1976–1980. He deliberately ignores the era of remastered CDs and box sets, reaching deeper: into rare B‑sides (“It’s Yourself,” “The Day the Light Went Out,” “Naminamu,” “Submarine”), Tony Banks’s solo debut A Curious Feeling, and early works by Steve Hackett. Neal enters this specific sonic world as one of its inhabitants. He draws from the extraordinarily rich musical language of those years to create something that goes far beyond a mere homage.
One may ask whether such an approach makes sense in an age of modern technology. When musicians reconstruct the sound of baroque orchestras or 1930s big bands, no one questions the validity of their work. Neal treats analog synthesizers with the same reverence. He draws inspiration from the technical mastery of Tony Banks—a keyboardist whose genius extended far beyond the boundaries of progressive rock. Thanks to Neal’s academic background, the British dreamscape, art history and romantic poetry merge here into a coherent whole.
Compared with earlier entries in Neal’s discography—such as All in the Golden Afternoon… (2005) or the folk‑progressive Barkston Ash (2022)—the new album emerges as his most monumental and technically precise project. Neal abandons simpler forms in favor of complex symphonic structures. For listeners who choose to purchase the release, the artist has prepared detailed technical notes documenting patches, equipment and the entire recording process, further emphasizing the craftsmanship behind this album.
The record opens with the nine‑minute suite “How Dreams Do Creep (for Souls Asleep),” in which Neal draws on a 17th‑century poem by Robert Herrick but sings it as if it were a contemporary meditation on time. Pastel synthesizers, mellotron mist and pastoral guitars guide the listener through images of ripening fruit, snowflakes and water disappearing into the sea—metaphors of life shifting from warmth to cold. The music unfolds like a dream slowly creeping into the soul, and the monumental synthesizer solo in the finale shines like light piercing through a Victorian fog. It is not only a literary opening, but a musical one: Neal establishes the album’s language, in which synthesizers are not instruments but narrators.
“Late States, Eden’s Gates” serves as an instrumental counterpoint to this elegiac narrative. Kyle P. Nish’s live drums give the piece a fusion‑progressive pulse, recalling the energy of Genesis during the “Wot Gorilla?” era. ARP 2600 and Polymoog synthesizers intertwine in a dynamic dialogue, while Evgenia Papamikrouli’s ethereal vocalizations hover above like an echo of a lost Eden. It is music of movement, light and energy—brief, yet remarkably effective.
“Enitharmon’s Dream” is a miniature functioning as a breath between larger forms. Mellotron washes, spacious synthesizers and subtle ornaments create an oneiric landscape inspired by the poetry and engravings of William Blake. It is a piece that does not tell a story but opens a space for imagination—like a single‑stroke sketch foreshadowing a greater work.
The album’s most significant moment is the thirteen‑minute suite “Cretan Angel.” Here Neal accomplishes something extraordinary: he writes a spiritual response to Genesis’s “Entangled.” That earlier piece was filled with unease, tinged with dread, telling of manipulation and loss of control. Neal reverses the narrative. His “Cretan Angel” is a lullaby for a soul afraid of its own dreams. “Whisper, in my ear, what dark dreams you may fear” he sings softly, like a guardian who does not wish to silence fear but gently tame it. The music unfolds over a hypnotic eight‑bar ostinato that builds an atmosphere of safety, while Papamikrouli’s sacred choral textures rise above like light. In the “Marian Veil” section, the suite changes direction, evoking the ethereal beauty of “Undertow” and “Snowbound.” It is the moment when the album unfurls its spiritual wings: the angel is not a religious symbol but a metaphor of protection, tenderness and light descending “from Heaven to Earth” to embrace a person in a moment of vulnerability.
“Fresco” is an instrumental fresco in the literal sense. Neal constructs the music as a painter applies successive layers of pigment onto wet plaster. A delicate motif gradually grows into a dense symphonic texture in which synthesizers, mellotron and Hammond form a structure reminiscent of a Renaissance wall glowing with light. It is a piece about process—about how art emerges, grows and crystallizes over time.
“Of Aether, Rose and Spangling Dew” returns to Herrick’s words but transforms their meaning. In the opening suite, snow symbolized the passage of time; here it becomes revelation. Sacred choirs, church organs and flute ornaments create music that sounds like a morning garden after rain, where dew glitters like jewels. Neal paints nature as a temple in which every element—ether, rose, dew—is a symbol of something greater. It is one of the album’s most liturgical moments, not in a religious sense but in mood.
The final suite, “Leonardo,” is a fresco painted with light. Neal addresses Leonardo da Vinci as a master who could see the world not only with his eyes but with his imagination. “Uomo barbuto, mostrami un diluvio…” he asks for a vision of the deluge, which in Leonardo’s iconography is not a catastrophe but a movement of matter. The music unfolds in five panels: from a Renaissance sketch, through swirling ostinato, to geometric misterioso in 11/8, where synthesizers and celesta create a labyrinth of light. In the finale appears a quotation from Walter Pater—a call to burn “with this hard gemlike flame.” Neal ends the album in a whisper, as if he knew that true passion does not require noise—only light.
This Gemlike Flame is an album that not only continues the tradition of classic Genesis but transforms it. Neal does not reconstruct the past—he animates it. He does not quote—he converses. He does not reminisce—he continues. This is music that merges synthesizer symphonics with literature, art, philosophy and spirituality. A monumental, precise album, full of light, metaphors and dreams that creep into the soul to illuminate it. For every fan of classic Genesis, for every lover of symphonic rock, for anyone who believes music can be light—This Gemlike Flame is essential.
