The score that Martin Scorsese couldn’t have made the film without, and that most people have never actually sat down and listened to.
Gabriel spent the better part of three years assembling this thing, starting in 1985 when Scorsese first came calling, working through sessions scattered across Ashford, England at his own Real World Studios — which wasn’t even fully built yet, the walls still going up while the tapes were rolling. That detail matters. There’s a rawness baked into the foundations of this record that no amount of polish could have smoothed away, and Gabriel didn’t try.
The Players, The Place, The Problem
He brought in Youssou N’Dour, whose voice opens the album like a wound. The Senegalese singer doesn’t appear as a guest or a cameo — he’s structural, load-bearing. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s qawwali recordings were sampled and woven into the fabric. L. Shankar plays double violin throughout, his instrument designed and built specifically for him, capable of sounds that have no Western analog.
David Rhodes — Gabriel’s long-running guitarist, the one who knows when to stay completely out of the way — is here, quiet and deliberate. Manu Katché handles percussion on several tracks, which puts two future solo artists in the same room serving someone else’s vision entirely. That kind of generosity is rarer than it sounds.
The engineer was David Bottrill, early in his run with Gabriel, a collaboration that would eventually produce Us and define a certain kind of 90s studio ambition. But here, in 1988, he’s working in service of something genuinely strange. The brief was: music that sounds like it was never not there. Not period authentic. Not world music pastiche. Ancient.
What the Music Actually Does
Gabriel approached this as ethnomusicology filtered through grief. He listened to recordings from sub-Saharan Africa, the Middle East, India, and North Africa — field recordings as much as performances — and asked how a rhythm or a drone might survive two thousand years. Then he built compositions around the answer.
“Of These, Hope” uses a bass flute figure that sounds like it’s playing backward and forward simultaneously. “A Different Drum” locks into a polyrhythm that shouldn’t feel as inevitable as it does. “Lazarus Raised” is, I think, one of the most genuinely unsettling pieces of music Gabriel ever made — not horror-film unsettling, but the kind that makes you feel the room get slightly larger.
The album works independently of the film. That’s the thing people get wrong when they dismiss it as a soundtrack. Scorsese used maybe a third of what’s here. The rest is music that exists because Gabriel couldn’t stop.
There’s no verse-chorus-verse anywhere on this record. No hook in the traditional sense. What it has instead is inevitability — each piece arrives and then withdraws like it was always going to do exactly that. You stop waiting for something to happen and start listening to what’s already happening.
The ending credit version of “Passion” that closes the album runs over seven minutes. By the fourth minute you’ve forgotten you’re a person sitting in a chair in a house in a year.
Put it on after the house goes quiet. Don’t shuffle it.