When you first met your favourite dilettante, I’d just gotten off a bus in Montreal to see one of my favourite bands play one of my favourite albums in it’s glorious entirety. Never mind that you’ve never heard of the band, darlings, because I insist that is still your loss, and I will endeavour to correct that grievous oversight.
King is likely my favourite Marillion song of all, and I’m happy to say that I have seen them play it live, and if my cheeks were tear-stained, well, what of it? It was transcendental.
The song is a warning — a cautionary tale of sorts — of achieving fame — of what it costs, and the madness of being worshiped and adored. What was once your art and your passion becomes simply a product that you spit out, and you lose yourself in a cult of celebrity, until you don’t even recognize yourself, and, like the song says, “you’re sick to your stomach at the sound of your voice, and the shape of your face, and the sound of your name.”
The song reaches an emotional climax, where the singer urges and pleads that:
I hope for your sake you’ve got what it takes to be spoiled to death.
Spend a few minutes to be blown away, darlings. I wouldn’t lead you astray.