East West
Pop, 1995
After Dive, where Sarah Brightman transformed into a mystical mermaid warbling about the ocean, she now emerges with Fly, an album where she metaphorically dons a leather jacket, cranks up the synthesizers, and declares, “I am hardcore now.”
Well, hardcore for a Sarah Brightman album, at least, which means there’s gasp electric guitars and some serious pop-rock energy. Think less Phantom of the Opera, more Phantom of the Discotheque.
This album is another collaboration with Frank Peterson, mastermind behind Enigma and Gregorian, or the guy who briefly convinced club-goers in the 90s that monks chanting over techno beats was the future.
Unlike Dive, which had a crystal-clear underwater concept, Fly is a bit more… nebulous. Sure, some songs mention flying and heaven, but do they actually evoke the sensation of soaring majestically through the clouds? Not exactly. If anything, this album feels like it’s zooming down a neon-lit autobahn at 3 am, fueled by questionable energy drinks and a vague sense of existential dread.
But let’s not mistake lack of cohesion for bad. Oh no, Fly is a wild ride, starting strong with The Fly, a psychedelic dance anthem that sounds like Ms Brightman has suddenly gained superpowers and is now on a mission to destroy a doomsday asteroid with the sheer force of her vocal cords.
Then there’s Why, a song that may or may not have been beamed in from a parallel universe where U2 let Sarah Brightman take over The Joshua Tree. If Murder in Maryland Park doesn’t immediately conjure images of a haunted music box possessed by Victorian ghosts in goth makeup, then you’re not listening hard enough.
Catchiness is in no short supply here. Tom Jones himself materializes for Something in the Air, because if any album needed a cameo from a Welsh legend who could probably bench-press a small car, it’s this one. Meanwhile, Take My Breath Away is so gloriously 90s-Eurovision-meets-rave-club that listening to it feels like watching your grandma execute a flawless breakdance routine. You’re stunned. You’re in awe. You’re questioning everything.
And then there’s How Can Heaven Love Me, the absolute peak of this glittery, fever-dream madness. Imagine Diva Plavalaguna from The Fifth Element fronting a dramatic rock band while Chris Thompson belts out his lines with the emotional intensity of a man who has just discovered his lover was an alien all along. It’s bombastic. It’s ridiculous. It’s EPIC. Play this at full volume, and your hair will double in volume overnight.
For those clutching their pearls and demanding “But where is CLASSICAL Sarah?!”—fear not. She throws in A Question of Honour, which starts off operatic before the beats kick in, some guy starts chanting, and suddenly, we’re in what sounds like an Olympic Games anthem composed by aliens. It’s a ride. But let’s be real—if you’re a classical purist, you have literally dozens of Brightman albums to choose from. Let the rest of us have this moment of glorious, unhinged chaos.
Fly may not be as thematically tight as Dive, but it delivers in its own way—hard-hitting, weird, and audaciously cool.
It’s just a shame that we never got a follow-up to complete what should have been the “Sarah Brightman Goes to the Weird” trilogy. What would the third album have been called? Burrow, a deep dive into underground club music? Walk, a concept album about strutting down a futuristic catwalk in zero gravity? The possibilities are endless, and yet, we’ll never know.
Still, Fly remains a glorious anomaly in her discography, forever standing as the moment Sarah Brightman decided to be not just a diva, but a cosmic, genre-bending fever dream of a rock goddess.
