Portishead
Roseland NYC Live

THE REVIEW

The needle of a syringe slips under the skin, at the level of the liver. It hurts, I know it hurts, I'm damn sure it hurts, but my body has no reaction about it.

Yes, that's right, my body doesn't oppose this pain; in fact, it almost seems to derive a sadomasochistic pleasure from it. I've lost the ability to understand what's happening. It's like falling into emptiness in slow motion, so slow that I can no longer predict the moment of the inevitable impact.

The syringe sinks deeper and deeper, inexorably, but without any rush. By now, even my brain has stopped reacting to the pain; now I'm completely anesthetized. I can't move anymore. Time has passed, but I couldn't say how much. Now the syringe is just an old dusty memory that lies in a dead end along with the pain it caused and a thousand cobwebs.

I'm fine now. My mind is empty, free from all those smoky thoughts that once plagued it. I no longer feel my body, maybe it has simply disappeared, but it's not important. Now there's only a charming music that drips into my soul, like the tears shed for that pain, a pain that is now just a memory. Yes, it's just a foolish memory that's left to me at the end of it all.

Maybe it won't be enough. But, rummaging through the dark corners of my mind, that foolish memory is what best describes 'Roseland NYC Live.'