Portishead
Third

THE REVIEW

THE SHADOW OF SIN. 

"Before you leave, take out the trash in the kitchen.." My lover and client, Phyllis Dietrichson, smiles with sarcasm. The "trash," in the jargon of our private contract, was this Mister X of whom I had seen the old gray photo and nothing more. A silhouette in the darkness of an unlit living room, all I could know about him, poor Christ. Because in my line of work, information often holds relative value, it’s the 'when' and 'how' that matter: the 'who' is a mechanical habit in the clauses of an agreement signed with blood. And with money, naturally. The less I know, the fewer implications, fewer problems, and wasted talent. A quick and effective job, as usual. I'll wait in the dim light of the living room for the familiar silhouette to approach. Trying not to stain the light leather of the sofa and the satin curtains. I promised Phyllis, and Tommy Udo always keeps his promises to a beautiful woman. Room 94-97, I turn the key in the lock and observe the empty rooms in the dark apartment. I sit down, light a slippery cigarette as I adjust the volume, in the background, of the Hi-Fi in the smoke. I take a record from the protruding shelf, on the cover a big 'P' on a light blue background. I insert it into the player and notice the eleven tracks on the back.

A tape from the past introduces the percussive, dark rhythm of 'Silence' traversed by the magnetic voice of Beth Gibbons and the post embroidery of the guitar. The noir chant 'Hunter' is a light sigh in anguish, often scarred by electric shocks. Thunders that split the sky in two, black with rain and suffering. 'Nylon Smile' has the circular and sustained electronic pace of the Teutonic Tarwater, 'The Rip' turns a delicate bucolic arpeggio into a crescendo of soft keyboards. The obsessive stride of 'Plastic', sharp and icy on the murky tones of the vocalist, moves the clock hands back to the beginnings of the legendary 'Dummy'. In the hypnotic and changeable 'We Carry On', the Bristolian creature tries to break away from labels and sound suits of a decade ago, becoming something else and materializing in the sudden and violent industrial barrages of a pneumatic drill 'Machine Gun', in the brief melody of the folk jolt 'Deep Water', in the psycho-rock flashes of the liturgical 'Small' and in the transfigured trip-hop memory of today in the concluding and magnificent 'Threads'. Eleven years, eleven tracks, eleven little reasons for the omen of a new masterpiece.

Portishead's "Third" disconcerts, and immerses the beloved and iconographic sound of the Bristol trio in dark/industrial waters. The chiaroscuro atmosphere of the past is now leaden, angular, merciless. Beth Gibbons' stunning voice in apnea remains the unmistakable trademark, the unprecedented threads of deus-ex-machina Geoff Barrow and Adrian Utley on the co-starring guitar thrust this third memorable work into a distressing and complex environment. Yet of extreme, unique charm.

The door opens silently. The silhouette looks at me, surprised: "Excuse me, but who are you, what do you want in my house.." Pale with terror, he stares at the barrel of my silencer. A hole in the forehead, not even a scream, no one having seen or heard, the immaculate walls without the slightest red mark. I go into the kitchen, I need to get the big dark trash bags. I’m Tommy Udo, I’m a hitman for hire. "Before you leave, take out the trash in the kitchen.." Sure, dear.