I picked up Portishead's latest album, "Third," way back in June, and it was decidedly inappropriate for the trip to the beach that I was taking when I popped it in my car stereo. Given that I picked up this year's summer album, "Tha Carter III" on the same trip to the wreckid store, it was almost no contest. But six months on things have changed.As a longtime fan of Portishead, I kept giving it more chances over time, and I did love it, but in an intellectual sort of way, as in "I'm glad Portishead is still great and not stale", without ever really being inspired to hear the thing very often.Last night was the first real snowfall of the year, and today as I drove around the cold leafless landscape with wind on my nose, I listened to "Third" again. Why did they put this out at the beginning of summer? It is a winter album through and through. Stark icy soundscapes and Gibbons' ethereal love lyrics are like the Grinch's little heart plugged into a stompbox and amplified through frozen cones. You lick this music, your tongue will get stuck. Even on "The Rip," where a bubbling synth arpeggio carries the dream-lyric "White horses come and take me away" into soulful oblivion, well, it feels as warm as the sun, but also as chilly as January. "Plastic" starts with crackling snares that don't have enough heat energy to carry themselves to the end of the bar. So I take back my early-summer thoughts about this crunchy masterpiece. It's not just a second coming of Portishead; I will think it a classic for many winters to come.
No comments:
Post a Comment