Portishead

From the English laboratory of Bristol – birthplace of one of the most fascinating movements of the Nineties, trip-hop – came many captivating alchemies (from Tricky's “Maxinquaye” to the “Blue Lines”-“Protection”-“Mezzanine” trilogy by Massive Attack). Only one, however, managed to capture the “essence” of the genre in a perfect and definitive way. That record is, precisely, “Dummy”, the debut album by Portishead (named after the town where Geoff Barrow, the band's mastermind, spent his youth).

Branded on the cover with the giant “P” that would come to characterize all the band's releases (namely another fine record, “Portishead”, and the excellent “Live in Roseland, New York”), “Dummy” is a kind of “modern classic”. A timeless record, perhaps precisely because it's always poised between past and future. Like a black-and-white film shot with the most advanced techniques of the late millennium.

Perhaps never more than in this case does the word “cinematic” fit so well in defining a sound that makes the ideal marriage of sound and image its cornerstone. It can soundtrack a night drive or a romantic encounter. It can bring to life the scenes of a spy story or a Lynch thriller (do you remember “Twin Peaks”?). But it could just as easily be the soundtrack to a post-atomic science-fiction film, thanks to the gloomy, decadent spirit that pervades it. Indeed, Portishead themselves wanted to test their skills behind the camera, making the short film “To Kill A Dead Man”.

The cornerstone idea behind Barrow and co. is the reworking of old film-noir and spy-movie motifs, blended with jazzy-lounge touches and slowed-down hip-hop rhythms, all steeped in bleakly romantic atmospheres. As for the rest, the sonic framework of “Dummy” is the one that would become typical of so much trip-hop to come: heavy use of samples and scratching (the sounds obtained by rubbing the needle across old vinyl LPs or mix records), guitar riffs borrowed from Sixties spaghetti westerns, lush string sections, murky basslines, Moog synthesizers and a Hammond organ adding a further vintage touch. But rising above this blend of sounds is the aching, spectral voice of Beth Gibbons, boldly dubbed “the Billie Holiday from outer space” (and, in 2002, the author of that splendid solo debut titled “Out Of Season”). Her voice is capable of sudden shifts in register: it can be taut, metallic, harrowing; but also warm and sensual, as in the slow-burning “Glory Box”, an aching meditation on women's tribulations, or in the opening “Mysterons”, which starts with a bolero-like swagger and ends up wrapped in ever more seductive coils of sound, amid strummed guitars and soft keyboard beds. The emotional climax of the whole collection, though, is the single “Sour Times”, a sort of “act of contrition” with a mournful gait and a sumptuous melody, with a desperate Gibbons crying into the wind, “'Cause nobody loves me / It's true / Not like you do…”, over the notes of a spectral orchestra. A memorable track, one that would be made even more devastating in the live rendition on “Live in Roseland, New York”.

The jazz influence, brought to the table by the eclectic Adrian Utley, is most evident on tracks like “Strangers” and “Pedestal”; the former, in particular, also reveals the meticulous studio craftsmanship of Portishead, with its sequence of refined sonic digressions – from soul to bossa nova – and shifts in tempo (complete with “stop-and-go” moments synced to Gibbons's vocals). “Roads” pairs wailing guitars with a retro orchestration driven by solemn strings: the effect is deeply evocative, as if introducing the plot twist in an imaginary film.

The band's tenderer side comes to the fore on the melancholic “It Could Be Sweet”, where Gibbons's soprano manages to swell with emotion almost every syllable of the line “Try a little harder…”. Driven by obsessive rhythms – including the use of an African drum – “Numb” is another masterclass from the vocalist, who glides skilfully between notes with vocalizations à la Sade. It's instead a refined cabaret chanteuse who inhabits the relentless lied of “Wandering Star”, wrapped in a shroud of electronic hisses and scratches, with the usual dub bassline holding everything together.

“Pedestal” and “Biscuit” give voice to the ghosts of that latent anxiety which is another trademark of the Portishead sound, leading the listener down a tunnel of dark sonic recesses, built on a hypnotic, obsessive structure. “Biscuit”, in particular, heightens the rhythmic component of the sound, unleashing a storm of syncopated beats and hip-hop pulses, with icy keyboard gusts in the background. Perhaps only “It's A Fire”, with Gibbons's voice wailing a touch too much over an organ accompaniment, momentarily lowers the quality of an otherwise near-perfect record.

“Dummy” is indeed the definitive manifesto of the trip-hop revolution – comparable in importance to the parallel techno revolution – but it's also the work that, more than any other, transcends the boundaries of that genre, arriving at a kind of music that is as retro in spirit as it is modern in approach. Portishead's work sinks its roots into the sorrow of the blues and the open-hearted confessions of soul; it absorbs the anguish of dark-wave, the anger of hip-hop and the obsessiveness of techno. And it manages to dress them up in ballads of rarefied elegance, thanks also to an orchestral sensibility that never goes over the top. Anyone who sees in the grooves of “Dummy” nothing more than plain “songs”, perhaps arranged in a knowing, “fashionable” way, does a disservice not just to Portishead, but even more so to their true forefathers: Ennio Morricone, John Barry and Angelo Badalamenti.

Ride the wave of great music

Add OndaRock to your favorite sources on Google Discover. Don't miss our reviews, milestones and latest news straight in your feed.

Follow on Google

06/11/2006