portishead - third

This is not the Portishead of yore, lulling you with melodies reminiscent of sinking underwater slowly. Remember, these guys have been stewing in their dark, dank, dismal juices for a decade now; they’ve evolved the bittersweet sound of goodbye. Third is, impossible as it may seem, more haunting, sullen, and moody than the group’s previous efforts. And Beth Gibbons’ voice is even more tortured. If Portishead’s last album was like drowning slowly and romantically, this time around it’s the police finding the bloated body at the bottom of the lake. Amplifying the stark, unforgiving mood, several songs simply cut off in mid-beat, leaving you with deafening silence before they trudge on with more dismay. “We Carry On” is the frightened heartbeat of a hunted deer; “Machine Gun” rattles you with four minutes of repeating rat-a-tat-tats; and on the closer, “Threads,” Gibbons moans, “I’m always so unsure.” I’m sure that Portishead has made a desolate and bleak album, and made it sound good. Ten years is a long time to wait, but Third will give you plenty of material to autopsy for years to come.

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