"We really wanted to sound like ourselves but not sound like ourselves. It was always going to be difficult." - Geoff Barrow, Pitchfork Media interview, Apr. 7, 2008.
Geoff Barrow and the rest of Portishead had every reason in the world to feel this way. When Dummy debuted in 1994, it didn't sound like anything else and wasn't even expected to sell 50,000 copies. It's hard to believe in this day and age, but Dummy's dark, torchy pop punctuated with hip-hop beats and swimming in a sea of bass had never before been co-opted by anyone--not even Massive Attack, who had approached trip-hop from more of a dance perspective. It blew up, sparking a trip-hop genesis in alt-rock circles looking for a viable (and similarly angst-ridden) alternative to grunge, especially in the States. Now, of course, Dummy's sound is everywhere, from the umpteen upstart trip-hop bands that subsequently appeared to spy films, cocktail parties and massage therapy commercials. So we would be forgiven for not being bowled over by Dummy today, and Portishead would be forgiven for wanting to distance themselves from it.
When last we heard from Portishead, it seemed as though they were packing it in for good, leaving us with a slightly less fresh self-titled album in 1997 and a live recording at Manhattan's Roseland Ballroom in 1998 before retreating into the shadows. Always something of an enigma and quite shy of the press, it was left to us to assume that Portishead was frustrated with how their crown jewel had been assimilated and watered-down, and that they were too daunted by the challenge that Barrow mentioned above to record a third album: How do you sound like yourself and not sound like yourself? All of which makes Third--a record that wasn't even supposed to exist--such a cryptically dazzling triumph. Third is no Dummy: It's much bleaker, makes precious few references to pop, and attains a level of creepiness that Dummy's strangest song, "Wandering Star," only suggested. Yet one listen to Third is all it takes to realize that nobody else is making music quite like this, and this is how Portishead still sound like themselves. In fact, hearing Third in 2008 may clue us into what it was like to hear Dummy in 1994.
Counterintuitive as it may seem, the first thing to do when approaching Third is to forget about trip-hop and all the associations it carries. Barrow's drums stay far, far away from a hip-hop swagger; rather than providing a backbone, these diverse rhythms teeter on edge with the rest of the music and add another ominous layer to the mix. "Plastic" uses amped, clipped drum rolls that send the song screeching to a halt about a dozen times, and "We Carry On" is driven by a scary tom-led tribal stomp (Morcheeba this isn't). Barrow doesn't cop out by adding bassy undercurrents for cheap mystery; instead, he punches up the compression and keeps the sound trebly and brittle, giving the impression that everything is flying right at you even when the songs stand still. Third may be stubbornly unsexy, but that doesn't mean it's not alluring. Indeed, it wields an odd magnetic power that draws the listener ever further into its disorienting abyss, even when all of the elements jump bluntly out of the speakers.
By the same token, Third's allure doesn't make it an easy listen, and it can be particularly heady when experienced in one straight pass. The sequencing feels all wrong, moving up and down and up again in the most unsettling of ways. After the distorted anti-song "Silence" kicks the record off, Portishead dips into the heavily narcotized haunted house of "Hunter," where Beth Gibbons' vocals drift sleepily and hypnotically through the arrangement. "We Carry On" is followed by the 90-second respite "Deep Water," which sounds like Gibbons fronting the Ink Spots over a ukulele melody, before being gunned down by the incessant staccato rapid-firing of "Machine Gun." Through it all, Gibbons sings like an innocent bystander; divorced from and frightened by the music around her, she becomes our stand-in for its unfamiliar territory. She contributes little to the record compositionally and melodically, but remove her and obliterate a sizable chunk of Third's emotional punch.
The members of Portishead are noted experimentalists, but they don't just make cool sounds for fun. The backward-looped guitar on "Nylon Smile," the warped ascending scales on "Hunter," and the many other weird noises that crop up on Third contain an element of caution like aural barbed wire: As unpleasant as they may be, they're there to keep us from venturing somewhere truly dangerous. The creepy Portuguese television program that begins "Silence" seems appropriate, since listening to Third can feel as though we're tuning into a channel that we're not meant to know about or watch. I imagine that trip-hop in its nascent form--Massive Attack's Mezzanine, Tricky's Maxinquaye, and yes, Portishead's Dummy--was originally meant to invoke this sort of forbidden underworld, but that somewhere down the road the plot got lost, and its darkness and foreboding turned into something more manageable, fashionable and marketable. By rescuing trip-hop from a fate of Banana Republic soundtracks and putting their extremely personal stamp on a tired genre, Portishead have re-established themselves not simply as masters of their craft, but as reinventors of it.