Portishead: Don't Call it a Comeback

Unleashing a new record and refining its musical approach, the British trip-hop outfit that beat out Oasis for the coveted Mercury Prize in 1995 breaks more than a decade of silence, weaving its hypnotic grooves for 21st-century music fans. Looks like the soundtrack to existential dread has hit its sour stride once again.

December 4, 2007

It’s Tuesday afternoon at the Bath Pavilion, a multi-purpose venue in England’s scenic West Country that served as an aircraft-wing factory during the Second World War, and that has since staged concerts by Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix and countless other rock luminaries. In three days time, Portishead will play its first concert in 10 years, headlining the All Tomorrow’s Parties weekender at a seaside holiday camp 70 miles down the road on the Somerset coast. Today is the dress rehearsal. Geoff Barrow—the band’s producer and architect—is twitchy. “Is it too early for a pint?” he asks guitarist Adrian Utley. They “um” and “ahh” before deciding it’s time to head to the bar for a Guinness. Just one, to calm the nerves.

If Barrow and Utley are in search of some liquid courage, it’s not without good reason. Portishead fans are flying in from Europe, the U.S. and South America for the ATP gig. The British press will attend in force. Expectations surrounding the band’s third album, called Third, have reached a fevered pitch. Thirteen years after Portishead’s debut Dummy edged out Oasis’ Definitely Maybe to win the 1995 Mercury Music Prize, Barrow and Utley—together with frontwoman Beth Gibbons—return now to a music scene awash in 1990s nostalgia. Britpop-influenced bands such as Kaiser Chiefs and Arctic Monkeys ride high atop the U.K. charts. The Verve has reunited (again) and Oasis took the #1 spot in Q magazine’s recent 50 Best British Albums readers poll (hitherto reserved for Radiohead’s OK Computer). Portishead always represented the flipside of the Britpop coin, with Dummy defining that other ’90s-U.K.-music phenomenon, trip-hop. If there was ever an opportune time to stage a comeback, the moment is now.

“It’s not a comeback,” corrects Barrow, back from the bar. “We never broke up. It just took a long time to make the new record.” He takes his seat alongside Utley. Together they survey a mildly surreal scene: The main hall of the Pavilion still bears the decorations from the previous weekend’s wedding reception—wilting bouquets of lilies atop plasterwork Doric columns, white fabric drapes hanging from the ceiling. The extended Portishead clan has turned out en masse. Grandparents, aunties and uncles catch up on family gossip. A child chases a dog under tables and around chairs. If it weren’t for the monolithic speaker stacks flanking the stage, you could easily mistake it for a family reunion.

Likewise, Barrow and Utley make for a strange pair. Barrow is skinny, with lank shoulder-length hair that recalls Kurt Cobain. He wears battered jeans and a long-loved T-shirt, once black, now a washed-out grey. He’s quick to laugh and talks in a robust West Country accent, elongating his “A”s, dwelling on his “R”s and pronouncing the word “brilliant” as “bree-yant.” By contrast, Utley is beefy and prone to introspective pauses. Before long, Beth Gibbons arrives. She is round-shouldered and sharp-faced, but with a broad, welcoming smile. She says, “Hello,” and extends a hand, apologizing for her late arrival. Then she sees the tape recorder and hurries off. She doesn’t do interviews.

With all members of the band present, Portishead begins its set, starting with new song “Wicca.” Third is a world away from the familiar trip-hop sounds of “Glory Box,” “Sour Times” and “Mysterons.” The first single is called “Machine Gun” for a reason. Built on repetitive bursts of stabbing synth, it’s typical of Portishead’s tougher, newfound electronic direction. “Silence” is jarring and discordant, with rolling drum patterns, jittery guitar chords and a bassline that stalks through sonic shadows. Gibbons’ voice has never been warm, but here it crackles frozen, the lines “Wounded and afraid / Inside my head / Falling through changes / Did you know what I lost?” covering the song like a layer of hoarfrost. The dread is relieved, if only for a moment, by the folksy “Deep Water,” which is just a mandolin and Gibbons sounding eerily like a six-year-old girl. It’s all bleak and deliberately difficult music that doesn’t so much require a reappraisal of the band as ram one down your throat. Thought you knew Portishead? Think again.

After the run through, Barrow and Utley dissect their performance, huddling with the soundman to discuss technical details. The final analysis? Not bad, considering.

“It was a little bit out of control,” says Utley. “But in a good way. It’s been a long time, you know.”