In the barrage of music that's been pouring into my poor ears this year I almost forgot about Portishead's Third. A doctor friend of mine (sadly not a real one) paid actual money for it and I ripped it off him as Winter gave way to Spring's first flushes.
I think I put it on while making some pizza and it didn't fit the Friday night mood quite right. So we reverted to Rufus Wainwright who never fails on such occasions.
But now we're in the bleak midwinter and terminal 2E at Paris airport is an unbelievably depressing place to be right now. The Beaujolais Nouveau I'm drinking couldn't be much more out of place and somehow then feels about right.
And now, here, I'm finally catching up with Portishead's Third. I think it's been worth the wait. The chilled wine may be helping but I'm warming to the occasion. Two hours til we board and this place doesn't seem so bad. It's cold and unfriendly but, like everything perhaps, has an inner beauty. It's not an easy place to be but once you're here you can just about make sense of it.
The album isn't an easy place to be either but it's starting to make sense too. It's spikily difficult but Beth Gibbon's stark, intimate vocals are lovely juxtaposition to this wonkily evocative soundscape.
An hour to go and perhaps one more incongruous Beaujolais Nouveau may be in order. Yes, why not and a second attempt at Third to go with it. I'm tired and a little depressed but, still, I must be punished.
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