Portishead — Dummy

The Music of Dummy

As an anxiety-packed week draws to a close, I'm taking an hour off before sleep to lay under the covers and drift off to one of the greatest records ever put to wax. The story of Portishead’s Dummy usually fits snugly into pop music historians' retelling of nineties electronics. A Bristol-based band obsessed with dubby basslines, string pads, and hip hop breakbeats releases an idiosyncratic debut album in 1994: it’s the natural progression of UK electronic music after Massive Attack's Blue Lines, establishing Bristol as the global capital of trip hop.

But this oft-repeated story takes away from the unlikeliness of Portishead. A 22-year-old record spinner, a 37-year-old jazz noodler, and a 29-year-old singer record an album between ‘93 and ‘94 with next to no fanfare, no touring, no EPs, no clue of what will follow. Dummy becomes not only a critical and commercial success, but also gets repeatedly recognised over the following decades as one of the greatest albums ever. 

Beth Gibbons performing with Portishead at Roskilde Festival 2011 on Orange Stage. CC BY-SA 3.0 Original Author: Bill Ebbesen

Even after all these years, there's something special about Beth Gibbons' haunting vocals, sometimes crooning, sometimes quivering, sometimes whispering; her voice on Dummy still sends shivers down my spine. Her unconventional, but breathtaking approach to pop vocals rests over a foundation of unconventional samples of 70s detective show intros, old-timey jazz pieces and recording by the band itself. There’s muted trumpets, lush pads, sequenced blips and beeps, scratched breakbeats, unusual chord progressions played out on guitar and the organ, and angular basslines. The downtempo, almost chillout-style beats of Dummy hide several bold sonic choices.

The Feel of Dummy

You know what this album feels like? It feels like a night spent on the couch of someone unfamiliar as a sit-down party goes on around you in blurry slow-motion. As everyone around you indulges in their own habit of choice, you sit silently, empty glass in hand. The room spins around you gently. They’re talking a lot, but they’re not saying anything. You were brought here by somebody, but you can’t find her. Truth be told, you’d just like to leave, but you can’t; it’d be rude. You’ve got to make the best of what you have, you remind yourself, but you don’t know these people and you have no interest in getting to know them; your social calendar is pretty much full as it is, and there’s already a lot of people you love. So the best you can do at this moment is sit in the corner and think about life and what it all means. 

Of course, this means the evening’s tinged with a bit of loneliness, but you’re glad that this get-together is big enough for you to fade away for a bit and not have to answer questions like where are you lost and you’re awful quiet. You’re trying to keep a positive attitude and not be that guy, but… why is it that the most uninteresting people have the best-looking houses? Wonder where they got their hands on this ochre lampshade? And that fascinating painting; they must’ve spent an unimaginable sum of money to acquire it; they must be quite well-off. And their balcony with those white-and-terracotta pots and exotic-sounding plants. Such a blue record in a house so orange. Such a new-fangled soundsystem in a house so old-fashioned. 

She comes, sits next to you. Bored, huh? Should you say yes? These people are incredibly vacuous, but what a beautiful house they’ve assembled, what a beautiful guestlist they’ve assembled, each of whom is wearing such a set of beautiful clothes, holding such beautiful glasses and plates, adorned with such beautiful wine and food. But god, I’m so bored; how do you bear being around these people? No, you respond, and smile. I’ve just had too much to drink. Well that’s a lie; all you’ve had is a glass for the cheers followed by glass after glass of water; but what’s the bigger social ill? Drunkenness or social anxiety? Well, we can leave if you want. Yes please; please, let’s leave. No, you haven’t seen these guys in a while, we should stay. She knows you don’t mean that, but she doesn’t want to leave either, so she chooses to pretend you’ve convinced her you’re ok. Sure? Sure. 

When she gets up, your focus shifts to the goings-on in the room. Everyone’s crowding around the dinner table. Your clothes suddenly fit that little bit more awkwardly. You check to see if your buttons are on the verge of popping; they aren’t. Hey how’s it going, the host asks. It’s going well man; listen, can I play some music? He’s not going to say no to a guy who’s been sitting all by himself all evening as the party has edged away. Sure buddy. You ignore the condescending use of the word buddy (who even calls another adult that in that tone of voice: sureeeeee buddyyyyyyy). You play Glory Box and stand around awkwardly.

It Gets Better, Dummy

Sometimes you find life headed in an uncomfortable direction and there’s nothing you can do about it. So you do the best you can while maintaining as positive an attitude as you can. You aren’t chilling out, but you aren’t freaking out either; and that’s the best you can hope for sometimes. That’s what Dummy feels like. Things may not be perfect, but they will get better. That’s my mantra for the weekend.