Why I Can’t Stand Portishead (Sorry, Portishead)

Cryogen Eric mentioned a while ago that he’d be interested in hearing some thoughts on the new Portishead album. “You know, so would I,” I thought. They’ve been playing a song from the new album (“Machine Gun”) at goth night, and I was optimistically thinking that Portishead had decided to throw down and kick some ass. OK, “Machine Gun” isn’t exactly the schizophrenic crazy town that I tend to enjoy in my music, but the bizarro beat of it gives it a high enough degree of difficulty to make it fun to dance to. Last night, Jrob busted out the rest of the new album. Verdict: fail.

It’s not them, it’s me.

I used to like Portishead. I used to listen to “Glory Box” and think “damn, they totally nailed this,” but now I just feel nothing. It’s like one day I just woke up and thought “I can’t stand that chick’s whining anymore.” As I was explaining this to Jrob, I realized the problem…

“I like my women ballsy…”

I like women that will scream at me, sing in husky voices, or at least be really, unapologetically “fuck you.” Juliette Lewis, Dinah Cancer, Amanda Palmer. Even Patty Griffin (have you heard “Change?” hello?) Even Tori and Fiona have their ornery moments, when they’re not balled up in a fetal position somewhere. I like my women wearing tattered dresses and dancing angrily at their former pimps (see below). I can’t wrap my head around a woman who seems content to sigh under her breath, I can’t wrap my head around women who exist to wear hooker boots and hot pants (ask me about the Pussycat Dolls, I dare you). Something in my just wants to set those women on fire. Yes, music is big enough for all types, and some people really enjoy a good “chill out” record. I’m just not one of those people. Sorry, Portishead.