It could be sweet; like a long forgotten dream.
The following entry is in response to a series of compositions collectively titled “Making Out with Portishead” first published inVol. 17, No. 33 of the Stranger, Seattle’s arguably most popular weekly news publication.
“I really like Portishead because she’s the only music out there that really sings about what it’s like to be a woman.” I can remember some one saying that to you while we were seeing each other. I don’t remember if it was your ex-half-brother, or if it was one of the many men and women surrounding you in the hopes you would eventually love them. A lot of my memories of you are that way. They’re all mixed up and sifted into a mélange that’s cohesive in a symbolic fashion, but not in a factual or linear way. I can recall your voice quite clearly in all its nuances, from the whiny, grating tone you’d adopt sometimes as the Jewish American Princess you half-jokingly admitted to being to the husky screams and phrases you’d emit during especially hard sexual encounters. I can’t honestly recall what it was like to kiss you. I can picture your naked body in multiple flashes of scene. If I think really hard, I can sometimes remember what you looked like on those odd times you would smile. But most of my memories are questionable at best; more likely to be a composite of different lovers and friends than an actual event or moment we shared together.
The one thing of which I am dead sure is the music. We had two albums that were ours’ during the time we attempted to make something work that was doomed from the start. One was Switchblade Symphony’s album “Serpentine Gallery.” The other was Portishead’s, “Dummy.” We discovered Switchbalde together, so it was sort of “our music” in a way. Listening to it would feel like something couples did, so we’d listen to it and screw to it and generally go through the motions of pretending we were a couple. Portishead was brought to our relationship. We both had baggage and impressions of the songs and their emotional content. Therefore it seemed when listening to their music, we would come to feel the closest to each other we’d ever feel. Beth Gibbons’ vocals would open raw wounds in our hearts; wounds we would fall into each other’s arms to salve. We would be the most intimate not when we were sharing something, but when we were both seeking to forget or forgive. Portishead takes you into that space between love and loss. It is a Zen moment, struck between the last pure note of a bell and the inevitable silence. In those moments we would find solace in physical contact.
To this day if I want to remember how I felt about you as clearly as I am able, I have to put on “Dummy.” When the music dredges you up, I can face what I was then and reconcile it to who I am now.
“I really like Portishead because she’s the only music out there that really sings about what it’s like to be a woman.” I can remember some one saying that to you while we were seeing each other. I don’t remember if it was your ex-half-brother, or if it was one of the many men and women surrounding you in the hopes you would eventually love them. A lot of my memories of you are that way. They’re all mixed up and sifted into a mélange that’s cohesive in a symbolic fashion, but not in a factual or linear way. I can recall your voice quite clearly in all its nuances, from the whiny, grating tone you’d adopt sometimes as the Jewish American Princess you half-jokingly admitted to being to the husky screams and phrases you’d emit during especially hard sexual encounters. I can’t honestly recall what it was like to kiss you. I can picture your naked body in multiple flashes of scene. If I think really hard, I can sometimes remember what you looked like on those odd times you would smile. But most of my memories are questionable at best; more likely to be a composite of different lovers and friends than an actual event or moment we shared together.
The one thing of which I am dead sure is the music. We had two albums that were ours’ during the time we attempted to make something work that was doomed from the start. One was Switchblade Symphony’s album “Serpentine Gallery.” The other was Portishead’s, “Dummy.” We discovered Switchbalde together, so it was sort of “our music” in a way. Listening to it would feel like something couples did, so we’d listen to it and screw to it and generally go through the motions of pretending we were a couple. Portishead was brought to our relationship. We both had baggage and impressions of the songs and their emotional content. Therefore it seemed when listening to their music, we would come to feel the closest to each other we’d ever feel. Beth Gibbons’ vocals would open raw wounds in our hearts; wounds we would fall into each other’s arms to salve. We would be the most intimate not when we were sharing something, but when we were both seeking to forget or forgive. Portishead takes you into that space between love and loss. It is a Zen moment, struck between the last pure note of a bell and the inevitable silence. In those moments we would find solace in physical contact.
To this day if I want to remember how I felt about you as clearly as I am able, I have to put on “Dummy.” When the music dredges you up, I can face what I was then and reconcile it to who I am now.