A Portishead song. Dreary, dismal, depressing — small.
Like fine wine, this song takes quite some chewing to know its taste. The song is close to 7 minutes. It is a story, told in 3 stages.
In the first minute, you are invited to a warm place. Tranquil and cozy. Soft guitar music waltz in the background. You are lying on the sofa, in rapture with the hostess's story, and indulgent in the warmth.
Then, at 1:10, all of a sudden, you realized something is wrong. Terribly wrong. You weren't welcomed. You weren't invited. You weren't in some cozy room. You are actually amidst a alien ritual, and you are the target of ridicule.
At 2:30, the inevitable sets in. Cold, harsh, industrial. Like clockwork, it repeats, unerringly, screaming.
If I remember the night that we met Tasted a wine that I'll never forget Opened the doorway and saw through the light Motions of movement and I felt delight She spoke of freedom, “A way in,” she said “A wisdom that took me away from the bed” Spoke of the glory that we had become I felt forgiven in all I've become
Small, tasteless and flawed Hoping to see, blinded like me You tried to understand But you're just a man Hoping to score just like me Failure again, tried to pretend Who you were then, Who you are now Hating the lord, Hating the lord Hating the lord, hating the lord