A Portishead song. Dreary, dismal, depressing — small.
Like fine wine, this song takes some chewing for taste. It is a story of 7 minutes, told in 3 stages.
In the first minute, you have been 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 human pig.
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