Portishead

Crap. That’s Beth Gibbons’ verdict on Portishead’s would-be triumphant show at Hammersmith Apollo, their thirteenth since reforming after a decade-long hiatus.

Then again, she’s never been one for overstatement. The 43-year-old diva of small-hours paranoia is in self-effacing mood after a nervy set which had to be halted three songs in while a technical issue with Geoff Barrow’s mixing equipment was resolved.

She needn’t have been quite so uncharitable in her assessment: despite the early setback and some initial misgivings about a couple of new tracks aired this evening, the Bristol trio – ranks swelled to a five-piece with additional drummer and keyboardist – recover to channel a set of some force and inspiration.

Let’s be clear from the off: Third is a fine addition to the Portishead’s slim back catalogue, bravely casting off their trademark, lump-in-throat melancholy for an obtuse, vaguely industrial direction that dawns on the listener after three or four listens like a faulty gas tap.

Not that it’s reactionary in any sense, and live their setlist strikes a decent, if at times jarring, balance between tear-jerking oldies and the more muscle-bound new material. Nowhere is this more apparent than with ‘Machine Gun’; the fearsome lead single that set tongues a-wagging at All Tomorrow’s Parties late last year, delivered at full force here after Gibbons’ breathtaking vocal on ‘Wandering Star’.

Much of the bad stuff can be put down to a lack of road-testing – ‘Silence’ depends heavily on its rolling trapdoor rhythm for momentum, and it’s sadly lost in the mix here, while the guitar drones that intrude on ‘Hunter’ so eerily on record are played down to an apologetic murmur.

‘White Horses’’ teutonic folk fares a little better thanks to a clever exposition and vocal melody from Gibbons, while album centrepiece and tonight's finale ‘We Carry On’ sounds terrific, like a goth Silver Apples sharing cyberspace with Joy Division.

It’s the hits, of course, that draw the biggest reception – ‘Glory Box’ and ‘Sour Times’ in particular bringing a few dewy-eyed zealots to their feet in rapture – but once this latest incarnation of Portishead emerges fully formed, teeth gleaming and suspiciously dagger-like, it’s to the future they’ll be turning, like sharks to a drop of faraway seal blood.

Photo: londonla, from Flickr