Massive Attack
Mezzanine
[Virgin]
Rating: 8.1
Bristol, England must the godforsaken armpit of the world, the Gary, Indiana of the
United Kingdom. Smokestacks spit sulfur- scented black skies. Paupers with the
croup rummage through rubble. Thunder is constant. Prozac is in short supply. The
water tastes like tinfoil. "Salad" means "weeds with mustard." Dewy sheets of
plastic flap in the shot- out windows of abandoned factories. This is merely
speculation, but a logical conclusion based on Bristol's wonderfully gloomy bands--
especially Massive Attack.
A soundtrack for nightmares, you might turn to Mezzanine if you find fellow
Bristol residents Portishead and Tricky a bit too peppy. "Dark," as an adjective,
doesn't befit these guys. "Light- absorbing" is more like it. But whatever you
want to call it, Mezzanine crushes trip-hop's past with a grimy piston.
Undulating, subterranean bass, crisp, skittering percussion, and guitars that
prickle hair tie up your eardrums and make them beg for more. The vocals alternate
from ironically angelic female guests to the sexy, demonic, masculine throats of th
Massive Attack trio, inventing a kind of freight- elevator music from the post-
apocalypse-- hypnotizing, beautiful, and menacing.
Actors claim that playing the bad guy is more delicious. And how many times have
you found yourself routing for the bad guy over the whiny hero? Massive Attack have
the envious role of baddest, coolest band out there. Not quite electronic, not
quite rock, and certainly not trip-hop (not anymore, at least), Massive Attack have
welded a pre- millenial sound of their own, filled with paradox, that conjures
images of organic machinery and ugly grace.
-Brent DiCrescenzo