Portishead were a simulacrum, their anchors sunk deep in sample culture with Beth Gibbons' torch singer stylings and Adrian Utley's soundtrack scrapings operating merely as tools in the sample yard. In its evocation of forgotten jazz, blues, film music, and hip-hop, Portishead's Dummy was the quintessence of "even better than the real thing", yet when the magic ceased on the band's eponymous sophomore album, it was ultimately due to their desire to be the real thing. On Portishead, the trio retained their hip-hop elements only in principle-- they played every sound themselves, pressed the results to dubplates, and then cut and looped them into backing tracks. In practice, Portishead had abandoned the sampler's art-- the recontextualization of sound and the creation of history from history-- and so, the thrill had gone. It's no coincidence that the best post-Dummy release from the Portishead camp remains DJ Andy Smith's eclectic mash-up, The Document.

Beth Gibbons, one assumes, was never much into hip-hop. Hers, after all, was the bleeding heart at the center of it all, and her remarkable, tortured voice (equal parts Billie Holiday and Sandy Denny), remains capable of gravitas for any occasion. "Mysteries" opens Out of Season brilliantly, folk arpeggios plucking their way around Beth's gasps while a cadre of gospel singers in the background oooooh the record into being. "Tom the Model" takes that cue and runs with it, answering delicate folk verses with a nicely retro big-band soul chorus. Beth attacks the song with verve, and even the hint of self-pity in the lyric is kicked into touch by her defiance.

If only the rest of Out of Season displayed that energy. Instead, we're quickly plunged into moodiness for the sake of moodiness, overwhelmed by Gibbons' frankly unpitiable obsession with her own misfortune. At their best, Portishead turned this kind of smoky cabaret blues into an invigorating showpiece. But replace crackling vinyl and subwoofer bass with somber piano and mournful cello, and all you're left with is... well, a pretty goddamn miserable woman who happens to have a great voice. That's "Show" for you, and for all its miserable pleading, it's as forgettable a song as Gibbons has ever crooned.

"Romance" tries some moaning french horns on for size, and frankly looks ridiculous in them. Chrissakes, who suggested a 90-second french horn solo was a good idea? And again, if Gibbons' Billie Holiday routine was engaging in Portishead's hip-hop context-- reconstituted blues that fit their mix perfectly-- here it threatens to go a little pantomime.

And now to the issue of Rustin Man: What is the deal with calling yourself Rustin Man? Are we supposed to let that slide? Turns out it's an alias for ex-Talk Talk bassist Paul Webb. Now, Talk Talk did some wonderful things-- Spirit of Eden and Laughing Stock both proved what can be achieved with emphasis on mood and atmosphere. Here, however, Webb allows Gibbons to dictate both, and it just doesn't work. Striking as her voice can be, she does little to prove that it has the emotive range to match its power.

Elsewhere, "Resolve" is a pretty but inconsequential folk tune, and "Drake" and "Funny Time of Year" waltz their way in and out of the frame without forcing you to take much notice. Which leaves "Rustin Man" the song, a frustrating hint of what might have been. Its pure ambience (think Dot Allison's recent album, if produced by Tim Friese-Greene) sounds remarkably modern next to the trad fare that precedes it, and the warbling and sizzling of the synths forces Beth to be a little more active with her vocal-- she slips in and out of the mix, allowing atmosphere to build rather than overwhelming it with her moods. Sonically, of course, it's no less bleak than the rest of this album, and though it does bring in some much-needed excitement at the end, it's just not powerful enough to save the whole from its vanilla dejection.

-Jesse Fahnestock, November 20th, 2002