With one smoky, dour debut Portishead unwittingly revamped popular music. All of the sudden, 'twas hip to be sad. Music critics and retail managers were befuddled­where do you file this melancholy magic? Slowcore? Hip hop? Trip hop?

"The whole trip-hop thing was just nonsense," insists Geoff Barrow, the other Portishead. "It was developed by people in London, and the people in Bristol (home to Portishead, as well as the like-minded Tricky, Massive Attack, and Earthling) just had to put up with it. The whole labeling thing doesn't matter to us. We'll just keep on making the music we make."

Barrow, once a studio apprentice for Massive Attack, learned how to create instant atmosphere through aged samples, slithering beats, and sinister guitars. Adrian Utley's broad instrumental palette rounded out all but one important element­the voice. Gibbons' heartbroken crooning carried more presence and charisma than even The Great Glum One himself, Morrissey. And the rest is unfinished history.

"It's been so long/That I can't be sure," sings Beth Gibbons on "Humming." Amen, sister.

It's two years later. Album two is self-titled (as if name recognition were still an issue). The formula is the same, just the components have been changed to protect the public's weary ears. Barrow, fearing he might retread old ground, samples only The Pharcyde ("She Said"), Ken Thorne ("Inspector Clouseau"), and The Sean Atkins Experience ("Hookers & Gin"). All other records used were Portishead originals, string and horn arrangements composed and pressed specifically for this session. Barrow then roughed up the dub plates a bit to give them a more "authentic" feel. This time-consuming (fourteen months to be exact) process ended up creating a whole new record collection. More people could do if they had the patience, says Barrow.

"It got stupid with samples. To the point where you could buy a magazine and it would have [a CD called] 5000 Funky Breaks. People thought they could just sample something like that, put a weird noise over it and, presto, you got a hit single. We were listening to these beats, thinking, 'We could do this ourselves.'
So they did, creating a fuller, more orchestral sound. Couple that with a sometimes brassier Gibbons and, well."

"We started off on this record not wanting to do spy music," insists Barrow. "We finished the 'All Mine' session, with the horns and that. And, of all the people you'd think would notice, it would be us. But when we played it, someone said, 'Ah, James Bond.' We were like, 'Shit' At least we didn't sample some Shirley Bassey track and make a song out of it though."

Otherwise, Portishead is more of the same, a fact for which they make no apologies.

"It's a really interesting time," Barrow muses. "No band is allowed to sound like themselves on their second record. I mean, of course we sound like our last record—we're the same band."

It seems like a simple enough argument. But with everyone from David Bowie to Rickie Lee Jones turning to dancefloor trends to reboot their careers, it's one that Barrow's had to make again and again. "We love all the jungle and drum 'n' bass stuff," he says. "But it would be disrespectful of us to attempt that when Roni [Size] and Photek do it so well. Or hip hop. I love hip hop, but I'm a white kid from Bristol. I can only do what I know, talk about what I know."

As a product of an industrial English port city, Barrow "knows" a lot of the same hardships that spawned hip hop in America. He found himself drawn to Black American art form as early as the mid-'80s. This passion sent Barrow back to the musical roots of hip hop—soul, funk, jazz. Yet it was his poverty that inadvertently shoved him into the business part of the music business. Portishead (which Barrow pronounces "Poh-is-ed" in his lilting working class accent) once existed only as means to escape dole cutbacks. By establishing a "company," Barrow and his associates faced less hassle from Britain's welfare department. "Musicians are notoriously suspect in the dole system," he explains. "So we became a business."

Now quite a successful enterprise, the government's off Portishead's back but the press is down their throat. Gibbons' approach is to deny interviews to the press. However, Barrow doesn't seem to mind. "Even as a kid I've never had problems talking to people," Barrow says. "But the whole idea of perceiving someone as being special because they're in a band is ridiculous to me. It's like the more records you sell, the less you pay for. How does that work?"

Yet Barrow's not complaining. The beyond-gold status of 1995's Dummy afforded the band more time and resources for the follow-up, which they debuted with a splash in late August. "We performed our new material with a full orchestra at the Roseland Ballroom in New York," Barrow says from his room at the elegant Parker Meridien hotel. "With samplers, you can either turn them up or down. With a live ensemble you can react better with the audience. But performing without all that is fine, too, so long as you don't just rely on a loop­especially one we all know. We just figured, 'If you can do it, do it.'"

So why the long face?

"People only see that side [of us] because when you turn on the radio all you hear are happy tunes," Barrow says. "If, for the past ten years, all you heard was downbeat music and a happy band came along they'd be asking the same questions but in reverse. Just because there's another side of music doesn't mean it's depressing. It's just another side to music."

Still, if the shoe fits—and helps to keep the press at bay—Portishead will wear it. "There are bands who play that game with the press here," Barrow says. "I once read an interview with a well-known band and the headline was, 'Why We Haven't Done Press For Three Months.' Some bands need to be in the press all the time to keep their profile up. But if we don't have a record to promote, you won't see us. We'll be locked away in Bristol. There, even if people know who you are, they ain't going to talk to you. They're not snooty or anything, they just don't treat you any differently.

"Besides, we're pretty boring," Barrow adds. "There's nothing to write about with us."