Q Magazine

Portishead
P. Live In NYC

3 stars

A year on from their eponymously-titled second album, the release of a Portishead live record seems rather pointless. As those who have witnessed the band in the pale flesh will attest, the limelight-shy Bristolians possess a formidable stage presence, and watching seemingly shy singer Beth Gibbons go through unholy facial torture during the obvious pain of vocal delivery is certainly a sight to savour. But the actual music is effectively a perfect reproduction of the studio originals, the band happy to leave the whole idea of performance to Robbie Williams. Nevertheless, with tracks culled from both studio albums, P. Live In NYC still boasts some astonishing music, the opening Humming sounding as bitter as a Russian winter, while Sour Times is the only track open to extended, and quite riveting, reinterpretation. For the most part, audience participation is minimal - no one sings along - but they absolutely ruin the achingly desolate Roads by clapping along to the funereal pace, as if the band had suddenly broken out into Born In The USA. They most certainly hadn't. A year on from their eponymously-titled second album, the release of a Portishead live record seems rather pointless. As those who have witnessed the band in the pale flesh will attest, the limelight-shy Bristolians possess a formidable stage presence, and watching seemingly shy singer Beth Gibbons go through unholy facial torture during the obvious pain of vocal delivery is certainly a sight to savour. But the actual music is effectively a perfect reproduction of the studio originals, the band happy to leave the whole idea of performance to Robbie Williams. Nevertheless, with tracks culled from both studio albums, P. Live In NYC still boasts some astonishing music, the opening Humming sounding as bitter as a Russian winter, while Sour Times is the only track open to extended, and quite riveting, reinterpretation. For the most part, audience participation is minimal - no one sings along - but they absolutely ruin the achingly desolate Roads by clapping along to the funereal pace, as if the band had suddenly broken out into Born In The USA. They most certainly hadn't.

Reviewed by Nick Duerden