Barrow, who cites the gut-twisting 1980s nuclear war drama Threads as a formative influence, refers to his younger self as Apocalyptic Geoff. He used to be convinced the world would end in 1998, a prediction he later modified to 2008. “I don’t mind being wrong,” he says cheerfully. He says he regularly checks the World Health Organization Web site for news of potential epidemics, but his mind is no longer haunted by thoughts of imminent annihilation — a benefit of parenthood. “Now I’m just anxious that my little one doesn’t fall off the swings and smash her head.”
A couple of hours later, Portishead plays a spine-tingling show, in which the new material sounds like not so much a departure from the old as a continuation by other means. The last song, fittingly, is called We Carry On. “Merci,” says Gibbons. “Au revoir. Enchante.” Afterwards, they attend a backstage party thrown by their French record label. One of Barrow’s friends from Bristol deejays in a booth beneath a neon sign reading Bar Artistes, which some wag has amended to Piss Artistes.
Every time I see Gibbons, she is talking and laughing. At one point, I spot her on a raised walkway outside her dressing room, a beer in her hand, dancing to Nirvana’s Come As You Are. Barrow is distinctly less adept at le schmooze. Looking askance at waiters bearing trays of canapes, he deems the show “a bit rock ’n’ roll” and says he has had enough of playing live; it’s starting to remind him of 1998. “You look at these faces in front of you and think, ‘Isn’t it supposed to be wonderful at this point? But it’s not at all,’” he says with an almost apologetic grimace. “It’s quite horrible.”
Portishead has no more shows in the diary, having opted out of the lucrative summer festival circuit, presumably at Barrow’s behest. Over by the bar, Utley says that he wishes they could play a few more shows. “We’re going down well, so I’m a bit reluctant to let that go because our studio life is so difficult at times.”
Nobody in Portishead wants a repeat of Third’s torturous gestation, but nobody can say for sure how long the next album will take. “We’re all thinking day to day,” says Utley, sipping his beer. “It’s like an Alcoholics Anonymous situation: this is a good day and maybe tomorrow will be a good day.”
And so — slowly, painfully, rewardingly — Portishead carries on.
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