Already we are boldly launched upon the deep; but soon we shall be lost in its unshored, harborless immensities.
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (quoted by R J Wheaton on page 154)
Years later Dummy sounds strange, filled with horror movie moments, ten songs to soundtrack your own autopsy and a singer who sounds like she's already unsheathed the straight-edge razor and this is the suicide note ("all for nothing" she keens on the first song, "all for nothing"). And the sounds themselves, the music, graffitied and defaced by its own creators with murk, old-45-scratches, mumbled slurry samples, sickening dropouts and smudges of unidentifiable audio sludge all the way through. If the guy with the bad haircut in Eraserhead had turned on the radio, out would have come Dummy. Cymbalom, theramin, old Duane Eddy phrases, chords always descending, down down down, never ascending, the beats leaden like zombies from the 1950s, slow foxtrots at the coroners' ball, brilliant and original and appearing at a time when I thought brilliant and original would never happen again. It's an album where I don't distinguish between the songs particularly, it's one 40 minute block of time, one queasy lurch of your stomach, a unique world. I never think I like this album until I'm listening to it, then I love it. You may wish to keep Dummy and Portishead as mysterious and alien as when they first emerged in which case avoid this book as it contains every last known fact about both of them. Exhaustive, exhausting, almost too much, like Dummy itself.