Pitchfork

Bristol, England must be the godforsaken armpit of the world-- the Gary, Indiana of the United Kingdom. Smokestacks spit sulfur-scented black skies. Paupers with the croup rummage through rubble. Thunder is constant. Prozac is in short supply. The water tastes like tinfoil. "Salad" means "weeds with mustard." Dewy sheets of plastic flap in the shot-out windows of abandoned factories. This is merely speculation, but also a logical conclusion based on Bristol's wonderfully gloomy bands-- especially Massive Attack.

A soundtrack for nightmares, you might turn to Mezzanine if you find fellow Bristol residents Portishead and Tricky a bit too peppy. "Dark," as an adjective, doesn't befit these guys. "Light-absorbing" is more like it. Whatever you want to call it, Mezzanine crushes trip-hop's past with a grimy piston. Undulating, subterranean bass, crisp, skittering percussion, and guitars that prickle hair tie up your eardrums and make them beg for more. The vocals alternate from ironically angelic female guests to the sexy, demonic, masculine throats of the Massive Attack trio, inventing a kind of freight elevator music from the post-apocalypse-- hypnotizing, beautiful and menacing.

Actors claim that playing the bad guy is more delicious. And how many times have you found yourself rooting for the bad guy over the whiny hero? Massive Attack have the envious role of baddest, coolest band out there. Not quite electronic, not quite rock, and certainly not trip-hop (not anymore, at least), Massive Attack have welded a pre-millennial sound of their own, filled with paradox, that conjures images of organic machinery and ugly grace.