Protection

MASSIVE ATTACK: “Protection” (Circa)

IT WAS one of those daft pub conversations that sticks in your mind. There we all were, about as sober as Boris Yeltsin on a Shannon stop-over, when he-who-shall-remain-nameless dropped the frankly girlie bombshell that given the choice between listening to Pet Sounds and engaging in pom-pom practice with the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, he’d rather go ra-ra-ra with Brian Wilson any day of the week.

I’ve been passionate about a good few records in my time – Ziggy Stardust, Give ‘Em Enough Rope and Screamadelica are just two that hold a special place in my affections – but I’ve always regarded them as an accessory to life rather than a substitute for food, warmth and, lest we forget the teachings of Sam Snort, leurve.

That is, until I discovered Protection. Our torrid affair is only three days old but if the ecstasy we’ve shared these past 72 hours is an indicator, myself and Massive Attack’s second album are destined to spend the rest of our days living together in perfect harmony, melody and heavy dubwise bass thud.

Forget the bollocks about Blur being the authentic sound of young Britain – Parklife may boast some cracking tunes but it’s still white-boy pop for a predominantly white-boy audience. Bristol’s Wild Bunch collective don’t suffer from any such colourblindness, blurring – no pun intended – the established borders between ‘white’ and ‘black’ music to the point where they simply cease being relevant.

The exquisitely understated title-track is a prime example – Tracey Thorn wrapping her almost indecently seductive tones round a gently pulsating soul-techno backdrop that’s as far removed from Everything But The Girl as Wigan Athletic are from the Premiership. Thorn, who’s ostensibly been signed as an on-loan replacement for Shara Nelson, also supplies the ‘X’ factor on ‘Better Things’, a song that owes more than a stylistic nod and a wink to Robbie Robertson’s ‘Somewhere Down The Crazy River’.

Tricky – note, this man is no longer a Kid – may have debunked to pursue his own solo endeavours but not before contributing the mantra-like ‘Karmacoma’ and jazzy spliffed-up ‘Euro Child’. No negative Snoop Doggy Dogg vibes here, Massive know life’s crap but they’d rather flush away the shit than wallow in it.

Just when you think it can’t get any better, along comes ‘Sly’ – aural stimulation of the most sensuous kind which finds the newest Attacker, Nicolette, set adrift on a sea of sampled strings.

“Eartha Kitt on a particularly skaggy ‘E’,” suggests my soon-to-become redundant girlfriend and, yeah, she’s got a point.

For reasons of thoroughness, I ought to mention Horace Andy’s sprightly skank through ‘Light My Fire’ and the heavy-breathing ‘Heat Riser’ but there’s only so much salivating one can do before the hyperbolic juices dry up.

Suffice to say, Protection is sex in a jewel-case and I want to have its babies.

• Stuart Clark