Sia Michel: Portishead, "Third"

When you hear the name "Sia Michel," two words should come to mind: "bravery" and "cowardice" (I also would have accepted "typographical error"). Bravery, because she had the stones to be editor-in-chief at Spin magazine (do you have any idea how much indie cred you need to run a rag like that?) for five years. Cowardice, because she vacated her position when the magazine was bought out by new owners. Sia, one thing the music world DOESN'T need is fair-weather editor-in-chiefs. You're either with Spin magazine, or you're against Spin magazine.

Bravery and cowardice aside, Michel's recent review of Portishead's Third will come as a shock to fans of her earlier work. Instead of expanding her voice, and growing as a writer, she has reverted to 150-word notes for Blender that end up sandwiched between Fergie's ass and anonymous tits from MTV's The Hills, and read like a writer who knows that she wants to do something, but can't figure out what that something is. Gone now are the epic tales held within her reviews; replaced by a succinctness that Sia so desperately wants to achieve, and at times her fingertips do lightly graze it, but in the end, it ultimately eludes her.

Sia Michel is a lost soul, desperately trying to find out who she is. I believe it will be exciting when it eventually happens. Until then, I award her review of Portishead's Third a matrix logarithm.