Massive Attack were one of the first gasps of trip-hop noticed outside of Bristol, and sadly they will be one of the last, it seems.  They are urban without the bounce and easy egotism of hip-hop.  They conveyed menace, but not the sinister pangs of angst echoed by Trent Reznor and Tori Amos during the same era.  They spoke volumes without words, and like Paul Oakenfold provoked an atmosphere, although Oakenfold reached for lofty heights while Massive Attack belongs in the darkened alleys and underground clubs.  Through its incarnations, Massive Attack has been an intellectual's house party in a 1930's brownstone in Chicago's Wicker Park, rain on the windows of a high-rise over L.A., and the smoke, mud and confusion of a college rave.