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PJ Harvey : Uh Huh Her

Let's face it, she should never have split up with Duncan...

Seeing PJ Harvey's debut album 'Dry' in Kurt Cobain's list of his 50 favourite records of all time recently was

a startling reminder that

Polly Jean Harvey has certainly seen them come and go. Grunge, Britpop, nu-metal, Eminem,

the New Rock Revolution… she's stood aloof

from them all, buoyed up by an unusually devoted fanbase who seem to believe that she can do

no wrong.





Indeed, the Peej certainly deserves props for

her farsightedness. She was doing angry, pared-down blues a full decade before White Stripes. The Kills, too, are blatantly influenced by her,

the Yeah Yeah Yeahs more subtly so. Her many image changes - from the bovver-booted dominatrix of 'Rid Of Me' to the slicked-up Shoreditch maven of last album 'Stories From

The City, Stories From The Sea' - have helped enable female rock stars to play with their sexual personae and still get taken seriously. (The evidence: a 1992 NME cover of PJ Harvey topless caused a furore which seems ludicrous today.)





Unfortunately, despite the commercial success

of 'Stories…' and more Mercury Award nominations than you could shake a coffee table leg at, 'Uh

Huh Her' reinforces the growing suspicion that

PJ Harveyspilt all the emotional guts she had on her first three albums and is running on empty these days. While tracks such as 'The Letter' and 'Cat On The Wall' have a malevolent swagger

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club could only have nightmares about and

'The Pocket Knife' is an incantation far scarier

than anything on the Liars' witch-themed latest, the harsh truth is that 'Uh Her Her' pales beside

PJ Harvey's old stuff.





As imprecations against ex-lovers go, not many people could beat the title track on 'Rid Of Me'

for sheer devastation and fury. The Life And

Death Of Mr Badmouth' and 'Who The Fuck?'

from 'Uh Huh Her' don't even come close. The spookier, more folkloric side Harvey unveiled

to spine-tingling effect on 'To Bring You My Love'

is still displayed in tracks like 'The Desperate Kingdom Of Love', but the voodoo has long stopped working.





Musically, we get a drastically reduced palette mainly consisting of a monochrome blues

sludge. Only 'The Slow Drug' takes us down

a path we haven't followed PJ down many

times before, its pulsing keyboard and pizzicato strings sounding appropriately narcotic. 'The

End', meanwhile, is a short instrumental which, thanks to its wheezing harmonium, sounds like

a Nico outtake. And while Polly Harvey's voice

can still switch from intimacy to anger as if on

a hair trigger, the sense of wracked desperation

to express herself that made those early albums

so thrilling is absent.





What remains is a grown up, broadsheet version of the old PJ Harvey with a high fashion gloss miles away from the scarily thin quasi-drag queen of

a decade ago. No-one would seriously want

PJ Harvey to go through perpetual personal tortures for the sake of her art, but the unhinged aspects which made her so thrilling have been

long screwed down and made safe for middlebrow consumption. Kurt, one suspects, would have

been less than impressed.





Let's face it, she should never have split up with Duncan.



Eddie Smack



















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