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It had been five years since PJ HARVEY had done a proper tour (not counting her brief US and world solo sojourn behind the piano in support of White Chalk two years ago) and to break the respite, the recent material she’d recorded with JOHN PARISH became the grist for the mill. John had previously spent time in the studio with Polly Jean for 1996’s Dance Hall At Louse Point (and reaching way back, don’t forget the fledgling AUTOMATIC DLAMINI) and the new recording A Woman A Man Walked By followed the same blueprint of John providing the music, with Polly chipping in lyrics and vocals. As one who’d been a fan of PJ’s ever since “Dress” hit my eardrums, I’d never seen her play live, and tonight was to redress prior sins of the past.
So why did I wait so long? No good answers really. The band came out on stage, and they were dressed like an ensemble ready for a serious performance. Tailored suits and fedoras for the men (including ex- MAGIC BAND bass player/keyboardist ERIC DREW FELDMAN) and Polly casually resplendent in a black dress, nails painted to match. As was expected, the material was soley the PJ/JP stuff, nothing from PJ’s thoroughly impressive catalog but that’s not to say that Parish can’t work his head around a biting melody and an expansive arrangement. He kept busy switching between various necked instruments, mainly either a Jazzmaster or sometimes Telecaster, but also playing banjo and national steel guitar with supple skill and unerring ease. Though the music was all Parish, there were certainly simpatico bits of Harvey collaborators such as NICK CAVE and GIANT SAND, esp in the JOHN CONVERTINO-like drumming style.
All of the new material was played, and veered from the detached, war-torn reading of “The Soldier,” complete with forlorn mouth organ and carefully picked acoustic guitar (marred slightly by some talkative audience members) to the raging “Pig Will Not” and the title track, where PJ left her usual place behind the mic stand to stride forcefully to and fro, summoning the stark sexual dioramas of previous work, starting with comments about “chicken-liver balls” and punctuated with screams of “You stick it up your fuckin’ ass.” PJ can crack the whip, and gently gather its wicked coil and lay it rest again; she can span both worlds effortlessly, and John Parish’s music is a more than adequate vehicle.
