Behind her
seemingly confessional lyrics, PJ Harvey carefully cultivates an enigma
by Wayne Wise
Every artist, of every kind, builds a
bridge of communication that can seem like a form of telepathy: The images and feelings
that art and music transmit create an illusion of intimacy between artist and fan. This
makes it easy for fans to believe they know an artist personally. In extreme cases this
can lead to stalking and other loony behavior -- but for the average fan, it's a normal
reaction to someone giving voice to ideas that resonate in a strongly personal way.
PJ Harvey's songs lend themselves
particularly well to fans developing an obsessive sense of intimacy. Her lyrics are simple
and direct, recounting what seem to be slices of her life -- yet they also allow room for
the listener to project their own feelings into them. 
But how much does the offstage Polly Jean
Harvey compare to her onstage persona?
She isn't saying.
"To be
quite frank, that's none of your business," she recently told reporter Mike Bell of
the Calgary Sun. "The music that I make isn't about trying to tell people who
I am — it's got nothing to do with that. I'm a very private person. The only people
who know who I am are my friends and family."
Guarded
comments like these — and rare ones, at that — only add to the mystery of the
singer.
Thoughts about
Harvey's lyrical impact ran through my mind as I stood in line on a freezing Washington,
D.C. street to see her last December. It was a relatively unadvertised show at the Black
Cat, where the 400 available tickets had sold out in ten minutes. The anxious crowd was a
varied mix of hip teens and older fans -- but it became obvious when Harvey took the stage
that we were united in our love of this artist and her music.
She was
dressed in a simple black dress with a plunging neckline, forsaking the extreme makeup and
costumes of past shows. She played guitar for nearly half the set, stepping out from
behind it on numbers that required a more frenetic performance. The band included longtime
members Rob Ellis on drums and Captain Beefheart alumnus Eric Drew Feldman on bass and
keyboards, as well as new guitarists Margaret Fiedler and Tim Farthing.
The small
venue created a sense of intimacy usually lacking at most of her larger shows. Harvey
typically doesn't interact much with the audience, preferring a simple "Thank
you" after each song to rambling chatter. At the Black Cat, things were different.
Eye contact was frequent, and Harvey's pleasure at performing was written on her face in
small, satisfied smiles.
She spoke
directly to the fans, acknowledging requests for old songs with rolled eyes and an
engaging playfulness. And when some nut shouted out the cliché, "Polly, we love
you," Harvey returned the sentiment — to everyone in the room. It was, for once,
direct communion.
Polly Harvey's
career has been one of emotional extremes, spanning a wide range of passions. Her first
two albums, Dry and Rid of Me, were sexually frank and confrontational, full
of anger and angst. 1995's To Bring You My Love was a mythopoetic swim in the
collective unconscious that dredged up images and stories that felt both extremely
personal and universal in scope. "Down By The Water," for example, expressed the
pain of a lost child couched in the language of a classic folktale.
Is This
Desire? in 1998 was a musical departure, incorporating techno beats and studio
wizardry into the mix. It was easy to believe that the characters populating the lyrics
came straight from Harvey's own life: While not specific, "The Garden" seems to
refer to Harvey's brief romance with singer Nick Cave. But were they were real or
not? Again, it only added to her mystery.
Her most
recent album, Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea, feels like her most
personal statement yet. Harvey has forsaken narrative for vivid first-person accounts of
meaningful moments: Lovers on a rooftop, sharing something precious that no one else can
know; the silent communication that can pass through the eyes; remembrance of a first
kiss. 
Harvey's
public persona has been as varied as her music. Nine years ago, when the name PJ Harvey
referred to her whole band, she would stand at the microphone and play guitar with little
interaction with the audience. In 1996 — the last time she appeared in Pittsburgh,
opening for Live at the former Star Lake Amphitheatre — she exploded in a stage show
filled with theatrics, costumes and outrageous makeup. She was sexually alluring and
shocking, yet in video and TV interviews she appeared incredibly shy and demure. The
dichotomy left even more room for speculation from fans trying to understand her.
She hasn't
made it easy for them.
Unlike her
confessional lyrics, Harvey has always been very private where her personal life is
concerned; little is on the record outside her career. In interview after interview, she
deftly avoids answering questions she deems too personal, redirecting the conversations to
her recording process or tour stories.
Harvey remains
on the fringe of mainstream appeal, and thus is permitted to present just enough of
herself to make her fans believe that there is much more to be discovered. Whether or not
they can piece the images and assumptions from her songs into a true profile, Harvey leads
them on a fascinating, visceral journey. |
