Last Night: PJ Harvey at the Moore

Several years ago, PJ Harvey launched her tour in support of Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea in Seattle. Because it was the start of her tour, she rented out the Showbox for two days of rehearsals before playing a very sold-out date at the venue. My dear friend Denise was the club's general manager at the time, and having someone as kinetically powerful as Harvey "practicing" in the other room while she was trying to enter receipts into Quickbooks proved virtually impossible for her. At one point I called her on her cell phone and found her rattling amongst the pots and pans in the catering kitchen, trying to futilely remain quiet and gain a stealth peak at Polly Jean working in solitude.

I bring this up to illustrate the sheer magnetism of the woman. It's pretty fucking overwhelming and frankly, it's a miracle we all don't go blind looking at her. I have absolutely no clue what PJ Harvey could possibly be doing with her life if she wasn't a performing artist. Ruling a planet not located in this solar system, perhaps.

Last night, she came to the Moore in support of A Woman A Man Walked By, her most recent collaboration with her friend and producer John Parish. As soon as the pair walked on stage, accompanied by a crack team of backing musicians, my companion leaned over to me and whispered, "they certainly got the memo that said 'bring all your coolest vintage gear'." Indeed, the stage was littered with pristine VOX amps and Telecasters galore, while the star herself was darkly diaphanous, barefoot and clad in a simple, jet-black ballet dress.

The set list was split between the new release and a generous helping of material from Dance Hall At Louse Point, their 1996 album. The woman doesn't so much perform her songs as inhabit and luxuriate in them. It's certainly an odd and delightful sensation when you feel like you're watching someone compose something spontaneously in front of you, yet execute it with such thoughtful precision that it's obvious it's actually been endlessly refined. The production itself was a spot-on study in elegant minimalism, with simple lighting veering cleanly from white to blue and fading to black at the end of nearly every song.

Distilling a singular highlight isn't an option, but especially striking was her rendition of "Taut" from Dance Hall. Crouched down on the stage with her face almost entirely obscured and a crackling wall of distortion rising behind her, Harvey unfurled that unearthly growl of hers, eventually rising to stalk the stage while percussion clattered and careened about her. The song swings violently between furtively whispered verse about some horribly abusive fellow named Billy and the shrieking choral refrain of "Jesus, save me!" It was essentially a beautiful nightmare that was over far too quickly, much like her 75-minute set.

I'd kick a puppy for quality video of last night's show, but this is about the best I could find of a similar performance on Youtube: