I went to the pub the other day (well you know me, I go to the pub every day,- but for the sake of verisimilitude let us say it was New Years Day). I walked up to the bar and ordered myself the usual double G&T, and after consulting with my companion ordered – through gritted teeth – Diet Water for her. The barman looked at me in a puzzled way.
“Who are you ordering that for?” he asked.
“My associate here.”
“There is nobody there.”
“Oh please do not tell me that you are trying to pull some sort of Harvey (Jimmy Stewart’s invisible rabbit) / PJ Harvey schtick here.”
“No. Though its quite a good idea – and I though IHM was getting stale. I genuinely cannot see her.”
That is because – dear readers – Ms Polly Jean Harvey is indeed too thin to be seen. The only reason she took up the guitar is so that people would have something to look at when they were talking to her. Or shouting at her telling her to knock off the fuzzed up blues rip offs already.

Of course I am no body fascist (my fascism is squarely aimed at sonic squalling), and whilst PaJama Harvey may have no corporeal
body to speak of she more than makes up for it in her body of work. Unfortunately it is pretty much Patti Smith’s body of work, so its looking a bit ropey twenty years down the line. Still she can’t help having the blues – being from the deep south like she is. Yeovil. A town noted for its name sounding a bit – but not much – like the word weevil. I know that insult may seem poor but I am really not the kind of girl who goes to places in Somerset. Glastonbury is in Somerset – the risk is too great.

Back to StringBean Harvey anyhow. Its interesting to follow her career development from Dry to Stories From the City, Stories From The Sea. Interesting at least if you’re waiting for grass growing season. I’ve seen more development in a polaroid of a white wall. The only difference is that on Dry she got her drummer to sing castrato, and in Stories From The Slag Heap she got a castrato to sing dead low. I assume Thom Yorke has no balls anyway, that can be the only reason why he is so fucking miserable.

Lick My Lips, I’m on fire”: Hold up love, a little bit of saliva won’t put out a fire. Let me spit on you too. Just calling an album “Rid Of Me” raised my hopes too damn high, as did that photo of her drowning on the back cover of “To bring You My Love”. How dare she raise my hopes so high. And then collaborate with Tricky (those men may break your bones, but if you bring your husky rumble round here again love I’ll snap ’em for them). And that no mark Nick Cave. I hate her, I tell you, damn her wafer thin eyes.

Okay. So my New Years Resolution was to go on a diet. So I broke it yesterday (it really is unfair that there are so many calories in one shot of gin – let alone nineteen). That doesn’t mean I don’t hate her music as well.