PJ Harvey - Rid of Me

Polly is honest; you need only listen to ‘Ecstasy’ to understand just how honest. Polly is also (whisper it…) neurotic - the dark suggestion of cutting off your lover’s legs to stop them from leaving in ‘Legs’ is somewhat of an indication. And Polly is candid: “I’m calling you weak, getting even” she confesses on ‘Rub ‘Til it Bleeds’.

But most of all, Polly is ANGRY. “Damn your chest-beating, just you stop your screaming” she yelps on ‘Me Jane’. This is a record that doesn't sugar-coat anything, least of all the feminism.

Title track and opener ‘Rid of Me’ sets the mood for the record: simultaneously disturbing and magnificent. The stark contrast of the quiet intro and the loud (and I mean really, really loud) chorus is frankly unsettling in its power. I defy anyone to not feel instantly filled with some kind of mercurial energy after screeching “lick my legs, I’m on fire” a few times. And if, like me, after such seismic beginnings, you feel unable to stop yourself, ‘Man-Size’ and ‘50ft Queenie’ are more than enough to satisfy.

Yet the record isn’t all yelling and pushing. ‘Missed’ weaves off-kilter rhythms with enviable purpose to create one of the melodic high-points of the album. And the string section in ‘Man-Size’ sextet would make the Brodsky Quartet jealous (not just about the two extra members either).

By far the most primal and polarising of all Polly’s records, Rid of Me cannot be described as anything other than a glorious work of art. It took a pasting from a lot of critics, and true enough, it is abrasive, it is visceral, and you will have to work at it. But I quite simply don’t care. This album is monumental.

Dry was the sort of debut that most artists can only dream of producing. The fact that Rid of Me is actually a superior record both lyrically and musically should be impossible. But not for Polly.