Dance Hall At Louse Point review
by Sarah Loff for her school paper

Writing about music? "Why?" While pondering that question, as well as the more pressing one, "How?", I reread an old Washington Post commentary that bemoaned the death of American culture and partially placed the blame on the music industry. Then, I flipped on the television to catch, in succession, Eddie Vedder being tossed around by a few hundred sweaty, flannel-clad alternateens, the latest Buzz Clip featuring people in cow costumes dancing in a field, and (time to cringe all the way off the chair) Hootie and the Blowfish. To quote from the album I'm about to review..."Is that all there is?"

I wonder, then, how to possibly reconcile an appreciation of art and literature that makes one, by default, part of the rapidly diminishing "cultural elite" with a taste for contemporary music. Perhaps the answer is simple; more snobbery and musical elitism! Now that the opiate of the masses is probably Oasis or the Smashing Pumpkins, those of us who would stand apart must strive to be more and more-obscure/indie-than-thou.

Still, I would argue that this does not demand a willing suspension of all standards. To have discerning taste in bands is not just a matter of discerning the fairly trashy from the flat-out obscene, or discerning an indie (and therefore more credible, right?) band from a major-label band. There are, beyond these categories, a select few musicians I would defend as genuine artists... which brings me at last to my subject: Polly Jean Harvey.

Over the short period of five years and four albums, Polly Harvey has established herself as a unique, influential talent and a true genius. The recent release Dance Hall at Louse Point, a collaboration with guitarist John Parish, is not a full-fledged PJ Harvey album, but her voice and personality still dominate this project. The lyrics are all Harvey's, and the themes stay in the same vein begun all the way back on 1991's Dry; drawing on the mythical and Biblical and combining it with the emotionality of the blues.

The music was written by Parish, and one sometimes feels that Harvey is forced into all manner of screeches, whispers, and vocal contortions just to try and fit words to it. The understated songs work best, as in the To Bring You My Love-style 'Civil War Correspondent' and 'Rope Bridge Crossing', or the acoustic ballad "That Was My Veil". Here, Harvey retells a story of lost love, with the simple, poignant chorus 'that was my veil, that was my time/once held sacred...' becoming bitter and angry by the end: 'Give me back my veil, give back my life/no more sacred, you give me lies.'

Conversely, when Parish emulates the skewed tunings and melodies of Sonic Youth on "City of No Sun", Harvey's accompanying vocals repeat spoken and sung lines one after another like the 4-Track Demos; yet she switches to such a high register that the effect is nearly painful. 'Taut' has similar music, but Harvey changes tactics and frantically whispers the verses of a tale that could have been lifted straight from a Bad Seeds album: 'It all started when he bought that car... the color was red/the color was red and he drove me./He drove me out of my mind...I'm over it now.'

Dance Hall also incorporates entirely new modes of music that I thought rather alien to Harvey; 'Urn with Dead Flowers in a Drained Pool' is quite radio-friendly, and would be easily accessible for Nirvana fans. The Peggy Lee cover and first single, 'Is That All There Is?' pairs spoken, monotonous verses with a half-circus-organ, half-drunken-waltz background, lending a disturbingly beautiful air to the emptiness expressed: 'If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing./Let's break out the booze and have a ball.'

Overall, the Harvey/Parish project is recommended listening for any dedicated fans; it contains enough good songs and a few great ones to make it very worthwhile. However, I would hate for it to serve as an introduction to Polly Harvey?s work, because it clearly is a collaboration between two artists who cannot mesh flawlessly. Start with the PJ Harvey album Rid Of Me, which remains both frightening and brilliant.

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