During the summer of 2001, I spent my Tuesday afternoons like any suburban kid with blue hair and dubious skateboarding skills – at my local Tower Records. Back then, my musical diet consisted of whatever stickers adorned hand-me-down skateboards and cheap Fender Squiers – mostly new releases from Fat Wreck Chords or whoever had the privilege to grace the covers of Alternative Press magazine. Before algorithms taught us how to stop worrying and love the machine, we relied on the hobbled stalwart behind the Tower Records counter. Embellished in red-white-and-blue wristbands, studded faux-leather belts, and Hot Topic shirts boasting what we thought were searing indictments of mainstream culture (e.g., NSUCK, Spear Britney) – these record-store sages guided us through the “who’s who” of what mattered in the culture.
One of those who “mattered” came my way through what felt like a grudging act of charity. The Tower Records employee at the register sifted through my selections with the gravity of a federal judge setting a newly established precedent. Eyebrows were raised at my pick of Rx Bandits’ Progress. A scoff was audible when she saw Saves The Day’s Stay What You Are. But a flicker of approval crossed her face when she noticed The Distillers debut. “You like The Distillers?” she asked. “Of course!” I lied, my choice purely based on how cool the album cover looked. “If you’re into woman-led bands,” she said, taking out a pen and paper, and scribbling down a list: Patti Smith, Bikini Kill, Björk, Sleater-Kinney, and – apropos to this review – PJ Harvey.
At 15, I didn’t give much thought to her recommendations. They felt like names from a distant cultural plane, irrelevant to my world. It wasn’t until college, when cultural cachet intertwined with a zeitgeist more concerned with the human condition than the heartbroken ramblings of inchoate, mid-20s emo kids, that I finally listened to PJ Harvey’s colossal Rid of Me. In that first listen, Harvey introduced me to a world of words, rhythms, and tones typically associated with aggressive male archetypes – raw and confrontational – though laced with a vocal style full of vulnerability, traditionally reserved for the idea of the “feminine.” Her lyrics, while exploring themes of power and pleasure, rejected the “confessional” type of artistry often thrust upon women. Instead, she constructed a persona that blurred the line between masculine and feminine gazes, harnessing aggression, sensuality, and a primal energy that refused to be boxed in.
Now at 55, Harvey continues to push boundaries, much to the delight of her devoted audience. A gaggle of black-clad elder Gen Xers and their Millennial counterparts lined up Monday at the Greek Theatre to witness her much-anticipated live show – as if they were once again listening to To Bring You My Love on their Walkmans for the first time while waiting to vote for Bill Clinton. By 7:55 pm, stress hung thick in the air as fans scrambled to enter before the 8:00 show. Harvey, ever generous, gave an extra five minutes to the “never be the first person to show up at a party” ethos of Angelenos, stepping onto the stage just after the scheduled time. When she finally appeared, bathed in light that sliced through the night like a machete, the stage design – evoking a forest clearing – cast a spell over the crowd. As her bandmates, including the incomparable John Parish, filled the open-air theater with the first notes of “Prayer at the Gate,” the audience sank into their seats, a collective exhale of relief dissipating the earlier tension into the cool night air.
The first part of her show was a front-to-back performance of her latest album, I Inside The Old Year Dying, a contemplative record that dives deep into existential reflection and morality. Through her theatrical choices and set design, Harvey spotlit the stark contrast between unease and serenity, using folk and medieval motifs to ossify the album’s spectral vibes. The stage setup – half ethereal, half feral – allowed her to balance her rock roots with a more refined instinct typically reserved for more sophisticated venues like Jacob’s Pillow. She moved seamlessly between standing under a lone spotlight, as though receiving divine instruction, to furiously prancing across the stage like a woodland nymph, pulling the audience into her world and making them feel more like participants than mere spectators.
For longtime Harvey fans expecting her to “come on and play the hits,” the first part of the performance might have felt underwhelming. The ever-present debate over whether artists should cater to the audience’s nostalgic desires lingered in the air. However, by the middle of the first act, any tension that may have subtly arisen from that concern dissolved. The audience swayed and swooned with every crescendo, and judging by the glow of recording phones lighting up the theater, it was evident they were fully captivated.
I expected the night to conclude with a retelling of Harvey’s most recent work, perhaps with two or three older songs sprinkled in. I was wrong. Instead, Harvey returned with another full set – a total of 13 additional songs – much to the audience’s delight. Here, the untamed vitality and unfiltered lust for confrontation that we’ve long associated with Harvey roared back to life. Classics like “50ft Queenie,” “Man-Size,” and “Dress” reintroduced us to the Harvey we remember – searing and snarling, railing against societal expectations of gender, sexual fluidity, and objectification. Her most-streamed track, “Down by the Water,” took us on a brooding, swampy descent into guilt and desperation. Its eerie rhythms anchored us in a landscape both brooding and seductive. Harvey’s voice adeptly balanced the mood, pulling us deeper into the emotional undercurrent only she could prevent from fully drowning.
PJ Harvey’s performance at the Greek Theatre was a masterclass in artistic transformations, deftly bridging the gap between introspection and bombast. From the otherworldly ambiance of her new material to the full-throttle intensity of her early hits, Harvey led the audience through a journey that was both pensive and defiant. Rather than relying on nostalgia, Harvey reaffirmed her relevance and creative vitality, blending stark theatrical choices with her rock roots. She reminded the crowd that her work is not just about the music – it’s a challenge to the norms that trap us, a meditation on the institutions that shape our sense of self and understanding of the world around us. During a time when it seems like nothing matters and authenticity is constantly questioned, Harvey’s commitment to her craft stands as a testament to the power of pure artistic vision.
Words and photos by Eric Han
