PJ Harvey at Troxy. Photo by Mike Hughes.Two nights sold out at the Troxy (London), so that’s 5,200 people keen to be there. I made it for the Monday night, queued from 4:40 pm, seal-cold in not enough clothes in the Commercial Road. It’s chill in Tower Hamlets. Thought I was eighth in the queue but some people it turned out were both in the line and in the pub next door. Still, due to good friends who had been there there night before, telling me Polly spent all night at one side of the stage, at a mic stand they had initially thought was for a backing singer, I was down there like a rat, trusting faith that the extreme left of the stage was the place to go. Another friend, Anika, was photographing in the pit but I hadn’t even tried, it was too important to be in the front row, not get slung after 3 songs tonight. We had plenty of time to chat – after we got let in at 7, there was nothing, no music, no support, just strange street sounds coming through the PA, the wash of the river, Big Ben. Strange.
Of course it was rapturous. Polly, Mick, John P and a drummer whose name escapes me. The first half was the new songs, from Let England Shake. They are brave songs and harder to engage with than your average. Yelling along to tales of gore in the trenches?
PJ Harvey at Troxy. Photo by Mike Hughes.But we got to the visceral Pocket Knife and all was well. I found myself thinking that even in her older material, there’s not a lot of cosiness. It’s humanity, but it stinks of cold sweat on bodies, not the fluffy warmth of a perfume advert. I had monster-uber-fans from Brazil around me, they were getting every song before it started from the way PJ coughed or something, but even I got got the opening strum of Billy. This song is etched into my soul, and induced that slight distortion of unreality when it came.
After making us really work and worry and clap and holler after the main set, they came back out and played an excellent little triumvirate for the encore – Monsta, Angeline, and then Silence which I had never loved until that point.
That’s a black feather head-dress for the fashion worriers. And a white leather thing – a cuirass? – with straps.
One other thing that struck me was just how very English this was. Spoken as someone who isn’t (English that is), Polly’s Dorset accent, the subject matter, the lyrics, the album title, all added up. OK, truth is, I’m Welsh and live in London half the time, but damn, it still struck me pretty hard. I’m not whinging, Polly knows what what she’s doing with that line about ‘damn Europeans’; I’m not getting off on one, it was just an element that came through smelling like nearly over-ripe cream on a Devon scone.
– Mike Hughes is the writer, photographer and host of Catshoegazing, a lively, intelligent and discerning music blog.
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