PJ Harvey & John Parish
A Woman A Man Walked By

And three. Yes, I'll say it right away to clear up any possible doubts. It's the third consecutive album by the beloved Polly that leaves me puzzled and doesn't convince me. As you may remember, even "White Chalk" didn't satisfy me at all. I had urged our dear Polly to reconnect with Steve Albini or to rely on Blixa Bargeld. To return to the guitars, in short. And, partially, that reconsideration happened. The collaboration between her and John Parish, who gave us the sumptuous "Dance Hall at Louise Point," is renewed. Unchanged terms: Parish takes care of the instruments and the writing of the melodies, Harvey of lyrics and singing (there are also some guests here and there).

But the promises are not kept. The same promises we hoped the opener " Black Hearted Love "and that initial "Count to four" by the drums would reserve for the entire work. At the cost of being accused of revisionism, this is indeed what we want: crooked melodies, vicious guitars, and Polly telling us about her love gone wrong. Her voice full of malice and mystery that invites us into the darkness: "I'd like to take you to a place I know, my black hearted love." Therein lies everything, and we need no more. "In the rain, in the evening", naturally, not on a damn sunny day. Because, in this, she is as good as anyone, ça suffit. We would settle for ten photocopies, and we would know we could keep her in our hearts just a little longer. But things go astray already from the second song, steeped in mandolin and predictable key changes. And, be careful, more than a problem of writing and sounds, it seems to me a matter of "already heard." For instance, how many hundreds of times in your life as listeners have you encountered the little waltz, with vaudeville reminiscences, of “Leaving California”? Do you want to hear it for the umpteenth time? I, I'm sorry, don't.

What surprises me most is the lack of union between the lyrics and the music. Polly Jean is, like in the good old times, dark, biting, and angry with the world, especially the male one. But Parish does not support her at all. The best piece seems to me to be the stomp-blues that gives the album its title, with Harvey, who after a recited start, explodes in a delirious: "I want his fucking ass!" Instead of inviting John Cale on viola and trying to reinvent, once again, the devil's music, the track fades after a couple of minutes into a bland instrumental.

The rest, except for the fury of "Pig Will Not", touches me little: soft ballads steeped in western memories. To be clear: those who loved "White Chalk" will settle here, finding the right warmth.

In my modest opinion, we are at sufficient, and nothing more.