PJ Harvey
– Rid of Me
If Dry introduced Polly Jean Harvey as an unsettling new voice—feral, sharp, undeniable—then Rid of Me stripped the varnish and set the raw wood on fire. Produced by Steve Albini in a way that makes the speakers sound like they’re flinching, this album doesn’t just challenge you to listen—it dares you to stay in the room. It’s one part whispered threat, two parts blood-letting blues, all filtered through a hurricane of guitars and barely-contained fury.
Best of…
Harvey doesn’t hide behind metaphor here. She claws through the wreckage of relationships with surgical focus, cutting deep into emotional dependency, possessiveness, lust, and power. Her voice bends from a whisper to a howl, like she’s dragging you through every room of a haunted house she built herself. The album’s production is so raw, so bracing, that it sometimes feels like the tape is peeling off the reel. Guitars clang and screech with the elegance of breaking glass. Drums sound like they were recorded in a cement basement on a stormy night.
But the magic of Rid of Me is how tightly Harvey controls the chaos. This isn’t reckless expression—it’s carefully sculpted fury. There’s poetry behind the noise, melody under the grime. The album doesn’t coddle. It never softens the blow. But it earns every jolt and screech. Rid of Me isn’t about resolution. It’s about staring into the abyss and daring it to blink first.
Choice Tracks
Rid of Me
The opening title track is a masterclass in discomfort. Harvey starts in a hush, daring you to lean in, and then detonates. The shift in dynamics is violent in the best way. When she hisses “Don’t you wish you never met her?” it lands like a curse you can’t shake.
50ft Queenie
Riotous, swaggering, and mean as hell. Harvey struts through this one like she’s kicking down the patriarchy’s front door. The guitar is jagged and unrelenting, and the lyrics are so cocky they border on absurd—which only makes them better.
Man-Size
A throbbing, twitchy piece of nerve-end tension. There’s no release, just mounting pressure. Harvey wrestles with gender roles like she’s got them tied to a chair. It’s not just a performance—it’s an interrogation.
Rub ‘Til It Bleeds
Uncomfortable in all the right ways. PJ doesn’t just toe the line between vulnerability and violence—she licks it, crosses it, and dares you to say something. The repetition turns into ritual, the song collapses into itself like a bad memory you can’t shake.
Yuri-G
This one slips in quieter, but there’s dread beneath the surface. A love song written with a knife behind its back. The guitar lines stretch and twist like they’re trying to break free.
Rid of Me is not a record that aims to please. It’s a record that tears, scrapes, and haunts. PJ Harvey didn’t just stake her claim here—she marked it in blood, left the wound open, and walked away without blinking.