PJ Harvey

By: Maria Mochnacz

Rock/pop

In 2000, PJ Harvey was happy in love when she delivered the unusually forthright and accessible Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea. Mainstream approval ensued, but she quieted the haters with her energized, sexed-up live shows, which debunked the suffering-artist myth and demonstrated that, even at her happiest, she was still a bad ass in a halter jumpsuit. Then, apparently, her good fortune changed. Almost in direct response to the celebratory Stories, this year's Uh Huh Her (Island) chronicles a very bad breakup. It's a rough and mopey album, with only a few bright spots—among them, the Patti Smith sound-alike "No Child of Mine" and "Shame," a gorgeous and pure little nugget of Harveyness. But overall, it's discomfiting to listen to Harvey now alternately mourning and hexing a caddish ex-lover—for one, because that lover is possibly Vincent Gallo of The Brown Bunny blowjob fame. Mostly, though, it's unsettling because Harvey's outlook is neither subversive nor hostile at the moment, just straight-up sad. Hopefully Köbler-Ross acceptance is on the horizon, but in the meantime we can expect all this angst to be dramatized on stage, where she will always—man or no man—be a bad ass.

Sun., Oct. 10, 8 p.m., $29.50, with Moris Tepper, Electric Factory, Seventh and Willow sts., 215-336-2000.

—Elisa Ludwig

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