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PJ HARVEY - "B-Sides, Demos & Rarities"

PJ Harvey, the shape-shifting singer-songwriter from Dorset, was just a teenager when she joined her first band, Automatic Diamini, in 1988 alongside future collaborators, John Parish and Rob Ellis. 35 years later, Harvey has assembled an impressive body of work – nine studio albums under her own name, triumphantly reissued throughout 2021 and 2022, plus multiple singles, collaborative projects, live sessions, and soundtracks. Despite her prolific output, the PJ Harvey archives still boasted plenty of rare and previously unreleased material to spare, enough to fill the 6xLP box set. B-Sides, Demos & Rarities, released late last year to the delight of hardcore PJ Harvey fans, is all the evidence one needs to crown PJ Harvey one of the greatest songwriters of her generation. 

If reinvention is a virtue, Harvey is a saint. The box set presides over three plus hours of archival material, featuring PJ Harvey from every era, every style, and in every persona. Long-time followers of PJ Harvey will recognize this important distinction; her ability to transform herself places Harvey in the rarified air as one of music’s true masterminds. Nearly every PJ Harvey album manifests a different auditory and lyrical chimera. This is not to say Harvey is a chameleon – never does she disappear into her surroundings; she’s the 50-ft queenie ruling the kingdom. 

No matter the lyrical content or the sonics, Harvey’s singular voice in unmistakable. What continues to amaze is her ability to use her singular voice to accomplish myriad things. The “I” of PJ Harvey songs is rarely, if ever, her. Instead, each song gives the listener an intimate glimpse into a different character. The experience of listening to a PJ Harvey album is akin to reading a book of short stories. It’s voyeuristic, sensual, inclusive – just with a much better soundtrack. As such, the boxset found it instructive to separate these album personas chronologically. It’s one reason why the vinyl or CD edition of B-Sides, Demos & Rarities far surpasses the utility of the streaming version. The value of this collection lies not just in the songs, but the context, which is largely absent if you’re listening through an app. 

Disc One features demos from the PJ Harvey “band” persona. Her early career found the young guitarist/songwriter fronting a classic trio, backed by bassist Steve Vaughan and drummer Rob Ellis. This is the most straightforward “rock” sounding of her personas, highlighted by the Steve Albini-produced Rid of Me, the critically acclaimed album that cemented Albini’s raw production aesthetic and made PJ Harvey an underground sensation. It was Albini’s work on Rid of Me at the legendary studio Pachyderm that would later catch the ear of Kurt Cobain. 

While this early persona may be the least represented on the boxset – mostly because many demos from her first two albums, Dry and Rid of Me, were already released as the 4-Track Demos album in 1993 – it still features new discoveries. The demo for “Missed” and “Me-Jane” are previously unreleased as is the cover of Bob Dylan’s “Highway 61,” Disc One’s standout track. What’s immediately evident from listening to these early demos is the power of Harvey’s voice and her razor-sharp songwriting, both of which appear preternatural. She seems to have emerged as a songwriter fully formed. Yes, it’s true that any artist worthy of a boxset – as Harvey certainly is – is the subject of mythologizing. Still, it’s astounding how great she was from the get-go. What these demos lack in sonic punch when compared to her early band recordings is overcome by the force of her presence. Captivating, intoxicating, and immediate, the essence of PJ Harvey is like the Platonic ideal, absolute and eternal.  

Disc Two begins with material culled from the period after the PJ Harvey trio disbanded in late ‘93. The cocksure, lovesick, psych-western persona of To Bring You My Love reflects an artist’s insecurity of going it alone, despite To Bring You My Love reuniting Harvey with former bandmate John Parish, a paring that has persisted for much of Harvey’s career. The lusty overcompensation of Disc Two is salacious in all the right ways, epitomized by the boxset’s lead single “Somebody’s Down, Somebody’s Name” and the sparse “Darling Be There.” 90s fetishizers will relish the inclusion of “Naked Cousin,” Harvey’s banger that appeared on the era-defining The Crow: City of Angels soundtrack in ’96. 

“Losing Ground,” B-side to the single “That Was My Veil,” is perhaps the most enlightening in terms of Harvey’s artistic headspace at the time. Over a blown-out drum loop and a fuzzy keyboard reminiscent of Electro-Shock Blues-era Eels, Harvey drawls, “Everything I do has been done before.” This is, of course, what every artist trafficking in the avant-garde fears, but in Harvey’s case, she couldn’t be further from the truth. There simply is no one else like her. When she sings “Who will love me now,” the answer feels self-evident. It’s everyone. 

It's hard to pinpoint a specific quality to the legion of voices Harvey inhabits on Disc Three. Taken from the era of Is This Desire? – her dark, despondent opus of 1998 – and Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea – her 2000 megawatt return to arena rock stylings – these songs are meaty yet obscured, hi-def but with the tone knob rolled back. “Sweeter than Anything” is haunting in its hushed delivery, contrasted by the aggressive 4-track demo of “The Faster I Breathe, the Further I Go,” whose kiss-off guitar riff is so down-tuned you can nearly hear the strings flailing against the fretboard. “The Wicked Tongue” sounds very much the outtake of Stories that it is, featuring similar vocal production and a sense the song desires to be played at extreme decibels. To call it anthemic slightly misses the point; Harvey is perpetually fucking with the formula. If you’re getting what you expect, you’re probably not listening closely enough. 

Disc Four continues with songs from the early 2000s, Stories-era into Uh Huh Her, which saw Harvey pivot to a lo-fi recording aesthetic that would persist through 2007’s White Chalk, on which Harvey abandons all sense of rock music entirely, opting to soundtrack her unsettling chronicles of ghostwomen and mythic sirens with piano and autoharp. “As Close as This” is the highlight here, a B-Side from Stories that crackles with spectral energy. It’s the song equivalent of a banshee roaming the fog-choked landscape outside Great Linford Manor, where the song was recorded. “I’m hopelessly DE-vote-ted” Harvey coos over ritual drums and reverberating bells. 

A curious aftershock of the Uh Huh Her era, explored on side B of Disc Four, is the lack of previously unreleased material. Here, the B-Sides are gleaned mostly from demos of songs appearing on album or from pervious eras. Whether this reflects a shortage of extraneous songs or an ebb in her songwriting is unknown. What is clear is that all the best songs of the era arrived on the album, with the outtakes presented serving more as compendiums than cannon. “97°” – which opens Disc Five – is the notable exception despite being fairly reminiscent of Uh Huh Her's “The Letter.” 

The demos from Disc Five suggest a simmering violence Harvey would continue to explore on White Chalk, Let England Shake, and her most recent album, The Hope Six Demolition Project, which she partly recorded in a museum, inviting museum goers to observe her and her band creating the album. What’s impressive of her later work is how nearly indistinguishable the non-album tracks are from the finished output. “The Big Guns Called Me Back Again” could easily have made Let England Shake as could “The Nightingale.” 

American audiences generally find this persona – the wandering bard traversing the English countryside singing parables of warning – challenging to square with the artist who thrilled with such heavy hitters like “Rid of Me” and “Man-size” thirty years ago. The aggression is still present in these tunes, it’s just focused outward. As she’s grown in her dystopic assessment of the Western world, Harvey no doubt recognizes the unsustainability of a system built on the whims of warmongering capitalists. Rather than rage over D-tuned guitars and pulverizing drums, Harvey has morphed into the Dylan-esque observer. The critique is every bit as eviscerating, even as the music sounds plucked from a quieter time and place. 

The sixth and final disc collects Harvey’s most recent work, assembled from demos and various soundtracks like the massively popular television shows Peaky Blinders and All About Eve. Her fascination with traditional English folk music remains, best showcased on the gorgeous “An Acre of Land.” As the theme from Dark River, a 2017 British drama that explores the crumbling world of modern farming and the people desperately holding on to a disappearing way of life, the song aches in a way no PJ Harvey song has before, a territorial longing summoned from deep within the earth. 

The timing of Harvey’s B-Sides, Demos & Rarities is tea-leaf perfect. PJ Harvey remains as influential today as she was in the ‘90s. Listen to Torres, Uh Huh Her, The Kills, King Hannah, Rid of Me, or Nilüfer Yanya’s recent cover, and you’ll hear direct lineage to Harvey’s singular voice and style. Yet the perennial polymath can’t slow down. Harvey released a book of poetry and photography with photographer and frequent collaborator Seamus Murphy, The Hollow of The Hand, for which she spent weeks in Afghanistan, Kosovo, and Washington D.C. documenting places affected by war. Just last year she released a book-length narrative poem, Orlam, and announced a new album arriving this summer. 

From 30,000 feet, B-Sides, Demos & Rarities – in conjunction with the reissue campaign and vinyl releases of demos from each album – is a legacy-cementing collection for obsessive fans, the type that many casual fans ignore. That’s okay, but if the casual fan or first-time listener did choose to begin with B-Sides, Demos & Rarities, they’d discover what makes this release different than other rarities collections: Listening to B-Sides, Demos & Rarities provides the listener with a complete picture of PJ Harvey the artist. The Man-eater, the Natural Born Killer, the Jilted Lover, the Spectral Medium, the Bard, the Punk, the Social Critic – it’s all here, in one place. It’s a helluva listen. - Benji Heywood

JUNE MCDOOM - "June McDoom"

At first listen, June McDoom’s voice is pure, chilled air, hovering over buried guitar grooves and wafting toward distant, thunderous percussion. But just beneath this whispery delivery is another, lower register: deeply anchored, with a rich, finely controlled vibrato. The mingling of these distinct voices, as they blend with and overtake each other, is enjoyably discombobulating. It sets the tone for a daring and lovely debut EP that doesn’t just bounce between polarities, but actually unfixes them.

McDoom has spoken of the influence of Joan Baez, Simon and Garfunkel, and Judee Sill, but June McDoom isn’t an acoustic, stripped-down-and-turtlenecked kind of debut. The album blends folk-rock sounds with elements of McDoom’s other formative interests, among them the groundbreaking textures of ’60s and ’70s reggae, the bright Philly Soul tones of The Delfonics, and the airtight intensity of Spector production.

The album stirs these phrases and effects into a shifting ambient background, transforming them further as it flows. There’s a prevailing DIY murkiness to it, but it also packs sonic power, approaching the sublime while still retaining nuance and scale. It’s a Wall of Sound that’s been deftly dismantled and rebuilt.

Within this sensory space, McDoom plots out the landscape and atmosphere for songs that seem to exist on their own plane. Gracefully impressionistic lyrics are defined by elemental pairings: moon and stars, trees and fruit, past and present. Half-absorbed into the roiling instrumental mix, their meaning fluctuates with each song’s minor-key turns, tempo climbs, and melting-turntable slowdowns.

The album's first track, “Babe, You Light Me Up,” delivers its title lyric as a delicate descending phrase, seeming to evaporate or burn out as soon as it’s uttered; the song’s quavering melody is gradually overtaken by guitar, drum machine, and overdubbed vocals, pushing the song into a dreamlike extended coda. The cinematically moody and suspenseful “On My Way” also seems to test the limits of language. It breathlessly describes reunion with a remote other; then, with the sudden zip of a synth, McDoom’s voice breaks into a place beyond words. Doubled or triple-tracked coos and howls echo around an expanding instrumental groove, vibrating with ecstasy and dread.

The EP also showcases McDoom’s considerable vocal talent in more traditional, lyrically driven song structures. “Stone After Stone,” the tightest and most hook-oriented track on the album, allows her voice’s resonance to set the pace, confidently and contemplatively gaining ground. Crashing drums, a funky bassline, and field recordings fall into formation around it, enhancing and ornamenting McDoom's flights and flexings. 

The slow and melancholy “Piano Song” also foregrounds its lyrics to more openly emotional effect. “We are not the same, you and I,” McDoom sings, haltingly and almost wearily. “I love things they told me not to like.” Later, a phrase is sung quietly but clearly, and then repeated as the track reaches its arc: “Slow it down, turn it off.” It’s a compact, curt directive amid all the hazy ambience, and it comes close to capturing the enigmatic stance of most of the album's songs—sticking somewhere in the tensions between intimacy, agency, and refusal.

It also evokes McDoom’s dual role as both a songwriter and a producer with a holistic vision for her music. Stylistic precision and restraint—slowing it down/turning it off—temper the album's bold experimental gestures without obscuring their brilliance. June McDoom stays light on its feet, and airy above all. - Emma Ingrisani

JOBBER - "Hell In A Cell"

Music and pro wrestling have a lot in common—the stratification of the big leagues and independents, the necessity of hitting the road to put bodies and livelihoods on the line, the harsh reality of playing to empty rooms. A passion for many, a paycheck for few, each a complex world unto itself with its own aesthetics, ethics, and language. Brooklyn band Jobber clearly understand the parallels, their love for wrestling coming through in their name, artwork, song titles, and lyrics. On their debut EP Hell in a Cell (out on Exploding in Sound), Jobber adopt wrestling’s insider language to explore workplace discontent and the struggle to be a good person in a shitty world. It’s a gimmick, sure, but it works.

Across four tracks (and a great introductory promo cut by the Hardcore Legend, Mick Foley), Jobber set thoughtful lyrics to smartly-written pop songs with massive guitars, a potent combination that pulls as much from the locked-in power pop of The Cars and the catchy alt-rock of Helium and The Breeders as their more obvious guitar-worshipping predecessors in Helmet, Hum, and Failure. That’s a lot of sonic ground to cover, but Jobber manage to find a great balance of heavy riffing and sweet melody, dissonance and delicacy all contained by sharp songwriting and powerful, layered production. 

Title track “Hell in a Cell” kicks off the EP with Jobber’s clearest statement of intent: sludgy riffs cut with woozy jangle and tender vocal melodies, gradually building to an anthemic bridge. Kate Meizner’s lyrics about a wrestler preparing for a potentially career-ending fall from a 20-foot steel cage humanize the spectacle and apply it to the more mundane “hell in a cell” of an abusive office job, the closing refrain “Why won’t you put me over? / Why would you put him over?” a frustrated plea to a capricious system that rarely rewards its hardest workers.

“Entrance Theme” steers harder into pop territory, its chugging guitars and modulated synth lead clearly evoking the airtight precision of The Cars while maintaining some of that indie rock fuzziness and a great, dissonant instrumental bridge. Its lyrics on empty gesturing about climate change complement the following track, “No Holds Barred,” a slacker rock anthem built for 90s alternative radio that takes the tech bro elite to task in the EP’s best chorus: “Destruction’s not what I came here for / Bad boys in plaid they fucked up my world tour / Visionaries kill canaries / Let’s go and shoot em to the moon.” The EP closes with “Heel Turn,” a slower, spacier reconfiguration of the earlier tracks’ heaviness, its personal lyrics drawing on the wrestling convention of “turning heel”—going bad, becoming a villain—to express the anxiety of trying to make good choices while avoiding past mistakes. 

The common wisdom about gimmicks in professional wrestling is the best ones aren’t fully fictional cartoon characters, but a wrestler’s real personality turned up to 11—all those authentic bits of charm and hubris and anxiety amplified to fill an arena. The gimmick is a big, loud point of connection between the performer and audience that can drive surprisingly subtle storytelling. Their wrestling gimmick might turn off some highbrow indie snobs, but on Hell in a Cell, Jobber take small moments of introspection and frustration, crank the volume, and get themselves over. - Mark Wadley

PALM - "Nicks and Grazes"

The world has been patiently awaiting the return of Palm, waiting to see what the Philadelphia quartet capable of seemingly anything would do next. While four years isn’t such a long await, with a band like Palm, who’s never released the same record twice, it can feel like an eternity, but Nicks and Grazes has arrived, and Palm have once again successfully leaped over any expectations into their own stratosphere. With their new album, released via their new home at Saddle Creek (Black Belt Eagle Scout, Disq, Feeble Little Horse), Palm presents a new form for the band, one far deeper immersed in experimental electronics but still somehow with “rock” at it’s core, even at its most alien. With a cavalcade of “how’d they do that” moments, it quickly sets itself up as on of the year’s most albums, with a maximalist array of sounds and shapes moving about with freedom. It’s the kind of album you listen to on repeat, finding different nuances with every listen, where nothing is quite as it seems and everything feels exactly in orbit. There’s a great deal of experimentation at play, but with dynamics warping and shifting in constant motion, Palm never loose sight of the songs themselves, creating something with forward-thinking momentum as catchy as it is defying. - DG

FACELESS BURIAL - "At The Foothills of Deliration"

There is no escape from the decimation of Faceless Burial’s impenetrable new album, At The Foothills of Deliration. It’s fitting that an album title that alludes to losing your mind is able to bend, contort, and utterly obliterate our senses through the sheer dexterity of the band’s brutal riffs and earthquaking rhythms. Released via Dark Descent Records (Malignant Altar, Vacuous, Imprecation), there’s a great balance to Faceless Burial’s brand of classic death metal, as the band give weight to the low end by offering an onslaught of ear bleeding solos, weaving texture into the eternal darkness. Their latest album is unrelenting but it’s the ever shifting nature of their progressions and combustible drum fills that really set the trio apart. The musicianship is otherworldly, with a scourge of impeccable technicality (Max Kohane’s drumming is in a league of its own) that pays service to the songs, steering away from “tech death” clinicality. Faceless Burial latest embraces the rawness and guttural tension of primal death metal with an urge to obliterate repetition in favor of a constant state of flux. - DG

DISHEVELED CUSS - "Into The Couch"

Disheveled Cuss was born as Nick Reinhart’s effort to create more “normal songs”. As a result, the project's 2020 debut served up a collection of songs featuring some more accessible structures, while retaining the heart of an outsider. On Into the Couch, the self-released second LP under the Disheveled Cuss moniker, he continues to stay weird in all the right ways. The album as a whole is flush with moments that bait you into thinking a pop hook or familiar change is on the way, yet Reinhart manages to zag at every zig, keeping both his melodies and thematic elements surprising and refreshing. 

If Disheveled Cuss’ self-titled debut exists in a self-described space between early Weezer and Teenage Fanclub, its successor falls somewhere closer to the Elliott Smith side of 90s indie rock, though even this comparison feels lazy, as each song on the record comes through as distinctly Nick Reinhart. The record manages to escape the prog and/or math rock labeling of his work with Tera Melos, but these sparse, thoughtful tracks still feature the same precise and exacting focus on texture, and they’re flooded with self-reflection, self-doubt, and painful moments of longing and regret.

Maybe more so than any of his previous projects, Into the Couch presents Reinhart’s vocal as the centerpiece, with cuttingly introspective lyrics covering everything from facing the slippery slope toward loserdom to a complicated relationship with memory. While it isn’t quite a purely acoustic singer-songwriter album, Into the Couch is chock full of some of the most intimate songs you’ll find in Reinhart’s discography, which rise and fall in a way that seems to simulate the volatile nature of an anxious existence.

“Some People Wanna Forget,” an up-tempo meditation on how the past informs the present, quickly transitions into “Abbott,” an unnerving chant-along that builds into a delicately nightmarish exercise in noise. Next up is “Grease Stain,” a simple guitar track punctuated by some excellent horn work as its hook and an exploration into the depths of self-loathing, claiming simply that “I am the stain that you try to get out”.

Some of Reinhart’s best writing continues to show up on the back half of the album, like the quietly powerful chorus on “Shitty Coffee Table”: “come a little closer now / and tell me that you hate me / say the quiet part out loud / you’re not fooling anybody”. On the stunning closer “Into the Couch,” Reinhart returns to the constant battle with things long gone, singing about “driving to the past / trying not to crash / almost got erased / but I found out the address”. 

With Into the Couch, which he describes as one of his favorite things he’s ever made, Reinhart finds himself continuing to cover new ground, shedding light not on the external madnesses of the past few years, but on how they can affect our internal selves and, hopefully, figuring out a way to move forward. - Chad Rafferty

THE CASUAL DOTS - "Sanguine Truth"

The Casual Dots’ return after eighteen years is one of 2022’s great surprises, and Sanguine Truth, the trio’s sophomore album is as welcome a comeback as any we’ve heard. It’s a pleasure to hear Christina Billotte (Slant 6, Qui*xo*tic, Autoclave), Kathi Wilcox (Bikini Kill), and Steve Dore (Snoozers) come together again after all these years, their skeletal brand of garage, doo-wop, indie, and post-punk still shining as brightly as ever. With interlocked guitars and weaving melodies, Billotte offers both concern for the world at large and a power of self, reminding us that you can only be as strong for others as you are for yourself. There’s a grounded stability to the songwriting as the band dip in and out of genre experiments, digging into the sonics that have defined much of their careers yet subverting any expectations. This isn’t a retread of the past and it’s not a cash grab, it’s The Casual Dots returning to set things right, and seemingly having a great deal of fun with the songs in the process. - DG

DISCO DOOM - "Mt. Surreal"

Heading into 2022, there wasn’t an album I was anticipating more than Disco Doom’s Mt. Surreal, and while that statement could be true for the past six years or so, the time has come and the album has finally arrived. The Swiss quartet, led by Anita Rufer and Gabriele De Mario, return after an eight year absence with a brilliant warmth, finding the comfort in unease. With a history of expansive tonality and a knack for analog recording, Mt. Surreal plays to Disco Doom’s strengths, twisting and subverting expectations with layers of guitars, synths, and rhythms that work in unexpected ways, shifting structures to resonate with new frequencies, often landing a good distance from where they began. Pairing tranquility and dissonance against each other, Disco Doom have the ability to make abrasive sound feel meditative. It’s in that process that everything about the record feels exciting, from the fractured bliss of “Pic Nic,” and the rattling attack of “Patrik” to the blistering patchwork of “Static Bend” and the slow burn beauty of “Clic Clac”. Mt. Surreal is an album best experienced in full, an escape to get lost in. - DG