#3 PJ Harvey - Rid Of Me

Some day in 1993.

In a bedroom, shrouded from the sun by a red plastic blind, my teenage self lies face down waiting for the dry, scratchy and raw guitar to erupt into the ferocious and anarchic title track that is Rid of Me.

I wallow in its insanity, bask in its black humour that seems to expose the dark side of human nature.

I can’t remember the exact first time I played Rid Of Me by the band PJ Harvey, but I know that C.D was rarely in its case as I played it over and over more than any other album I had played before, more than Hole’s Live Through This, More than Nirvana’s In Utero or Radiohead’s Pablo Honey. The sound barely contained by my black, bulky brilliant C.D/radio/cassette player.

I have many favourite albums, but this one hit different, it felt uncomfortable at times, like slowing down to gawp at a car-crash, almost like an audible version of voyeurism.

I was in awe of this women almost welcoming being thrown against those rocks. The voice of a mentally deranged angel or a sweet Banshee, her vocals screaming and scraping. Pleasantly devastating my ear-drums.

Her scorn and volatility felt visceral and seemed to validate my teenage angst and my own search for belonging, so it didn’t matter that the sexual metaphors in tracks such as Legs, Man-size Sextet and Dry were completely lost on a 16 year old me.

Her appearance equally fascinated me, the glamour and gaudiness, her femininity and her masculinity. Fur, Leopard-print, red lips, pale skin, raven hair. She was a
fearless and beautiful female for me to admire and aspire to.

I hadn’t listened to this album in full for many years, only the odd songs that I have on various Spotify soundtracks. So playing it again was a strange
experience, one that made me sad, the realisation that I rarely ever listen to an album in full any more. Something that I need to rectify.

Rid of Me, feels different now, still raw, sensual and disturbingly beautiful, but today it is a time-machine, the zeitgeist of my own coming of age.