Polly Jean Harvey does not suffer fools gladly, especially fools with tape recorders. When questioned, she does not answer so much as reply, often prefacing her response with a purse-lipped "Mmm," as if she's thinking of a way to address the query without accepting the suspect premise behind it. When she is asked a question so poorly phrased--and, if we're being honest, so dumb in the first place--that it will not be repeated here, she says, matter-of-factly, "I'm just stunned you asked me that." See that low divan she's perched on, in this musty-by-design London hotel room? That's the driver's seat. And woe betide anyone who attempts to steer.
The 35-year-old Harvey's seventh album, Uh Huh Her--which she recorded mostly at her home in Dorset, England, alone, on vintage four-track and eight-track tape machines--includes such future breakup-mix-tape classics as "The Darker Days of Me & Him" and "The Desperate Kingdom of Love." It sounds like the work of someone who's recently had her heart pressed into service as an ashtray. Harvey (who's been linked to such figures of romantic malevolence as Nick Cave and Vincent Gallo) insists that this is not the case, much as she's maintained that 2000's Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea, despite its references to places like Brooklyn and Little Italy, wasn't her "New York record." And while it's hard to believe her, it's not impossible.
She's never really been a confessional songwriter. Her music is deeply personal in that it's always identifiably hers, but it's sometimes hard to know where to look for Harvey in it. Other female alt-rock icons of her approximate vintage--Liz Phair and Courtney Love, chief among them--have lived and died by autobiography, Harvey has chased her muse into murkier territory, striving to be protean, living to confound.
"I try not to repeat myself in any way," she says. "It's probably the most important goal I have when I'm working. I throw out loads of songs because of it. In fact, one song I didn't put on this record is 'Uh Huh Her,' where the title comes from. It reminded me too much of PJ Harvey."
Spin: It's interesting that you make a conscious effort with each record to move away from you.
Polly Harvey: Mmm. Well, to me, it seems like the obvious thing to do. I don't understand how some people will basically remake the same album over and over and be satisfied. I'd learn nothing from just writing another album like the last one. I'm doing what I'm doing because I want to see what I'm capable of as a writer and a singer, and that means challenging yourself.
Do you try to change your process from album to album, in order to get something different out of yourself? Always. I'm constantly thinking, "What if I sang in this way?" or "What if I sang"--you know--"whilst throttling myself?" or "What if I sang whilst under a duvet?" [Laughs]
You've also been spending a lot of time in Los Angeles, which is about as far from the north of England as you can get. I've had an apartment there for about a year. I go to escape the English winter, and I have good friends there who I want to see more often than just when I pass through on tour. Los Angeles is a place where I do lots of things. I go see bands play, watch films--things I don't do in Dorset because it's very, very quiet there. I tend to have this sort of extreme, opposite lifestyle, which I've always thrived on. It's really inspiring, particularly as a writer. The next time I'm writing, I'd like to relocate again, maybe to somewhere I don't speak the language, where it'll be a challenge to buy a bar of soap.
Rid of Me [Harvey's vivid, corrosive second album, released in 1993] really feels like the work of someone in their early twenties--that period when just expressing provocative sentiments, like the ones in "50Ft Queenie," is enough, and when it's liberating and powerful to say "Bend over, Casanova" out loud. What do you hear when you listen to those songs now? As you get older, you just become wiser about everything, from the way you use language to the way you relate to other people. That's the biggest change that I hear from those early records to now. The very first record is very naive, and I love it because of that. The language is naive, and you can hear that it's written by a young Polly Harvey. You can hear that this new record is written by an older person.
So do you feel like you're more cynical now? No--I think I'm probably less cynical.
I fall into the category of people who find this record extremely dark-- Mmm-hmm--
--compared to the last one, which seemed so open and hopeful. I find an enormous amount of openness and hope on this record. I think, probably for the first time in my life, I'm able to apply the word tender to a couple of songs that I've written. "The Desperate Kingdom of Love" or "You Come Through" I find incredibly optimistic and tender.
But a lot of the songs seem to wrestle with feelings of helplessness, or the concept of surrender. Like I said, I think that--[sighs]--I'm loath to describe what I think the album should be. And I'm not going to sit here and tell you what's coming off it. That's what I like about other people's music: I don't want to hear what specific event a song is about, because that'll spoil what it means to me.
Okay, but isn't there a pervasive sense of desperation in there? I don't feel that, personally. But, um, whatever. You're not giving me much to talk about, really. But it's perfectly valid if you find it dark and desperate and cynical.
So many songs on the record seem to present love as something that forces you to sacrifice your independence or your autonomy. Do you feel that way, that love is something you have to submit to? It's different for everyone, isn't it? Depends what kind of person you are. But if you can retain your sense of who you are, I think that's a much better way to meet somebody halfway in a relationship. If you're all washed-out, confused, messed-up, then there's not so much of you as a person available to give. You have to maintain your individuality, instead of getting raveled in someone else. Which is a hard thing to do if you fall in love, because you just want to be them, practically.
It's hard to know what to give, and what to hold back. It is, and again, it's something we only learn by making mistakes. And not everyone's like me; other people love to be submerged in a relationship, and feel under the wing of somebody else.
Did you discover this about yourself through negative experience? Don't you think that's something we all do when we're younger? Diving in headfirst? Especially when you're younger and you don't have much knowledge about who you are. I mean, some people do. Some people are blessed with being wise souls from about ten years upwards-they just seem to be born an old spirit in a young body. I know people like that, and it's quite amazing. But most of us do just have to struggle through.
So you don't feel that way about yourself, the old-spirit thing? It's strange with me. When I was younger, yeah, I felt like a very old soul in a young body. I was very serious, and worked really hard and didn't play much. When I was a teenager, I didn't really do the things a teenager should do, like go out, have fun, drink too much, fall over, that kind of thing. I was always thinking about working or writing. And I'm feeling that as I get older, I'm able to enjoy more childlike things. Which is maybe the wrong way 'round to do it, but quite pleasurable.
You're becoming less responsible. Yes! [Laughs]
At what point did you start to feel more settled in your life? Was it when you started making records? It took a long time for me to actually feel like I was doing what I was supposed to be doing on this earth. It was sort of around the time of making [1998's] Is This Desire? that I finally accepted that I was a songwriter.
That long? Yeah. I probably should have therapy to deal with it and find out why that was. But when I started out, I was very confused about what I wanted to do, what was going to make me happy in my life. And I wasn't happy for a lot of those early albums. A lot of it was the whole business side of music. I found it very hard dealing with management and record companies, having to do interviews, having my photograph taken. It seemed so unlike what I had gone into making music for.
And you were thrown into that almost immediately. It happened really fast, yeah. I was completely unprepared. I was at art college, and music was my love, my hobby, and then it just took off. So I deferred for a year, and I was going to go back, but I just kept going with [songwriting]. I had this feeling of guilt about being able to earn a living doing something that was a joy and a pleasure--like it was being handed to me on a plate, which didn't feel right. A lot of my friends were struggling to get anywhere, having no money, doing shit jobs, not being able to get their artwork seen or heard. But it wasn't just feelings of guilt, it was confusion, as well. I asked myself, "Is this what I want to be doing, because it's happening really fast? Do I want to stop it now?"
Was there ever a point when you did stop? A couple of times. I remember I was halfway through making Is This Desire?--Flood [the album's producer] reminded me of this the other day. I'd somehow blacked it out of my mind totally, because it was such a weird experience. I abandoned that record halfway through. Shelved it for a whole year and told Flood I wasn't doing it anymore, that I was gonna just stop doing music and get a job. I really wanted to do that. I just stopped. I didn't play music, didn't listen to it, nothing, for about a year.
What did you do, in that time? I got depressed! [Laughs] Got depressed and sat in a dark room.
You didn't play a note? I didn't, but then I caught myself slowly creeping back toward the instruments. I'd realize: "You've been playing the guitar for half an hour! What are you doing?" It just started happening again. There was a similar time around the end of the To Bring You My Love tour, which was ridiculously strenuous. I was completely debilitated and physically drained, and I thought I didn't want to do it anymore. But I think a lot of that, again, was not really knowing if I was fulfilling my role as a human being.
It seems unfair that people have to make decisions about what to do with their lives when they're young, because they're so completely in the grip of their emotions that they can't really think straight. Confusion reigns when you're younger. There's so much information. You're trying to process everything and work out if you're happy at what you're doing. How old are you?
I'm going to be 27 in about a month. Oh, it keeps getting better, believe me. I think when I turned 30 I really started thinking, "This is great." Confusion reigned up until then.
It's depressing to think it's going to take that long. Well, you might mature earlier than I did.
Do those milestones really mean anything, though? I didn't think they would. But then I felt an enormous sense of approaching doom as 30 loomed. But when it actually happened, it was a sense of release. Acceptance. I just thought: "Hmm [sighs]. This is all right." I'd accepted myself. Then you can just make the best of what you are.
I have a good female friend who says it's not 30 for women, but 33 you have to worry about. [Chuckles dryly] Oh. Right.
And it's also the Jesus birthday. Of course. And it's the same speed as a record [laughs]. Thirty-three and a third.
