PJ Harvey - Rid Of Me

I came across an old comment on Mark Prindle’s, the one where he finally got away from trying to promote his latest cdr and updated his site.
The topic was/is PJ Harvey’s Rid Of Me, an album I deemed as a “perfect ten” back in the day, but that was before I knew better….or in other words, about 8 or 9 years ago.
I’m stealing my comments back and lazily calling it a review, which it essentially is, on the merits that I like the references, including a little swipe at Exene Cervenka for whatever reason.
The “fuck spin” lines comes as Prindle references Spin’s Alternative Record Guide review book which is funny when you consider anyone would actually own a book that collected Spin reviews. Apparently, Spin gave Rid Of Me a perfect ten, and I guess I was trying to assert a distance between myself and Spin magazine. Whatever.
I have no idea what I meant by “dad’s beaver shots” and I’m pretty sure that’s for the best.
And I knocked a half point off the overall review because of that stupid “Man Size Sextet” bullshit.
Anyways…here t’is:
Fuck Spin and those who subscribe to it. I'll take dad's beaver shots any day of the week over that shit and I'll take this album over any that Polly's done, with Dry a close second. And anyone who has the balls to call Albini a producer should stand clear of him if he offers to light your cigarette: He uses a blowtorch. In the studio, he uses vintage mics and magnetic tape, just the way papa Sam Phillips recorded el pees back in the day. It's 1993 folks, and what got everyone's attention in the mainstream press was the fact that the last time we heard someone without testicles bitch, moan, and yell with this much vitriol was when Chrissie declared she wasn't the kind she used to be. Meanwhile, around that same time, Exene was chirpin' about the "burnin' house of love." Whatever. Polly just fucking blows the house up.
My point is, we had reached an era of music in which there was a huge void for females around this time who actually strapped on some machismo and reminded us that rock has relatively little to do with male genitalia. Then the douchebags at Rolling Stone and Spin start taking notice and then praise it hoping that they've fooled you with the idea that they "broke" the artist into the mainstream. And this is by far a mainstream record. Sure, the music is so basic that even I learned the guitar part for "Missed" in about two minutes, and that's saying something especially if you've ever heard me "play" guitar. But isn't that what rock music is all about in the first place? So don't give me this jive about this album not being musically challenging: neither was a lot of Howlin Wolf's shit. What both Howling Wolf and Polly Harvey have in common (at least on this release) is the unbelievable dynamics of the music, how even the most simplistic musicianship sometimes kicks the shit out of virtuosity and the passion of their respective lyrical subject matter. The biggest difference, of course, is that The Wolf just wants to fuck while Polly is tired of getting fucked over. A perfect ten for those of us who get it and for those who disagree, sit down and watch those old Happy Days episodes featuring Leather Tuscadero rocking your balls off.