Possessing a mystique and attitude far greater than her slight stature suggests, PJ carried the show with her dominating vocals, which were accentuated by irreverent movements clearly powered by the thralls of performance ecstasy. Everything about the stage set-up informed the audience that we were witnessing more than a mere rock show—instead, an event of theatric proportions. Similarly dressed from head to toe in sophisticated black, the band fused together into a singular unit. Each song was a world of its own, a point driven home by curtain-call-closing-lights-out after each and every song, followed by bows from each member of the band.

[Read more →]

It’s a performance that inspires fingers in the ears—partly because it’s loud, partly because in doing so one can more precisely decipher the inescapably worthwhile lyrics. “Civil War Correspondent” segues into “I’m a Soldier,” gradually including Parish on ukulele as the others come in minimally yet with great impact. The attention to space in the songs—that stunning care for the physical dynamic of sounds working—hammers meaning home better than any monolith monster wall of sound. Witness the withering psychodrama of “Taut” and the mesmeric, cochlea-boggling tones of “Un Cercle Autour Du Soleil” and “The Chair.” Harvey’s flouncy dancing falls somewhere between the moves of Bez from Happy Mondays and the Martha Graham Dance Company; “Leaving California” opens the range of her colossal voice like a drop of water in quality scotch—an experience.

[Read more →]