So we meant to go see Mike Watt at the 7th Street Entry, but we ended up at PJ Harvey's show at 1st Avenue by accident instead. A bat-print dress and that dirty, dirty sound - twist my arm, why don'tcha? Plus, nobody plays punk maracas like PJ.

The odd thing about her is this: she starts off as the tiny little woman she is, somehow inconsequential except for the miniscule bat-print pink dress and raw voice. Two songs in, she straps on the guitar and grows about two feet. And somehow, by virtue of noise and ferocity, she grows and grows until by the end of the set she looms, she's all you can see. They carried a body out past me and I barely noticed because my mind was filled - the room was filled - with Miss Polly Jean Harvey.