I’m reminded of this review of PJ Harvey’s ‘Uh Huh Her’ by Greil Marcus:
“That’s the problem with artists: They know things other people don’t. They feel compelled to say what those things are, and to conceal the strangeness and alienation of the act. If there is an “I” in their work, it ceases to refer back to the person writing, painting, singing; the person whose name is on the work has momentarily replaced herself with a made-up person who can say or do anything. This is what makes such a person an artist, and it’s why critics who try to reduce an artist’s work to her life are cretins. Thus we have Nick Catucci in the Village Voice, assuring his readers that Uh Huh Her is “a break-up album”—”as all save her last have been,” he adds, in case you think there might be something out there that doesn’t fit into a thimble. Forget that situations everyone goes through might go through Harvey differently than they do through you or me; don’t worry that there might be anything here that isn’t immediately obvious; after all, Catucci says, she’s “an easy read” and “she’s got a one-track mind.” “We know she’s been fucking and fighting, probably in equal measures, and maybe in the same moments.” You can almost smell him, can’t you?”
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