Pitchfork

My philosophy has always included the tried-and-true motto, "You have to take the good with the bad, and the bad with the good." More and more, though, I'm beginning to wonder if there aren't some holes in that philosophy. Good and bad are, by definition, polar opposites, but whoever first penned this motto forgot to mention the center of the spectrum: things that are neither good, nor bad, just... there. Do you have to take that as well?

After hours of internal deliberation, I've decided you don't. Bland, middling music can often be more offensive than something genuinely awful. If you're hearing something bad, at least emotions and feelings are evoked. Average music, though, just fades into the background. You feel nothing, so you virtually hear nothing; the frequencies are wasted on your ears. You could have used that time to hear something that at least causes some kind of reaction.

With each album, Polly Jean Harvey moves gradually from the barrage of passion of her previous work into the central category. 1993's Rid of Me captured her in her raw environment, setting fires and creating primal rhythms with just her electric guitar. On her fifth solo release, Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea, she may be maturing, or more vulnerable, or more vulnerable to her maturity. But regardless, the sheen gets slicker and her music gets duller as the time passes.

As inspiration for this album, Harvey spent six months in New York, fully shedding her old wolf's skin for a more stylish, expensive wool-lined jacket. The record begins with "Big Exit," a track that shows Harvey posing as a bored Patti Smith. Granted, the chorus hook is one of her best in recent memory, but even that moment emits a vague feeling of by-product familiarity. "Good Fortune" sustains a similar but even more banal pop sound, with Harvey distinctly recalling Chrissie Hynde, both musically and vocally. And "A Place Like Home" and "We Float" further the tepid attitude, replacing the live drums of the first two tracks with cheap, glossy programmed beats that would feel right at home on a Des'ree record.

The lyrics on Stories from the City are just as average as the music-- so average, perhaps, as to seem much worse than they actually are. On "Big Exit," Harvey feels intimidated by this crazy world, singing, "I want a pistol in my hand/ I want to go to another land." On "This is Love," she barely elaborates on the already mundane title, adding this seemingly non-sequiturial commentary: "Does it have to be a life full of dread?/ Wanna chase you 'round the table, wanna touch your head." Most of the rest of her prose is similarly culled from an elementary rhyming dictionary.

Stories from the City does have a couple of songs interesting enough to almost save it from the desert of mediocrity. "One Line" provides a pleasant musical backdrop for once, with rhythmic muted guitar, a sustained vibraphone, and ethereal background vocals by Thom Yorke. Yorke then takes a gorgeous turn at lead vocals in "This Mess We're In," continuing with a similar cadence, with Harvey singing the chorus over Yorke's wordless crooning. And "Kamikaze" has enough actual aggression and feeling to make it the record's only real standout, featuring a live duplication of a frantic, jazzy jungle beat, rough guitars, and a vocal performance that comes her closest to resembling passion since To Bring You My Love.

But three good songs do not a record make. In the end, Stories from the City ends up just slightly to the right of the dead middle ground. A shame, too, since Harvey once used space and dynamic to make exciting music. Now, more often than not, she uses music to make empty space. Optimistic as I am, though, I'd like to look at it this way: as far between as the moments of enjoyment may be, they're still there, which proves Harvey still has a little bit of the knack left. She may now appreciate style over substance, but she surely still loves making music, even if her sense of conviction is less powerful than it used to be.