If you weren't fortunate enough to make it to either of her arresting appearances in the belly of this ornate Belgravian beast, you may have streamed its soaring ethereality and stunning instances of discomfort from the comfort of your own home and while such a radical technological advancement may seem counterintuitive, ill-suited to the subtle majesty of it all, well, the more people that witnessed this impactful evening the better really.
However irrespective of from which cushioned seat you saw it from, you'll have gazed upon Harvey voluntarily stranded stage-right, externalised, her perspective on proceedings objectified as if indeed fulfilling journalistic correspondence, her position as 'official war song correspondent' here unofficially confirmed. Like a battered, wartorn torso she is the dislocated limb (one veiled in her now-customary crow-like getup), barely controllable yet responsive enough to fire off murderously penetrative 'war songs': the mellotron-led, well-resonated jangle of Let England Shake, backed by a brass duo, instantly entrances while The Words That Maketh Murder becomes a bellow-along anthem, all etiquette abandoned before its inquisitive, guilt-edged, and downright gruesome lyrical content later returns to haunt those to have yelled it so. For a disquieting, almost tangible silence trails in the wake of every track, Harvey electing to sing celestially yet never to speak, offering time for pensive reflection at intervals of around three minutes. Similarly, the light show, not an aspect usually associated with the Polly Jean experience, is immaculate as she and her band are jostled in and out of spotlight and subsequent shadow. It's an evening of stark, yet simple delight and directness, support acts aptly foregone.
While these crestfallen martial paeans form the bulk of tonight's setlist (every one of Let England Shake's twelve tracks is aired and allowed ample breathing space, Mick Harvey clambering mountain goat-like up to the monumental organ at the back of the room midway through, to all extensive purposes playing the venue itself as a veil of portentous, quivering bass sets over all), she does dip into her multifarious back catalogue intermittently, the likes of C'Mon Billy, Pocket Knife, and The Sky Lit Up greeted with deserved rapture. However greater satisfaction is derived from the way in which they're reconfigured in keeping with her current setup, her affectionately clasped autoharp consistently focal. Big Exit, the sole song lifted from her first Mercury Prize triumph, has mellowed perceivably yet still sounds massive, while White Chalk cuts remain harrowing and humbling as an air of impeccability encircles the most admiring of audiences. Harvey chirrups on England: "I live and die, through England" and within this, the home of the annual Festival of Remembrance, Harvey here demarcates herself as the closest we have to a modern-day martyr as the sense that she'd offer up her own life for the promised deliverance of a safe future for this noteworthy isle is tonight gauged.
