It’s quite a challenge, emotionally and professionally, to put words to blank paper about PJ Harvey, and feel that any chosen attributions do her justice. So much to say, really, about this delicate piano-playing, autoharp-strumming Bronte. And yet, in all of my speechlessness, I keep coming back to one word: awe.

Harvey inhabits her songs so fiercely, so truly, that it’s impossible to separate Polly Harvey the person from the public perception of PJ Harvey the artist; or what we assume of her to be true, as one of rock and roll’s most private and reclusive personalities. Take the new album title, White Chalk for example. Literally, given her stark, “Book of the Dead” appearance on its cover, and the downbeat sound and vibe of the record (although she considers it upbeat), it would be too easy to assume our Polly has had a rough go of it lately, up there at her cliffside house in the English countryside. But rather, as it has been reported, “White Chalk” actually refers to the color of the hills of Dorset where she grew up, and still resides.

Appearances can be so deceiving, and when Harvey took to the Beacon Theatre’s stage last night in a white, floor-length Victorian gown (replete with embroidered lyrics), it was quite clear that this is a woman at peace, not in mourning. The overtones of the album, the startling use of her higher register, cries of “Oh God, I miss you” and tails of betrayal, are all emanating from a woman of marked serenity. Gone is the blue eye shadow-wearing, Joan Crawford-channeling sexual dynamo in big black boots or pink pumps; before us was a splendidly beautiful, ladylike, barely made-up Harvey with softly tousled hair.

Strapping on a Firebird guitar to regale (or assault?) the audience with two old, beloved hits, “To Bring You My Love” and “Send His Love to Me,” Harvey’s first official New York concert (although solo) in three years was immediately one to beat.

Three cuts from the new album with Harvey seated at the piano followed: new single “When Under Ether,” “The Devil” (”White chalk hills will not rot my bones”) and “White Chalk.” Each fully realized, each so frighteningly vulnerable in spirit, yet she was not. On the contrary, Harvey with her rudimentary ivory-tickling, never seemed more present, or arguably, more brazen.

“My Beautiful Leah” from 1998’s Is This Desire?, with its heavy fuzz and crashing cymbals, always a highlight and a tearjerker for many, elicited impassioned catcalls, which Harvey took in stride. Never much of a talker during her performances, she couldn’t help but react at one point, when she believed an audience member called her “ridiculous,” commenting back with, “Did you say I was ridiculous? I was going to agree with you!” “Shame” found Harvey talkative again, referring to the Uh Huh Her cut and her back catalog as, “The older, the better, like a red wine or whiskey.”

A howling “Big Exit” lead into a surprise minimalist, but nevertheless fascinating recreation of “Down By the Water” on autoharp, elicited more hoots from the audience, but White Chalk’s “Grow, Grow, Grow” (“grow” is the large word scrawled on her dress), “The Mountain,” and “Silence” brought on the waterworks, cementing the evening as a brilliant roller coaster through the emotions, sounds and mind of PJ Harvey.

The encore, with live staple “Rid of Me,” gave occasion to smile at the obvious dichotomy of her belting out a dirty, sexy tune and commands to lick her legs when we can’t even see them. Yet, it works, because Harvey, in all her tumult and shape-shifting, is still just a shy, tender-hearted English lass; but a lass with a galvanizing set of schizophrenic pipes, a guitar, a microphone, and the moody blues, just the same. –Carrie Alison, Photos by Carrie Alison