As I drove back from PJ Harvey’s concert on Tuesday night, the towering trees of Kings Park standing watch, the only word that kept rolling around in my mind was mesmerising. I had heard this word several times that evening, and each time, it felt entirely apt. 

The first time came when an elegantly dressed elderly woman by the water fountain described the Kings Park and Botanic Garden venue as mesmerising. I couldn’t help but agree.

Nestled beneath the trees, with the pond beside us, the crowd sat on chairs and picnic blankets, wine bottles and cheese platters in hand. It was an effortlessly classy crowd, made up of older couples, groups of friends, and younger bohemian types—the kind of folk you’d find barefoot wandering through a hemp shop.

The second mesmerising came after Mick Turner’s stripped-back guitar performance. A bald, middle-aged man in a black skull shirt turned to me, wide-eyed, and called it mesmerising. Once again, I found myself nodding in agreement although I did not say anything. 

Then, the third and most surprising, mesmerising came when I glanced at my mum, just five minutes into PJ Harvey’s performance. She was completely entranced, locked into the music, her eyes fixed on the stage.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” I asked.

The only word she could muster was: mesmerising.

Harvey’s stage setup hinted that the evening would blur the lines between concert and theatre. A simple wooden desk, chairs, and tables with drinks perched on them suggested something intimate, something more. And as the night unfolded, Harvey’s performance felt exactly like that—an immersive piece of theatre with a musical core. At times, she’d sit down at the desk, singing while mimicking the act of writing poetry.

She is currently in Australia to perform I Inside The Old Year Dying, her album released in July 2023. The first half of the set was devoted to this album in full—a theatrical experience, one that felt like she was embodying a character.

Inspired by her own poetry, this album conjures a hallucinatory dreamscape, weaving folk instruments, primitive electronics, and distorted field recordings into an intoxicating sound. At times, it felt as though Harvey herself had transformed into an ethereal creature, her audience drawn in, captivated by her every move.

Beginning with Prayer At The Gate, the opening track of the album, Harvey exuded the kind of worldly confidence you can only gain after thirty-five years of performing. Her voice—a delicate, haunting thing—floated effortlessly through the high notes, and with every passing song, her mastery became even more apparent.

She shared that the album had taken its time to come together, inspired by the epic poem Orlam and drawing from a vast array of influences, including actors Ben Whishaw (Skyfall, Paddington, Fargo) and Colin Morgan (Merlin, Belfast), who also contributed backing vocals.

The poetry embedded in her lyrics is a thing of beauty—carefully sculpted and brimming with evocative imagery. Lines like, “Slip from my childhood skin; I zing through the forest, I hover in the holway and laugh into the leaves” left me wondering how many hours of meticulous crafting went into such a piece.

Throughout the set, there were moments of deafening silence from the audience—especially during the stripped-back The Desperate Kingdom Of Love, where Harvey, alone with an acoustic guitar, filled the air with aching solitude.

At the start of the performance, Harvey wore a white cape, its back adorned with hand-drawn sketches. After the first half, she finished with A Noiseless Noise before leaving the stage. Her band members took centre stage for a brief performance of their own.

It became evident that Harvey had chosen to remain mostly silent throughout the show. She didn’t address the crowd for much of the night, a decision that was likely intentional. When she finally spoke, near the end of the set, it was to express her gratitude:

“This has been a long time coming. Thank you. You all have been coming to see me for such a long time, so thank you for continuing to be interested in coming to see me,” she said, adding, “It’s a real honour to have spent the past few days here. Thank you.”

For some, the lack of early engagement might have seemed distant, even cold, but it became clear that Harvey’s art speaks for itself. Unlike many artists who greet the crowd with the usual stock standard pleasantries, Harvey lets the music do the talking.

The set was a powerhouse—twenty-five songs, including five encores such as C’mon Billy, Horses In My Dreams, and The Community Of Hope. Her range was breathtaking, moving from soft spoken word moments to intense, emotionally charged performances.

The crowd responded eagerly, particularly to classics like Down By The Water, which fit seamlessly into her ethereal aesthetic. Harvey has a way of weaving mystery into everything she does: you feel like her lyrics offer a glimpse into her world, but never quite all of it—and that, she makes clear, is exactly how she wants it.

The hour-and-a-half concert encapsulated everything you’d hope for in a PJ Harvey performance: otherworldly, mysterious, and deeply affecting.

She is an artist in the truest sense—one whose talent seems to ooze from every pore. She belongs in the same conversation as icons like Kate Bush, Fiona Apple, Björk, Joni Mitchell, Sinead O’Connor, and Patti Smith—but she’s undeniably her own.

Harvey exists in a realm apart from most artists performing today. There’s something intoxicating about her voice, her presence, her performance. It’s a puzzle I’m still trying to piece together, but all I know is that, for an hour and a half, I, along with thousands of others, sat utterly spellbound. Perhaps mesmerising doesn’t even begin to cover it.